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Updated: June 22, 2025
But the School had set its heart on the innings victory, and the team had the moral strength derived from the concentrated determination of six hundred boys. What had the Masters to oppose this? Nothing save Radley and a handful of tarnished Blues. It is stated that the third innings of the day opened like this: Honion started on a longer run than usual, as if to terrify this Radley fellow.
With the unreasonableness of guilt I stigmatised all those plotting my hurt as "they." I did not specialise individuals, possibly because Radley was one. They were "they" a contemptible "they." "They are brutes," I concluded, "and I don't care a hang for any of them."
The pain in my hand was exactly the same as when Radley caned me years before on the left hand: and I was reminded of the scene. "Put up your left hand," he had said sarcastically. "You'll need the other for writing your lines." Now I had accidentally put up my left. It was surely because I should need the other for bowling him out.
"Well, I like that," replied I, with an empty laugh. "You drop me, sulk like a pig, and then say it's the other way round " "Rot!" he interrupted. "Didn't you deliberately cut me out with Radley?" "I don't know what you mean," I said, although the hint that I was Radley's favourite always gave me a flush of pleasure. "And haven't you been hanging on to Penny, just to make me jealous?"
There were Radley as host; Pennybet, to represent the Old Boys; Doe and I, in fine fettle for the School; and Dr. Chappy, who, having sworn that he was a busy man and couldn't spare the time, sat spilling cigar-ash in the best armchair, and looked like remaining for the rest of the evening.
Radley, of the Adelphi, which many would have given twice what we paid to obtain. The day opened gloriously, and never was seen an innumerable concourse of sight-seers in better humor than the surging, swaying crowd that lined the railroad with living faces. How dreadfully that brilliant opening was overcast I have described in the letter given above.
Then Radley, half smiling, as if he knew the worst was over, took up his question once more. "Well, how's the cheating going on?" Since I was not allowed to prevaricate, all that remained for me to do was to return no reply. But there was stubbornness in my silence; I should have liked to say pettishly: "But you won't let me explain, you won't let me explain."
But, once again, I left his room feeling that, though already I had had my reverses in the moral contest of which he spoke, I would win through in the end. In the summer holidays of that year I received a letter from Doe inviting me to spend a few days with him at his Cornish home on the Fal. Radley, he told me, was already his guest.
I'd love to be their leader." "What you're going to be," said Radley, "is an intellectual rebel. When you go up to Oxford in a year or so, you'll pose as most painfully intellectual. You'll be a Socialist in Politics, a Futurist in Art, and a Modernist or Ultramontane in Religion anything that's a rebellion against the established order. At all costs let us be original and outrageous."
He stared at my face till I felt fidgety, and my mind, which always in moments of excitement ran down most ridiculous avenues, framed the sentence: "Don't stare, because it's rude," at which involuntary thought I scarcely restrained a nervous titter. After this critical inspection, Radley murmured: "Yes, talk your quarrel over. The bands of friendship mustn't snap at a breath."
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