J. S. M. Babington, of Dacre's House, was on the horns of a dilemma1. Circumstances over which he had had no control had brought him, like another Hercules, to the cross-roads, and had put before him the choice between pleasure and duty, or, rather, between pleasure and what those in authority called duty. Being human, he would have had little difficulty in making his decision, had not the path of pleasure been so hedged about by danger as to make him doubt whether after all the thing could be carried through.
The facts in the case were these. It was the custom of the mathematical set to which J. S. M. Babington belonged, 4B to wit, to relieve the tedium2 of the daily lesson with a species of round game which was played as follows. As soon as the master had taken his seat, one of the players would execute a manoeuvre3 calculated to draw attention on himself, such as dropping a book or upsetting the blackboard. Called up to the desk to give explanation, he would embark4 on an eloquent5 speech for the defence. This was the cue for the next player to begin. His part consisted in making his way to the desk and testifying to the moral excellence6 of his companion, and giving in full the reasons why he should be discharged without a stain upon his character. As soon as he had warmed to his work he would be followed by a third player, and so on until the standing7 room around the desk was completely filled with a great cloud of witnesses. The duration of the game varied8, of course, considerably9. On some occasions it could be played through with such success, that the master would enter into the spirit of the thing, and do his best to book the names of all offenders10 at one and the same time, a feat11 of no inconsiderable difficulty. At other times matters would come to a head more rapidly. In any case, much innocent fun was to be derived12 from it, and its popularity was great. On the day, however, on which this story opens, a new master had been temporarily loosed into the room in place of the Rev13. Septimus Brown, who had been there as long as the oldest inhabitant could remember. The Rev. Septimus was a wrangler14, but knew nothing of the ways of the human boy. His successor, Mr Reginald Seymour, was a poor mathematician15, but a good master. He had been, moreover, a Cambridge Rugger Blue. This fact alone should have ensured him against the customary pleasantries, for a Blue is a man to be respected. It was not only injudicious, therefore, but positively16 wrong of Babington to plunge17 against the blackboard on his way to his place. If he had been a student of Tennyson, he might have remembered that the old order is in the habit of changing and yielding place to the new.
Mr Seymour looked thoughtfully for a moment at the blackboard.
'That was rather a crude effort,' he said pleasantly to Babington, 'you lack finesse18. Pick it up again, please.'
Babington picked it up without protest. Under the rule of the Rev. Septimus this would have been the signal for the rest of the class to leave their places and assist him, but now they seemed to realize that there was a time for everything, and that this was decidedly no time for indoor games.
'Thank you,' said Mr Seymour, when the board was in its place again. 'What is your name? Eh, what? I didn't quite hear.'
'Babington, sir.'
'Ah. You had better come in tomorrow at two and work out examples three hundred to three-twenty in "Hall and Knight19". There is really plenty of room to walk in between that desk and the blackboard. It only wants practice.'
What was left of Babington then went to his seat. He felt that his reputation as an artistic20 player of the game had received a shattering blow. Then there was the imposition. This in itself would have troubled him little. To be kept in on a half-holiday is annoying, but it is one of those ills which the flesh is heir to, and your true philosopher can always take his gruel21 like a man.
But it so happened that by the evening post he had received a letter from a cousin of his, who was a student at Guy's, and from all accounts was building up a great reputation in the medical world. From this letter it appeared that by a complicated process of knowing people who knew other people who had influence with the management, he had contrived22 to obtain two tickets for a morning performance of the new piece that had just been produced at one of the theatres. And if Mr J. S. M. Babington wished to avail himself of the opportunity, would he write by return, and be at Charing23 Cross Underground bookstall at twenty past two.
Now Babington, though he objected strongly to the drama of ancient Greece, was very fond of that of the present day, and he registered a vow24 that if the matter could possibly be carried through, it should be. His choice was obvious. He could cut his engagement with Mr Seymour, or he could keep it. The difficulty lay rather in deciding upon one or other of the alternatives. The whole thing turned upon the extent of the penalty in the event of detection.
That was his dilemma. He sought advice.
'I shouldn't advise you to,' remarked Jenkins.
Jenkins was equally a bosom friend, and in the matter of wisdom in no way inferior to Peterson.
'What would happen, do you think?' asked Babington.
'Sack,' said one authority.
'The Daily Telegraph,' muttered the tempter in a stage aside, 'calls it the best comedy since Sheridan.'
'So it does,' thought Babington. 'I'll risk it.'
'You'll be a fool if you do,' croaked28 the gloomy Jenkins. 'You're bound to be caught.' But the Ayes had it. Babington wrote off that night accepting the invitation.
It was with feelings of distinct relief that he heard Mr Seymour express to another master his intention of catching29 the twelve-fifteen train up to town. It meant that he would not be on the scene to see him start on the 'Hall and Knight'. Unless luck were very much against him, Babington might reasonably hope that he would accept the imposition without any questions. He had taken the precaution to get the examples finished overnight, with the help of Peterson and Jenkins, aided by a weird30 being who actually appeared to like algebra31, and turned out ten of the twenty problems in an incredibly short time in exchange for a couple of works of fiction (down) and a tea (at a date). He himself meant to catch the one-thirty, which would bring him to town in good time. Peterson had promised to answer his name at roll-call, a delicate operation, in which long practice had made him, like many others of the junior members of the House, no mean proficient32.
It would be pleasant for a conscientious33 historian to be able to say that the one-thirty broke down just outside Victoria, and that Babington arrived at the theatre at the precise moment when the curtain fell and the gratified audience began to stream out. But truth, though it crush me. The one-thirty was so punctual that one might have thought that it belonged to a line other than the line to which it did belong. From Victoria to Charing Cross is a journey that occupies no considerable time, and Babington found himself at his destination with five minutes to wait. At twenty past his cousin arrived, and they made their way to the theatre. A brief skirmish with a liveried menial in the lobby, and they were in their seats.
Some philosopher, of extraordinary powers of intuition, once informed the world that the best of things come at last to an end. The statement was tested, and is now universally accepted as correct. To apply the general to the particular, the play came to an end amidst uproarious applause, to which Babington contributed an unstinted quotum, about three hours after it had begun.
'What do you say to going and grubbing somewhere?' asked Babington's cousin, as they made their way out.
'Hullo, there's that man Richards,' he continued, before Babington could reply that of all possible actions he considered that of going and grubbing somewhere the most desirable. 'Fellow I know at Guy's, you know,' he added, in explanation. 'I'll get him to join us. You'll like him, I expect.'
Richards professed34 himself delighted, and shook hands with Babington with a fervour which seemed to imply that until he had met him life had been a dreary35 blank, but that now he could begin to enjoy himself again. 'I should like to join you, if you don't mind including a friend of mine in the party,' said Richards. 'He was to meet me here. By the way, he's the author of that new piece—The Way of the World.'
'Why, we've just been there.'
'Oh, then you will probably like to meet him. Here he is.'
As he spoke36 a man came towards them, and, with a shock that sent all the blood in his body to the very summit of his head, and then to the very extremities37 of his boots, Babington recognized Mr Seymour. The assurance of the programme that the play was by Walter Walsh was a fraud. Nay38 worse, a downright and culpable39 lie. He started with the vague idea of making a rush for safety, but before his paralysed limbs could be induced to work, Mr Seymour had arrived, and he was being introduced (oh, the tragic40 irony41 of it) to the man for whose benefit he was at that very moment supposed to be working out examples three hundred to three-twenty in 'Hall and Knight'.
Mr Seymour shook hands, without appearing to recognize him. Babington's blood began to resume its normal position again, though he felt that this seeming ignorance of his identity might be a mere42 veneer43, a wile44 of guile45, as the bard46 puts it. He remembered, with a pang47, a story in some magazine where a prisoner was subjected to what the light-hearted inquisitors called the torture of hope. He was allowed to escape from prison, and pass guards and sentries48 apparently49 without their noticing him. Then, just as he stepped into the open air, the chief inquisitor tapped him gently on the shoulder, and, more in sorrow than in anger, reminded him that it was customary for condemned50 men to remain inside their cells. Surely this was a similar case. But then the thought came to him that Mr Seymour had only seen him once, and so might possibly have failed to remember him, for there was nothing special about Babington's features that arrested the eye, and stamped them on the brain for all time. He was rather ordinary than otherwise to look at. At tea, as bad luck would have it, the two sat opposite one another, and Babington trembled. Then the worst happened. Mr Seymour, who had been looking attentively51 at him for some time, leaned forward and said in a tone evidently devoid52 of suspicion: 'Haven't we met before somewhere? I seem to remember your face.'
'Er—no, no,' replied Babington. 'That is, I think not. We may have.'
'I feel sure we have. What school are you at?'
'What, what school? Oh, what school? Why, er—I'm at—er—Uppingham.'
Mr Seymour's face assumed a pleased expression.
'Uppingham? Really. Why, I know several Uppingham fellows. Do you know Mr Morton? He's a master at Uppingham, and a great friend of mine.'
The room began to dance briskly before Babington's eyes, but he clutched at a straw, or what he thought was a straw.
'Uppingham? Did I say Uppingham? Of course, I mean Rugby, you know, Rugby. One's always mixing the two up, you know. Isn't one?'
Mr Seymour looked at him in amazement54. Then he looked at the others as if to ask which of the two was going mad, he or the youth opposite him. Babington's cousin listened to the wild fictions which issued from his lips in equal amazement. He thought he must be ill. Even Richards had a fleeting55 impression that it was a little odd that a fellow should forget what school he was at, and mistake the name Rugby for that of Uppingham, or vice25 versa. Babington became an object of interest.
'I say, Jack,' said the cousin, 'you're feeling all right, aren't you? I mean, you don't seem to know what you're talking about. If you're going to be ill, say so, and I'll prescribe for you.'
'Is he at Rugby?' asked Mr Seymour.
'No, of course he's not. How could he have got from Rugby to London in time for a morning performance? Why, he's at St Austin's.'
Mr Seymour sat for a moment in silence, taking this in. Then he chuckled56. 'It's all right,' he said, 'he's not ill. We have met before, but under such painful circumstances that Master Babington very thoughtfully dissembled, in order not to remind me of them.'
He gave a brief synopsis57 of what had occurred. The audience, exclusive of Babington, roared with laughter.
'I suppose,' said the cousin, 'you won't prosecute58, will you? It's really such shocking luck, you know, that you ought to forget you're a master.'
Mr Seymour stirred his tea and added another lump of sugar very carefully before replying. Babington watched him in silence, and wished that he would settle the matter quickly, one way or the other.
'Fortunately for Babington,' said Mr Seymour, 'and unfortunately for the cause of morality, I am not a master. I was only a stop-gap, and my term of office ceased today at one o'clock. Thus the prisoner at the bar gets off on a technical point of law, and I trust it will be a lesson to him. I suppose you had the sense to do the imposition?'
'Yes, sir, I sat up last night.'
'Good. Now, if you'll take my advice, you'll reform, or another day you'll come to a bad end. By the way, how did you manage about roll-call today?'
Mr Seymour smiled. Possibly from gratification.
'Well, how did it go off?' asked Peterson that night.
'Don't, old chap,' said Babington, faintly.
'I told you so,' said Jenkins at a venture.
But when he had heard the whole story he withdrew the remark, and commented on the wholly undeserved good luck some people seemed to enjoy.
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1
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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5
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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8
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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9
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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10
offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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11
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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12
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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13
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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14
wrangler
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| n.口角者，争论者；牧马者 | |
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15
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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16
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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17
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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18
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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19
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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20
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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24
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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26
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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27
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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28
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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29
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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30
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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31
algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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32
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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36
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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37
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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38
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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39
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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40
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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41
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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42
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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43
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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44
wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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46
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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47
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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48
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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49
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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50
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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51
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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52
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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53
writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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54
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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55
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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56
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
synopsis
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| n.提要，梗概 | |
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58
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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59
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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