Paul Kelver Part 12

"From that big greengrocer's opposite Barnet Church," answered Dan.

"Have a bit?"

"You told me you hadn't any more money," retorted Dudley, in reproachful tones.

"No more I had," replied Dan, holding out a tempting slice at the end of his pocket-knife.

"You must have had some, or you couldn't have bought that pear," argued Dudley, accepting.

"Didn't buy it."

"Do you mean to say you stole it?"

"Yes."

"You're a thief," denounced Dudley, wiping his mouth and throwing away a pip.

"I know it. So are you."

"No, I'm not."

"What's the good of talking nonsense. You robbed an orchard only last Wednesday at Mill Hill, and gave yourself the stomach-ache."

"That isn't stealing."

"What is it?"

"It isn't the same thing."

"What's the difference?"

And nothing could make Dan comprehend the difference. "Stealing is stealing," he would have it, "whether you take it off a tree or out of a basket. You're a thief, Dudley; so am I. Anybody else say a piece?"

The thermometer was at that point where morals become slack. We all had a piece; but we were all of us shocked at Dan, and told him so. It did not agitate him in the least.

To Dan I could speak my inmost thoughts, knowing he would understand me, and sometimes from him I received a.s.sistance and sometimes confusion.

The yearly examination was approaching. My father and mother said nothing, but I knew how anxiously each of them awaited the result; my father, to see how much I had accomplished; my mother, how much I had endeavoured. I had worked hard, but was doubtful, knowing that prizes depend less upon what you know than upon what you can make others believe you know; which applies to prizes beyond those of school.

"Are you going in for anything, Dan?" I asked him. We were discussing the subject, crossing Primrose Hill, one bright June morning.

I knew the question absurd. I asked it of him because I wanted him to ask it of me.

"They're not giving away anything I particularly want," murmured Dan, in his lazy drawl: looked at from that point of view, school prizes are, it must be confessed, not worth their cost.

"You're sweating yourself, young 'un, of course?" he asked next, as I expected.

"I mean to have a shot at the History," I admitted. "Wish I was better at dates."

"It's always two-thirds dates," Dan a.s.sured me, to my discouragement.

"Old Florret thinks you can't eat a potato until you know the date that chap Raleigh was born."

"I've prayed so hard that I may win the History prize," I explained to him. I never felt shy with Dan. He never laughed at me.

"You oughtn't to have done that," he said. I stared. "It isn't fair to the other fellows. That won't be your winning the prize; that will be your getting it through favouritism."

"But they can pray, too," I reminded him.

"If you all pray for it," answered Dan, "then it will go, not to the fellow that knows most history, but to the fellow that's prayed the hardest. That isn't old Florret's idea, I'm sure."

"But we are told to pray for things we want," I insisted.

"Beastly mean way of getting 'em," retorted Dan. And no argument that came to me, neither then nor at any future time, brought him to right thinking on this point.

He would judge all matters for himself. In his opinion Achilles was a coward, not a hero.

"He ought to have told the Trojans that they couldn't hurt any part of him except his heel, and let them have a shot at that," he argued; "King Arthur and all the rest of them with their magic swords, it wasn't playing the game. There's no pluck in fighting if you know you're bound to win. Beastly cads, I call them all."

I won no prize that year. Oddly enough, Dan did, for arithmetic; the only subject studied in the Lower Fourth that interested him. He liked to see things coming right, he explained.

My father shut himself up with me for half an hour and examined me himself.

"It's very curious, Paul," he said, "you seem to know a good deal."

"They asked me all the things I didn't know. They seemed to do it on purpose," I blurted out, and laid my head upon my arm. My father crossed the room and sat down beside me.

"Spud!" he said--it was a long time since he had called me by that childish nickname--"perhaps you are going to be with me, one of the unlucky ones."

"Are you unlucky?" I asked.

"Invariably," answered my father, rumpling his hair. "I don't know why.

I try hard--I do the right thing, but it turns out wrong. It always does."

"But I thought Mr. Hasluck was bringing us such good fortune," I said, looking up in surprise. "We're getting on, aren't we?"

"I have thought so before, so often," said my father, "and it has always ended in a--in a collapse."

I put my arms round his neck, for I always felt to my father as to another boy; bigger than myself and older, but not so very much.

"You see, when I married your mother," he went on, "I was a rich man.

She had everything she wanted."

"But you will get it all back," I cried.

"I try to think so," he answered. "I do think so--generally speaking.

But there are times--you would not understand--they come to you."

"But she is happy," I persisted; "we are all happy."

He shook his head.