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Updated: May 22, 2025
Dalaber and Fitzjames are already there, making all ready, and Radley will start tomorrow, taking Master Clarke in his charge, since it is of all things needful for him to have a change of air to restore him to health. He will be our chaplain, and edify us by his discourses when he has recovered his health and strength.
The schoolboy crowd was suffering; and, when Radley smote Honion for a six, the suffering became agony. Some drastic step must be taken. Suddenly a shrill-voiced boy sang out: "Put Ray on. Give Ray a chance." The crowd took it up and roared out its instructions to put Ray on.
"Have all done so?" "There is Dalaber yet to win," answered the dean, "and there are a few more Sumner for one, and Radley for another who have not given the assurance yet. If Clarke would submit, they would do so instantly; but they are near to him in the prison, and they can speak with each other, and so they hang together as yet, and what he does they will do.
I may go into Parliament, which is a comfortable job. On the Tory side, of course, because there you don't have to think." "You've about fifty years of life," suggested Radley. "And don't you want to do anything constructive in that time?" "Not in these trousers! I know that, if I were sincere and constructive in my politics, I should be a Socialist.
Doe and I left Radley and the doctor to their dispute, and retired to our study. It was then that Doe began to blush and say: "Funny the subject of our ambitions cropped up. Only a few days ago I tried to write a poem about it." I pleaded for permission to read it. "You can, if you like," he said, getting very crimson.
"When you've all finished," said Radley, "I'll read the Prize Poem." So Radley began faithfully from a manuscript: "Horace, Odes I, 9. Vides ut Alta Stet. "White is the mountain, fleeced in snows, And the pale trees depress their weighted boughs " "Oh, spare us!" interrupted Chappy. "Not a bit," said Radley.
"I say," he stuttered, "you you might just mention to Radley that I dictated all the lines. It would sort of I mean Oh, but you needn't, if you don't want to." That night there happened in Bramhall House one of those strange events that are best chronicled in a few cold sentences. That night, I say, while honest men and boys slept, Mr. Fillet sat up in bed and listened.
One of the reasons why Abingdon has such a good store of silver plate is that according to their charter the Corporation has to pay a small sum yearly to their High Stewards, and these gentlemen the Bowyers of Radley and the Earls of Abingdon have been accustomed to restore their fees to the town in the shape of a gift of plate.
Converging reasons led me there: one I desired that my old friends, the Suckers, should know of my intimacy with S.T. Radley, of Middlesex; two I felt Chappy's conversation would certainly be entertaining; and three I should soon have to go in to bat, and was feeling too nervous to talk to offensively happy boys who were unworried by such imminent publicity.
But a desire to tell confidences had been begotten of warm bed and darkness, and my friend soon proceeded: "It's funny, Rupert, but I like talking to you better than to any of the other chaps. I feel I can tell you things I wouldn't tell anybody else. Do you know, I really think I like Radley better than anyone else in the world. I simply loved being whacked by him."
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