From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com This work fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the Author's consent. (See full statement at the beginning of Chapter One.) Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who have written to tell how much you're enjoying the story and please keep writing to us and watch for further chapters. For all the readers enjoying the stories here at Nifty, remember that Nifty needs your donations to help them to provide these wonderful stories, any amount will do. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
NOBLESSE OBLIGE HOLIDAY SPECIAL by Henry H. Hilliard with Pete Bruno Playing the Hand Dealt
"Good God!" cried Crisp, the Mathematics master. Dr Mitcham walked across to the mullioned window that looked down upon the gravel of the forecourt. He silently handed the glass of sherry to Crisp and turned his own eyes to the scene below. Drawn up in the open space before the venerable archway that was the main entrance to the School was a very large and luxurious motorcar.
"That's a Gobron-Brillié," said Clarke, a younger master, over his shoulder. "It's French," he added needlessly. Crisp turned and glared at him, making it quite clear that this fact only compounded the effrontery of the swanking machine and its owners and that Clarke himself was somehow suspect by simply knowing these tasteless details.
The three continued in their observation from their eyrie, classes being over for the day. The continental vehicle was a tourer, with a long body in jade green and faux basketwork and sported elaborate polished brass fittings, including the hinge that held stiff the canvas top that protected the thickly upholstered rear seat. In that seat sat a determined-looking lady under an enormous hat and by her side sat a tall, slim figure with carroty hair and a disdainful expression. Only the hint of the striped trousers and crisp white collar betrayed that this personage was-- or was to be-- a pupil of the School.
Whilst the boy was still, his mother was greatly animated and, distressingly as her voice was able to penetrate the ill-fitting windows of the Masters' Common Room, an American. Sharp orders were barked to the chauffeur and the footman as they leapt to unstrap two small trunks, a suitcase and a hatbox.
"Surely he can't be bringing all that lot with him? We have rules..." began Crisp to the others just as the boy stepped down from the motor in the manner of a Stuart monarch descending from the state coach.
"He's Craigth," said Clarke, pronouncing the name to rhyme with `gate'. "The money's from beer, I believe, and Headmaster said that he'd done most of his schooling in France and Italy -- Mentone, I think he said. The boy can speak the languages and it is said that he's bright."
Crisp snorted in disgust. "Well he can't have that umbrella," he said, indicating through the window. "Only boys in the sixth can carry umbrellas."
No sooner were the words upon his lips, than there was an sharp intake of breath from the three of them. Down below, the impossibly elegant ersatz scholar, who was now wearing his shiny silk topper and leaning on the illegal parasol, removed a thin disc of glass from his waistcoat pocket and screwed it disdainfully into his left eye.
"Beau Brummel!" laughed Clarke and turned to see just how red and apoplectic the Mathematics master had become.
"The fellows a funk!" he pronounced and downed his sherry in a single gulp.
Lady Eudora Craigth was not one for mincing words, she periodically and loudly proclaimed, and thus she was frequently put out when she found that her translation from her native Philadelphia upon her marriage to Sir Gordon Craigth Bt was to a country where mincing words was a national pastime and almost nothing was ever said directly and indeed to do so was looked upon askance. She was distressed to find English society beset with unspoken rules, secret codes and a minefield of shibboleths that seemed specifically designed to exclude outsiders such as herself. In her first few years she felt wounded-- as only a lover can-- and she had committed many social gaffs of which she was now painfully conscious (and still more of which she remained mercifully ignorant) and all of which had somewhat dulled this love for all things `British'-- which for most of her life had only been from afar. But she was an intelligent and determined woman and firmly set about consummating this long-held passion, in this instance by making sure her son was enrolled in one of England's greatest public schools.
Lady Eudora had made one important discovery and it was one that linked her two great nations far more than a mere and supposed shared language: Sir Gordon's money, distastefully brewed, as it were, from Scottish beer, was, if applied liberally and strategically, an entree into this closed society. The British establishment, for all its Royal Enclosures and Grindling Gibbons carvings, was greedy and more than willing to take her tainted gold, especially where there was a want of it.
"Headmaster," she began as he poured the tea, "Sir Gordon and I would be very pleased if you could take Archibald. It was Earl de Gray and His Majesty himself who recommended this school for, as you know, I'm a comparative stranger in this country and we have lived abroad for a good many years."
The Headmaster tried not to blink and took in the none-too-subtle connections that the tiresome woman was alluding to. "I have heard that Sir Gordon might put up for Parliament," he said at last.
"It is always a possibility, of course, Headmaster, and C.B. holds him in high regard of course," she said, referring to the Liberal Prime Minister, "but he has his financial interests" she added, preferring the word to `business', "and we have our estate in Surrey. Sir Gordon is very much a man of the land."
The Headmaster gave a tight smile. He had a low opinion of Liberals, and especially of Campbell-Bannerman, and was forced to doubt the choice of some of His Majesty's friends. He changed the subject. "Lady Eudora, Archibald does not seem to have had the usual sort of preparatory schooling that the other boys have-- all those years on the Continent..."
"I assure you he has had the very finest education, Headmaster. We had French, German and Italian tutors and he had a year at Le Institut Rosey in Rolle."
"But it is not English..." began the Headmaster.
"He can fence, draw, ride horseback and add. What more do you want?" she almost snapped. She paused to regroup and began in a different voice to emphasise a supposedly shift in topic. "We have seen much of the education in the United States and Europe and Sir Gordon is very keen to `honour' education in this country," she began. "In a practical way, of course." The Head looked perplexed. She went on: "By that he means-- we mean-- that the fine standard in this country-- in this ancient school, for example-- could be upheld by increasing the funds at the disposal of the School Governors for...er...the enhancement of...what is already fine...but perhaps could do with some modernization."
The Headmaster knew a bribe when he heard one and a look gave Lady Eudora permission to remove her gloves. "We'll give you £5000 for scholarships and I want to build a modern games pavilion-- it's a million years behind The States."
The offer was far more than The Headmaster had expected, but he felt that lurking beneath was surely more. "And something to help restore the spire on Old Thom?"
"We'll pay for it all, but Craigth gets a seat on the Board."
"Now Lady Eudora, I can't promise...the Bishop has to...."
"Either my husband becomes a governor or we will send Archibald to Harrow," she said with finality and making to pull on her gloves.
There was some more hard bargaining and `horse trading' as they said back in Pennsylvania and, by the end of afternoon tea, Archibald Craigth was to be admitted to the third form and the School was to gain a good deal of money for the restoration of its crumbling edifices as well as a completely new sports pavilion to be built in the Greek style and with hot and cold running water and tiled shower baths-- the likes of which was completely unknown in an English public school and having to be explained in great detail to the Head who was a broken man and who meekly consented to the final humiliation of naming this temple in honour of the new School Governor.
Archibald Craigth himself did not get off to a good start. With his haughty and superior manner he did not endear himself to his fellow third-formers and consequently spent a good deal of his first weeks friendless and alone. The boys resented his immaculate clothes and the knife-edge crease in his school trousers. The older boys thought there was something rum when it became known that Craigth had comforts and refinements in his school bedroom that he had no right to enjoy. They watched with envy and disgust as the motor van from Harrods delivered hampers of `tuck' to Craigth while the rest were half-starved and malnourished -- cases of scurvy having been reported in the gutter press only the previous year. Books arrived from London retailers and then the damn fellow's mother supervised the gradual removal of the rickety furniture supplied by the School only to have it replaced by superior but unmanly pieces gleaned from auction houses.
"No sir," said Craigth, firmly but politely, "It is pronounced puits, not puis. Un puits d'artésien, not puis. Le chatte est dans le puits." The boys giggled at the euphemism.
"Nonsense Craigth there is no difference in the sound; puits... puis..." and he repeated it several times.
"Sir, it is all in the soft palate and epiglottis..." and the boy pronounced the two words with no discernible difference to anyone's ears but his own. The boys became restless again and reaffirmed their low opinion of Craigth. This was shared by the French master, Mr Hebburn, who taught the language in the manner that the English cooked food: with a good measure of contempt for anything actually foreign.
But by the middle of the term Archie had begun to gain some ground. He shared his tuck with some of the fellows in his House and at games Archie proved to be a very fine runner and an elegant hurdler-- his long legs sailing over the obstacles with an almost uncanny feel for where the bar was. He received the plaudits of some of the other fellows who had imagined that he would be a funk at games, but there was little disclosed on his impassive visage and he undid some of his good work when he commented unfavourably on St Kenelm's shabby half-change'. This solecism was made while being unaware that this boy came from an ancient family who could trace their line back to the kings of Mercia but lived in a crumbling castle with only two or three habitable rooms. Smike' St Kenelm was popular and many of the other boys provided him with food and clothing while the School had long given up on trying to collect his fees, especially when a recent fall of stones in the Great Hall killed his mother and two cows who had taken up residence there.
However, the Pavilion when it was completed was an unqualified success and the steaming water from the overhead roses was one of the few pleasantly warm places in the whole, dismal School and infinitely preferable to the stone trough and cold water pump that had sufficed hitherto and thus the generous funding of Craigth's Pater could not be lightly dismissed. And Archie enjoyed another success connected with endowment in its other sense: the boys in his House saw with delight and envy the cock on the snobbish athlete as he soaped himself in the showers after practice and stepped into his silk underwear-- items specifically forbidden in the school but somehow allowed for the son of a School governor and benefactor. The cruel nickname that the boys had privately given him, The Plunger', in honour of the long rubber device that the boys had to frequently employ to unstop the bogs' in their House, came also to be used as a flattering comparison to long, pink-and-white cock with its bulbous head that emerged from an impressive red bush. Few in the third form were so liberally endowed and some as yet did not have more than a few wisps of hair down there-- and none of such a splendid hue.
Thus Archie's stocks rose and fell with the vagaries of such things and the boys came to be used to him by the end of Michaelmas term.
"Poole," called Archie, "I'm starting a club and I wondered if you'd like to join?"
Martin, the younger son of the Marquess of Branksome, was huffing after running around the playing field and he stopped at where The Plunger was setting up the hurdles. He bent over with his hands on his hips while The Plunger, seemingly unaffected by his own exertions, strolled closer so that they might talk more confidentially. The boys were always forming clubs at the School -- mostly short-lived affairs: a School newspaper, chess, debating, photography, a Conservative Club and so on. "What sort of club, Plunger?"
"Well, Poole, I want it to be the most exclusive club in the School; only the top chaps, you know."
"Well, why are you telling me?"
The Plunger looked slightly offended. "Because you will be a foundation member, of course."
Martin saw this for what it was: The Plunger wanting to solidify his somewhat precarious status in the School. It also implied that he was The Plunger's friend and until now Martin had thought little about their relationship, but did not want to wound him by stating the obvious. He looked for more information.
"It will be a gambling club like the Hell Fire Club or the Kit Kat Club of a century ago. We'll play faro and whist for high stakes..."
"I don't know how to play whist and faro; I can only play snap and happy families."
"Don't be such a baby, Poole. I'll teach you -- I have a book-- and everyone will have to wear wigs which they will tear off in despair at their terrible losses and maybe they should arrive disguised in highwaymen's masks." The Plunger mimed the actions.
"It sounds very romantic, Plunger, but I don't know about high stakes; I only get five bob a month and then only if the Pater remembers."
"Don't worry about that, I'll give you the money. The important thing is the costumes and who should be allowed to join," replied the boy, clearly excited.
"Who is to be invited?"
"Well, there's you and me of course and I thought Biffo and Custard and Pongo-- his uncle is a Duke, isn't he?" Martin thought he still was and nodded.
"...and St Kenelm, I thought," continued The Plunger and looked up to Martin for a reaction.
"Well that is very decent of you Plunger, especially as the poor fellow has just lost his Mater and all that, but I think you might have to advance him the money to gamble, you know."
"Oh that's perfectly alright, Poole, he's a fine fellow and he reads well in Debrett's. You will join, won't you?"
"Of course, Plunger," said Martin fulsomely. "We're pals."
The Plunger could not help himself; he grinned with genuine pleasure before fighting to regain his composure.
They parted for their respective devs -- lessons--with Martin smiling to himself. The Plunger's club was surely just an excuse to dress up and he saw that he was being used as a sort of Trojan horse so that The Plunger could mix more easily with the scions of some of England's most noble families. The Plunger was a terrible snob and a climber, but Martin somehow found him endearing and then there was the promise of all that legendary tuck in his room. Martin's tummy rumbled. Then there was the thought of The Plunger himself, naked in the shower bath, with his imposing height and long cock that required much soaping when he was sure Martin was watching. Martin's loins tingled.
"Here're the tickets for Stratford, Crisp," called Clarke as he came into the room. He removed tickets for the Shakespeare Memorial Company from his pocket. Crisp was behind a pile of corrections -- behind in both senses because he knew they should have been completed a week ago in time for half-term reports.
"Thank you, Clarke," said the master. It was good of you to get them."
"It should be a good season; Benson is staging King John and that has plenty of swish." Crisp pulled a face at the expression. "That will be 15 shillings, Crisp"
"Fifteen!"
"Yes, it should have been two quid, but Craigth got them for me. His ma knows someone, it seems."
At the mention of the foppish new pupil he grimaced but then was all too aware of his own position. "Er, Rodger," began the master in a quieter tone, standing and drawing him away from the other occupants of the room, "I seem to find myself a bit short this week..."
"You already owe me for that whisky I got for you last month and I have to pay Craigth."
"Yes, well...I've had some expenses, my wife..."
"Yes your wife," replied Clarke flatly. It was well known that Mrs Crisp had left Crisp and was now living with another man-- possibly Crisp's own brother -- in Bristol, but the fiction was maintained that she was merely on an extended holiday as a divorce would have meant the sack. "And you haven't been lucky on the horses, have you?"
It was true, for it was commonly believed that Crisp owned money to a bookmaker in the town. "You know," began Clarke is a more friendly tone, "Craigth's father has an interest in Bayardo -- a bay stallion-- and he said that he was looking good for the St Ledger."
Crisp wanted to strike Clarke or Craigth or someone. He contented himself with snapping the indelible correcting pencil, wishing it were someone's neck and fought to keep his voice even. "Thank you for the tickets, Clarke. I will go and see Craigth and get him to thank his mother and I will pay him myself."
Clarke moved away to talk to Dr Benbow and Crisp returned to the pile of papers, which had grown no smaller in the course of the afternoon, and savagely marked down `Spanker' Holme-Oake's doltish efforts in trigonometry, despite his father being the First Sea Lord.
"Toast for the both of us," ordered Kettering. Martin himself was not invited to supper with the podgy sixth former but was required to make the toast over the fire in his school bedroom. "He has a fine bottom, don't you think?" said Kettering in a disinterred voice to his visitor as he looked over the bent form of his fag. Martin felt that his proprietary tone was more suited to describing a horse than his own person and he was unsure that he wanted to be described so in front of Montford.
"Perhaps," replied Montford with bored indifference.
"I say, Kettering," said Martin as he straightened up and eased the first piece of toast from the long fork, "will you help me with my trig prep?"
"Perhaps when Montford and I have finished our chat." He reached for a box under his bed and took out a small bottle of brandy and added a nip to the cocoa. "Go and black my boots now."
"How's your brother, Poole?" asked Montford suddenly, but in a kind voice. Martin's older brother, the Earl of Holdenhurst, had been at school when Montford had been a new bug, but Martin was immensely grateful for the connection, for he admired Montford -- a god-like prefect-- very greatly and felt a pleasant tingling whenever he saw him on the playing fields and now, at such close quarters, Martin blushed to the very roots of his blond head. He dared to glance up. Montford seemed impossibly grown-up for a schoolfellow and confidently at ease with life in a way Martin thought he could never be. Martin took in his darkly handsome face-- he shaved-- his long legs and the way he filled out his striped school trousers.
"Fine thanks, Montford," stammered Martin. "I had a letter from him last week; he's back from Egypt."
"What was he doing out there?" continued Montford. Martin was in seventh heaven that Montford had even noticed him. Kettering shook his boots at Martin but was ignored.
"He was Lord Baring's private secretary for a bit and was organising his memoirs, I believe. But he didn't really like it."
"He played rugger at school I seem to remember," the sixth-former said airily.
"But not any more -- and its far too hot in Egypt for rugger," Martin joked before bursting out excitedly: "I watched you playing lacrosse last week!"
"We beat Porterhouse by two goals."
"Yes, and you scored one of them while we were a man down," continued Martin excitedly recalling for the handsome prefect the exact positions of the School team inside the restraining line during several critical face-offs.
"You're interested in the game?" asked Montford at last as Martin ran out of steam.
"Oh yes! I'd love to play."
"Well, why don't you come and practice with us after prayers on Thursday?" Martin thought he was going to faint. "I'll make sure the other chaps don't hurt you."
"Oh I don't mind if they hurt me, Montford. I'm pretty strong."
The lacrosse captain leant across and felt Martin's arms then slid his hands down Martin's thighs. Martin tingled pleasantly between his legs and felt like they might give way at any moment. He bit his lower lip.
"Indeed you are; promising muscle for a young fellow," concluded Montford with a trace of a smile that broadened into a laugh as he touselled his blond hair. "Now you better fly and do Kettering's boots, there's a good fellow."
Martin raced out of the door in a state of high excitement and eager to show he was obedient, but he still caught Kettering saying: "Young Poole's a little Adonis, what?" He did not hear what Montford replied.
When Martin returned ten minutes later with the clean boots and his own homework he was disappointed to find that Montford had departed and only the faint hint of an illicit cigar lingered to remind him of his hero's presence.
"Let me look at that trig," said Kettering as he consumed the dregs of his spiked cocoa and Martin handed over his jotter. Kettering unbuttoned his flies and, still with his eyes on the mathematics, said: "Get to work, Poole, it will help me figure this out.
Martin repressed a weary sigh and, dropping to his knees, fished into the depths and produced Kettering's pale, slug-like member from inside his cotton combinations. "Warm your hands first," admonished his fagmaster.
Martin dutifully performed on the unappetising penis until his wrists ached. "I can't get it hard, Kettering," he complained after the passage of some minutes. Without looking up from the book Kettering said for the hundredth time: "Put it in your mouth then."
"Certainly not!" Martin snapped back to equal his hundred."
"Then work harder. You'll never get into that lacrosse team if you don't try and if you don't succeed I won't be able to tell you where you went wrong with these isosceles triangles."
Martin repressed a second sigh and thought hard about Montford.
"You're looking a little full in your trousers, Poole," said Kettering at length, looking down, and indeed Martin did have an erection. "You like your little job, eh?"
"Oh yes, Kettering," lied Martin with blatant insincerity, "but are you close yet?"
"Nearly there," huffed Kettering. "Just a little faster."
Eventually Kettering spilled and, with little ceremony, he wiped himself off and buttoned up. For all Martin's efforts it was only a modest amount and there was little danger of Martin's trigonometry being soiled. Martin stood and shook his aching arm.
"Number 6 was a right angle triangle, Poole; read the questions more carefully and in 8 you did it correctly except that you forgot to carry the one."
"Thanks, Kettering."
"Thank you, Poole. Do you want to kiss me?" he asked sarcastically, pouting a pair of thick, moist lips, still exhibiting traces of the buttered toast.
Martin took in the flabby figure with its dusting of curly fluff over a flaccid, spotty face. "I think not, Kettering."
"You would have kissed Montford."
Martin said nothing but took his jotter and made for the door. Kettering was right.
It goes without saying that Martin could hardly wait until Thursday. He found sleep elusive and pleasured himself in the dark, all the while thinking of the lacrosse boys and of Montford, the sixth form prefect and captain, in particular.
It had been Montford who had formed the team under the guidance of a Canadian master who had since returned to McGill University. At the same time there were many who saw it played for the first time at the London Olympics, just a few months before, and the game had caught on in several boys' schools in England and a version was widely played in many girls' schools.
Martin presented himself on the rectangular pitch, flying straight from Chapel with his short trousers worn under his uniform. He found he had to wait some minutes for the older boys to appear. To his joy, Montford had not forgotten and threw Martin his spare jersey. It was comically too large, but Martin was thrilled and contrived in his mind not to return it, enjoying the knowledge that it had been worn by his hero.
There was some good tempered ragging of the third former, but Martin was instructed in the rudiments of the game, being shown how to hold the longer and shorter crosse, with Montford himself at one point standing behind Martin, pressed into his back, and positioning his hands on the shaft. The captain took the boys through some drills in which Martin participated and then there were some specialised ones for the `middies' only and the offensive and defensive players stood aside with Martin. Then Martin was given a few minutes in the goal and he found himself hopeless and every shot got past him. The team laughed, but Marin did not feel too embarrassed.
Even in practice it was a rough game and Martin was struck in the ribs by Joublet's stick. He fell to the ground and Joublet was apologetic and several boys gathered around him, lifting his jersey to see the ugly bruise already forming. Martin fought back his tears almost successfully and basked under the praise of all the older boys to such an extent that he was actually glad of the injury.
Then it was over and the big lads and the slighter figure of Martin trudged off to the new Craigth Pavilion, inside whose Hellenistic portals awaited the shower baths-- still yet a novelty in the School.
Off came the uniforms amid the din of excited voices and scrape of boots on the floor. Then there was the hiss of the water and the clouds of steam in the cold air that smelt of sweaty boys. Martin shed his clothes without a single qualm and joined the naked fifth and six formers under the sprays. He stared unashamedly and for many years afterwards, had he been asked to do so, could have, with fidelity, described the cocks and balls of every team members that afternoon. The soap was passed from boy-to-boy and they lifted up their arms and soaped they legs and generally provided a feast for the eyes.
They became rowdier and their ablutions became forgotten. Orme smacked the rump of Ticehurst with a loud snap. There was a gasp. Ticehurst retaliated by making a grab for Orme's swinging and unprotected privates. The cries and laughter reached a crescendo.
"Don't worry about it," said a voice. It was Montford who had come over to where Martin stood wide-eyed. "It's team bonding. It doesn't mean anything. And don't worry about that either."
Martin removed his gaze from Montford's naked, adult body and looked down at his own person, which he noticed was erect, but he was too excited in the swift moving and noisy hubbub to feel embarrassed. Montford raised his arms and began to vigorously soap his hairy armpits. "I wish it was as big as yours, Montford," said Martin boldly.
"Well, it's a good size for 14 year-old fellow, boomed the prefect as he looked down "It must be the biggest in the third form."
"Not quite," said Martin, glancing down and then up at Moutford with a grin. "The Plunger's got the biggest."
"So I've heard he must...Hey you chaps!" The riotous boys were making grabs at Montford and Martin. Montford stood in front of Martin to protect him and pressed him back against the tiles with his meaty buttocks. Martin thought he was in heaven.
Blows and slaps fended off the attackers but Orme lingered and began to seriously pleasure Montford's cock. Montford let him, all the while pressing back onto Martin. Some of the others paused to watch.
"Come on, Montford, a captain's load!" encouraged Orme who was also pleasuring himself. There was a pause of some minutes and the room went quiet. Then Montford spent with a grunt in Orme's fist, while Martin, at the same moment, found he spilled all down Montford's meaty thigh.
There was a small cheer and the crowd good-naturedly departed and Martin was left alone with Montford. "I'm sorry, Montford..." he began, feeling slightly ashamed for the first time.
"Not to worry, Poole," replied Montford with a grin. He picked up a towel and began to roughly dry Martin. "It's all part of lacrosse, you know, and you will have to get used to it if you want to play. You weren't upset by the fellows, were you?"
"Oh no, Montford... not at all," Martin hastened to add. Montford finished by saying that that was good and went on to talk about the team as he dressed. Martin listened attentively, gazing up at his idol.
"You know, Poole, you're very pretty. Kettering has rather a pet for you. Martin pulled a face. Montford laughed and said, "I though so." He touselled Martin's hair again and Martin was reminded of William, his brother. "Well, the other chaps on the team think so too-- they told me so-- and would be very pleased if you could train with us again. But only if you want to and you've seen what it is like..."
Martin didn't have to be asked twice
Hilary Term saw Martin the most enthusiastic of `bobs' on [The Plains of] Moab, which, in the terminology of the School, meant sportsmen on the playing fields. As the days lengthened, Martin could be seen doggedly running laps and on Thursdays he trained the hardest of any of the boys. This coincided with a growth spurt and some of the team members suggested that young Poole might well find a position in the School side in the following year.
Martin found that he did well as an attackman with the short crosse where his agility and stamina were telling and in the practices he was unselfish in feeding to the other attackers in open positions for scoring. Montford noted that Martin was singularly adept with either hand and Martin beamed when this was pointed out.
Although the excitement of that first time in the shower baths was seldom repeated, Martin found he looked forward all week to the few minutes' talk he had with Montford as they walked up from Moab to the pavilion and as they sat companionably side-by-side to remove their muddy boots. Martin always prayed they would be alone for this precious few minutes and contrived little topics so he would not appear tongue-tied before his hero. In the showers, surrounded by the other boys, he was able to feast his eyes on their grown up forms and for a short while he too felt what it was like to be in the world of men.
In his bed at night he relived these times, with exquisite pleasure, and often fell asleep hugging the jersey that Montford had first given to him. Martin felt that his whole life was only sustained by these Thursdays and the moments with Montford, with the rarer excitement of actual matches when they were played at home and where he was an eager spectator and critic. At odd moments he wondered what it all meant.
Then the most dreadful thing happened. One Thursday Martin turned out to train with the lacrosse team as usual -- being first on Moab after prayers and running laps until the older boys arrived. Montford was not among them, but Martin thought little about it, imaging that his House Master had perhaps kept him late. But training concluded without his appearance and Martin asked Ticehurst where he was. Ticehurst wasn't sure but Orme joined them and said, "Old Montford has gone up to Sandhurst, Poole, didn't you know?"
Martin barely heard the words and felt for an instant that the bottom had fallen out of his world. He rushed from Moab to his House, not bothering to shower or change, and he flung himself facedown on his bed. Hot tears streamed from his eyes and after a bit he wanted to intensify this torture so he reached for Montford's jersey and sobbed into that.
After half an hour Martin felt that he couldn't lie on the bed any longer so he changed and cleaned himself enough to make the journey to Kettering's room.
"Hello, Poole, you're early," said the sixth former as he opened the door.
"What's happened to Montford?" Martin blurted out without any ceremony and on the verge of tears again.
Kettering was about to say something sarcastic when he was suddenly pricked by some modicum of finer feeling and looking down at Poole -- or rather level-eyed for Martin was almost the height of the dumpy six-former-- he noted how distraught he was. He shepherded him inside, with a guiding hand on Martin's bottom.
"He's gone to Sandhurst, Poole; he was down for it all year. His father and brother are in the 9th Queen's Royal Lancers -- the Dragoons, Poole, all his family really; you must have known that."
Martin didn't know that at all. "But he never said he was going, Kettering, he never said good-bye to me." Martin glanced up. "I mean..." Martin hesitated. "I mean the lacrosse team needs him." A sniff betrayed him.
"Yes, he was a fine fellow, Poole, and I'll miss him too." Martin looked up again. "You know, if I could be a tenth of the chap that Montford is..." There was a long pause in which Martin said nothing. "You don't have to toss me to-night, Poole," Montford said at last with a grin. Martin managed a weak smile and left the room.
In the following weeks towards the end of Summer Half, The Plunger was terribly busy and was seen less and less on Moab and more frequently returning from the post office with mysterious parcels.
Martin was moping in the library, idly turning the pages of an ancient book of woodcuts showing the terrible instruments used to meet out justice to witches, scolds and heretics in less humanitarian times. He sighed just as a voice said, "I say, Poole."
"Hello, Plunger," said Martin without enthusiasm as he turned to see his redheaded friend who had come up behind him. The Plunger was a man on a mission, but he paused to see that Poole was downcast and that his eyes were red. He decided to press on thinking that he might be able to provide a distraction.
"I say, Poole," he repeated, "I have just got this book on card games and I thought we might go over the rules of faro." Martin looked as if he wanted nothing less. "Come on Poole, help me out. We are having our first meeting next Saturday."
Martin suddenly realised that it was a moment to be helpful and that his friend was dangerously dependant on his new club being a success in view of the humiliating setback he had only recently suffered when he had been caned by a prefect for slighting a sixth former who has appeared in Chapel wearing a wristlet watch -- a present from an uncle in the Blues. The Plunger's pronouncement that such devices were un-gentlemanly combined with the Plunger daring to appear in Hall in swallows tails when other boys in his year wore tail-less black jackets colloquially known as "bum freezers", was ill-timed, to say the least.
Hence Martin put aside his own self-indulgent feelings and joined The Plunger in his room where the mysteries of the card game, with its banker and its abacus for recording what suits had been dispensed from the lacquered box were puzzled over until they thought they had mastered it and The Plunger then went off to round up several of the other members for further instruction and for a discussion about club rules and costumes -- which were apparently de rigueur.
At last the appointed Saturday arrived for the first meeting of the Damnation Club' as it had been so named (although for politeness's sake it was written: D--nation Club'). The starving boys' mouths were watering at the prospect of all the tuck that The Plunger had promised as they knotted their highwaymen's masks and adjusted the powdered wigs that The Plunger had bought and as they made their way past the envious eyes of their less exalted brethren towards The Plunger's room in Despenser House, which had seen little to equal the sight since its foundation in 1525.
The Plunger had certainly gone to a lot of trouble. Set out on his school bed were the delectable comestibles bearing labels from well-known providores in Oxford Street and Knightsbridge, the bottles and tins glinting temptingly in the candlelight. A table had been covered in a baize cloth upon which were set out stacks of hexagonal gambling counters and decks of cards emblazoned with Bengal tigers. The Plunger apologised for there being no brandy or gin, with ginger beer having to substitute in this more temperate age.
A dozen boys -- all new members and gleaned from the very best families in the School-- filtered in and, removing their black kerchiefs, made immediately for the food and drink, each making sure that Smike had his fair share as he was so malnourished. Pongo Cheam had found a coaching cloak in props and The Plunger congratulated him on the find while the Hon. Reggie Clumber-Coote (the grandson of the former Archbishop of York) dramatically pulled a pair of duelling pistols from the wide scarf that formed his belt. Archie checked carefully that these weapons were not primed and set them aside on his French prep before turning to welcome Chevening, a fifth-former who had seemed to have developed quite a pet' for his red-headed host--especially in the shower baths after games-- and thus was enthusiastic upon being invited to become an inaugural member of the D--tion' Club. Then Roley Aldwych opened the door and there were gasps. Aldwych, from the Upper Fourth and vice-captain of the second XV Rugby team, was astoundingly turned out in a dress with side hoops or panniers and a tightly laced bodice. On his head a mob cap perched awkwardly upon a wig of piled blond curls. The rugger player's youthful face had been powdered and his cheeks rouged and Martin noted the authentic details of patches and beauty spots. "Why you're magnificent, Roley!" cried the delighted Plunger, clapping his hands.
"Thanks, Plunger," replied the senior in an oddly masculine voice, as he shook his petticoats, "I'm Polly Peachum, you understand. The fellows in Quincunx Quad didn't half give me a ragging," he added without seemingly unduly worried.
Soon the meeting was called to order, The Plunger banging the handle of one of the pistols on the table, and the boys paused in their consumption of several different kinds of cake, cold sausage rolls, jellies, biscuits and the ginger beer. The not very complicated rules of the Club were gone over, with Archie being appointed president unopposed and then the more complicated rules of faro were refreshed. Custard suggested that the D--nation Club could next perform a highway robbery, with the butcher's van as a likely target, but this idea was received coolly. Pongo spoke next and said that there should be whoring with wenches and doxies. The Plunger placed the proposer and Reggie on a subcommittee to look into this before the next meeting.
The time for play was approaching and, while the boys were having a last bite from The Plunger's veritable beano, St Kenelm approached and thanked Archie for providing him with a stake. "It's nothing, Smike, we wanted you to join and I have sent a postal note to your pa for that new pig." St Kenelm was overcome and was just thanking his host when the door flew open. There was a cry from those assembled, `Biffo' Bewley-Vance-Bewley dropping his Cadbury chocolate, and all turned in alarm to stare at the masked and bewigged adult figure that filled the doorframe.
"Welcome to the Damnations, Mr Crisp," declared The Plunger, smoothly. And indeed it was quickly realised it was indeed the unpopular Mathematics master and who merely grunted and moved inside to occupy a chair while The Plunger went on to explain, with a marked lack of conviction, that Mr Crisp was very interested in the mathematics of probability and the game of faro in particular.
Crisp was initially a dampening presence on the assembly and Martin couldn't understand why The Plunger had allowed him or indeed invited him to join their schoolboy club. Eventually, however, the thrill of the game took over and Crisp's initial boring remarks about intriguing sequences of numbers ceased and he became just another player.
The Plunger was the banker and dealt the cards from the shoe', carefully burning the first as a soda' and placing the house card face up on the right and the players' or carte anglaise on the left. Bets were placed on the fall of cards as they were dealt and the counters were placed on a polished board with a painted deck placed in the centre of the green baize. Quickly Martin found that he had lost the two farthings he'd placed on the three of spades when The Plunger also dealt a three-- of clubs in this case-- as the banker's card, but he won sixpence equally rapidly when he found that he had bet on a card of higher value than the carte anglaise -- in this case a knave of hearts.
Thus the game proceeded, with bets placed on the turn of the cards as the `shoe' was exhauster of its contents. For interest there were variations that the punters began to employ for reversing the intent of bets and wagers that neither won nor loss began to pile up on the board. Custard used the abacus to count the suits that emerged from the shoe and soon found that he had amassed a fortune of one shilling-and-fourpence.
There was a pause for refreshments, The Plunger obtaining a fresh deck and shuffling them in the shoe. Martin found that he was up eightpence and was pleased that St Kenelm was up a shilling. "How are you doing, Sir?" he asked, turning to Crisp.
"I'm up ninepence, Poole, and I have seen the pattern that forms. It is as Euler predicted in the 1770s."
Martin hadn't heard of the Swiss savant and hoped that he wouldn't have to so he quickly moved towards the ginger beer.
The second half of the evening saw a change in tempo and the betting became wilder, with sixpences or even shillings being tossed on the table as if they were mere ha'pennies. Martin dared to count his money at one point and found to his delight that he was up five bob and thought that it now didn't matter if his father forgot his pocket money this month. Custard's abacus had not helped him and he was down two shillings-and-a-farthing and Roley Aldwych thought he was down four shillings until he found that one-and-six had become lodged in the folds of his farthingale and so his losses were not catastrophic-- and certainly not for the scion of the Earls of Northbank.
However it became apparent that Mr Crisp was losing substantially and was persisting through a run of particularly bad luck. Soon his losses approached a whole pound and The Plunger offered him the role of banker. The master would have none of it and as nine o'clock approached his losses were now two pounds-five. The Plunger suggested that a halt be called and the other players made to withdraw.
"Sit down all of you!" shouted Crisp. He nodded briskly for The Plunger to continue, perspiration visible beneath his wig, and a small win provoked a self-satisfied grin and he relaxed slightly back into his chair. All eyes were now riveted on Crisp and his cards and he started to lose again. The tension was increasing and Custard didn't even notice that half his seed cake had fallen to the floor. Presently The Plunger called the turn' which meant there was betting on the order of the final three cards in the shoe: the banker's card, the players' card and the final card called the hock'. The room hushed and Crisp said, "I've got this and it's four-to-one."
But the cards were against him and he hadn't got it at all, as the ugly ace of spades seemed to say, when turned face up, to the knave of diamonds and the sly nine of clubs that followed and The Plunger swept up the last of the counters into the hungry maw of the bank. There was a dreadful silence, for Crisp was now five pounds in debt, Martin rapidly computed.
The unlucky master let out an animal cry and, overturning the table, went down on one knee and tore off his powdered wig in despair and threw it onto the sausage rolls with some force. The Plunger looked at Martin with a raised eyebrow. The D--nation Club was now an assured success.
Main story continues. Thank you for reading and Merry Christmas to all our readers. If you have any comments or questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you. Just send them to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.