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Updated: June 4, 2025
"This house. Dirty Dick's!" Scaife smiled cynically. He looked about a year older than John, but he had the air and manners of a man of the world so John thought. Also, he was very good-looking, handsomer than Desmond, and in striking contrast to that smiling, genial youth, being dark, almost swarthy of complexion, with strongly-marked features and rather coarse hands and feet.
Scaife nodded sulkily. None the less he had too great respect for Lawrence's ability and experience as a captain to disregard his advice. After the kick-off, Damer's did play up, and the Manor had to defend its base against sustained and fierce attack. Again and again a third base was almost kicked, again and again superior weight prevailed in the scrimmages.
The boy's dishevelled appearance, his wild eyes, his shrill laughter, revealed another Scaife. "You'd better come, Scaife," he faltered. "Not I," said Scaife. He spoke in a curiously high-pitched voice, quite unlike his usual cool quiet tone. "Wait a mo' I'm not Trieve's fag. I'm nobody's fag now, am I?" He appealed to the crowd.
"I lent him the money," said Lovell. "Ah! Please call 'Boy." Lovell went into the passage. Had he an intuition that he was about to call "Boy" for the last time, or did the pent-up excitement find an outlet in sound? He had never called "Boy" so loudly or clearly. The night-fag scurried up again. "Tell him to send Scaife here," said Warde. Lovell's florid face paled.
Then, when the thoughtless "I'd like a lark of that sort" had been spoken, came the derisive answer, "You haven't the nerve for it." And then again the subtle leading of an ardent and self-willed nature into the morass, Scaife pretending to dissuade a friend, entreating him to consider the risk, urging him to go to bed, as if he were a headstrong child.
A few seats away Warde is twiddling his thumbs and biting his lips. Old Lord Fawley has slipped into the pavilion for a brandy and soda. At last! Scaife takes off Fluff and puts on a fast bowler, changing his own place in the field to short slip. The ball, a first ball and very fast, puzzles the batsman, accustomed to slows.
Whatever differences Eleanor Scaife and other studious inquirers may discover between young communities and old, it is safe to say that there are many points of resemblance: one of them is that, in both, folk talk a good deal about their neighbours' affairs.
"I'm Scaife," he said. "Are you the Lord, or the Commoner?" He laughed, indicating a large portmanteau, labelled, "Lord Esmé Kinloch." "I'm Verney," said John. "I've bagged the best bed," said Scaife, after a pause, "and I advise you to bag the next best one, over there. It was mine last term." "I don't see the beds," said John, staring about him.
And then Trieve sent another message saying that Scaife was to go to his room at once to be whopped." "To be whopped. Um! Rather drastic that, very drastic under the circumstances." "So we thought, sir; and I went to represent the facts to Trieve " "Well?" "I'm not much of a peacemaker, I fear, sir. Trieve refused to listen to me.
Caesar won the house mile handicap; Scaife won the under sixteen high jump a triumph for the Manor; and Fluff, the despised Fluff, actually secured an immense tankard, which one of the Sixth offered as a prize because he was quite convinced that his own particular pal would win it. The distance happened to be half a mile. Fluff was allowed an enormous start, and won in a canter.
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