Sinister Street Compton Mackenzie (good novels to read in english .TXT) 📖

we all got to buy this rotten paper of yours? What’s it going to cost?”

“A shilling,” said Maurice modestly.

“A bob!” cried Lonsdale. “But, my dear old ink-slinger, I can buy the five-o’clock Star for a halfpenny.”

Maurice had to put up with a good deal of chaff from everybody that night.

“Let’s have the program,” Sinclair suggested.

The editor was so much elated at the prospect of tomorrow’s great event that he rashly produced from his pocket the contents bill, which Lonsdale seized and immediately began to read out:

“The Oxford Looking-Glass
No. I.

“Some Reflections. By Maurice Avery.

“What are you reflecting on, Mossy?”

“Oh, politics,” said Maurice lightly, “and other things.”

“My god, he’ll be Prime Minister next week,” said Cuffe.

“Socrates at Balliol. By Guy Hazlewood.

“And just about where he ought to have been,” commented Lonsdale. “Oh, listen to this! Whoo-oop!

“The Failure of the Modern Illustrator.

“But wait a minute, who do you think it’s by? C. St. C. Wedderburn! Jolly old Wedders! The Failure of the Modern Illustrator. Wedders! My god, I shall cat with laughing. Wedders! A bee-luddy author.”

“Sconce Mr. Lonsdale, please,” said Wedderburn, turning gravely to the recorder by his chair.

“What, half a crown for not really saying bloody?” Lonsdale protested.

That night after hall there was much to tell Venner of the successful bombardment with potatoes, and there was some chaff for Avery and Wedderburn in regard to their forthcoming magazine. Parties of out-of-college men came in after their dinner, and at half-past eight o’clock the little office was fuller than usual, with the college gossip being carried on in a helter-skelter of unceasing babble. Just when Fitzroy the Varsity bow was enunciating the glories of Wet Bobbery and the comparative obscurities of Dry Bobbery and just when all the Dry Bobs present were bowling the contrary arguments at him from every corner at once, the door opened and a freshman, as fair and floridly handsome as a young Bacchus, walked with curious tiptoe steps into the very heart of the assembly.

Fitzroy stopped short in his discourse and thrummed impatiently with clenched fists upon his inflated chest, as gorillas do. The rest of the company eyed the entrance of the newcomer in puzzled, faintly hostile silence.

“Oh, Venner,” said the intruder, in loftiest self-confidence and unabashed clarity of accent. “I haven’t had those cigars yet.”

He hadn’t had his cigars yet! Confound his impudence, and what right had he to buy cigars, and what infernal assurance had led him to suppose he might stroll into Venner’s in the third raw week of his uncuffed fresherdom? Who was he? What was he? Unvoiced, these questions quivered in the wrathful silence.

“The boy was told to take them up, sir,” said Venner. Something in Venner’s manner toward this newcomer indicated to the familiars that he might have deprecated this deliberate entrance armored in self-satisfaction. Something there was in Venner’s assumption of impersonal civility which told the familiars that Venner himself recognized and sympathized with their as yet unspoken horror of tradition’s breach.

“I rather want them tonight,” said the newcomer, and then he surveyed slowly his seniors and even nodded to one or two of them whom presumably he had known at school. “So if the boy hasn’t taken them up,” he continued, “you might send up another box. Thanks very much.”

He seemed to debate for a moment with himself whether he should stay, but finally decided to go. As he reached the door, he said that, by Jove, his cigarette had gone out, and “You’ve got a light,” he added to Lonsdale, who was standing nearest to him. “Thanks very much.” The door of Venner’s slammed behind his imperturbableness, and a sigh of pent-up stupefaction was let loose.

“Who’s your young friend, Lonny?” cried one.

“He thought Lonny was the Common Room boy,” cried another.

“Venner, give the cigars to Mr. Lonsdale to take up,” shouted a third.

“He’s very daring for a freshman,” said Venner. “Very daring. I thought he was a fourth year Scholar whom I’d never seen, when he first came in the other day. Most of the freshmen are very timid at first. They think the senior men don’t like their coming in too soon. And perhaps it’s better for them to order what they want when I’m by myself. I can talk to them more easily that way. With all the men wanting their coffee and whiskies, I really can’t attend to orders so well just after hall.”

“Who is he, Venner?” demanded half a dozen indignant voices.

“Mr. Appleby. The Honorable George Appleby. But you ought to know him. He’s an Etonian.”

Several Etonians admitted they knew him, and the Wykehamists present seized the occasion to point out the impossibility of such manners belonging to any other school.

“He’s a friend of yours, then?” said Venner to Lonsdale.

“Good lord, no, Venner!” declared Lonsdale.

“He seemed on very familiar terms with you,” Venner chuckled wickedly.

Lonsdale thought very hard for two long exasperated moments and then announced with conviction that Appleby must be ragged, severely ragged this very night.

“Now don’t go making a great noise,” Venner advised. “The dons don’t like it, and the Dean won’t be in a very good temper after that potato-throwing in hall.”

“He must be ragged, Venner,” persisted Lonsdale inexorably. “There need be no noise, but I’m hanged if I’m going to have my cigarette taken out of my hand and used by a damned fresher. Who’s coming with me to rag this man Appleby?”

The third-year men seemed to think the correction beneath their dignity, and the duty devolved naturally upon the second-year men.

“I can’t come,” said Avery. “The O.L.G.’s coming out tomorrow.”

“Look here, Mossy, if you say another word about your rotten paper, I won’t buy a copy,” Lonsdale vowed.

Michael offered to go with Lonsdale and at any rate assist as a spectator. He was anxious to compare the behavior of Smithers with the behavior of Appleby in like circumstances. Grainger offered to come if Lonny would promise to fight sixteen rounds without gloves, and in the end he, with Lonsdale, Michael, Cuffe, Sinclair, and