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DAVID BLAIZE

by

E. F. BENSON

Author of “The Oakleyites,” “Arundel,”
“Dodo,” “Dodo the Second,” etc.







[Illustration]

New York
George H. Doran Company

Copyright, 1916,
By George H. Doran Company

Printed in the United States of America




DAVID BLAIZE




Table of Contents

      Chapter I
      Chapter II
      Chapter III
      Chapter IV
      Chapter V
      Chapter VI
      Chapter VII
      Chapter VIII
      Chapter IX
      Chapter X
      Chapter XI
      Chapter XII
      Chapter XIII
      Chapter XIV
      Chapter XV
      Chapter XVI




                              DAVID BLAIZE




                               CHAPTER I


There was a new class-room in course of construction for the first form
at Helmsworth Preparatory School, and the ten senior boys, whose united
ages amounted to some hundred and thirty years, were taken for the time
being in the school museum. This was a big boarded room, covered with
corrugated iron and built out somewhat separate from the other class
rooms at the corner of the cricket-field. The arrangement had many
advantages from the point of view of the boys, for the room was full of
agreeably distracting and interesting objects, and Cicero almost ceased
to be tedious, even when he wrote about friendship, if, when you were
construing, you could meditate on the skeleton of a kangaroo which stood
immediately in front of you, and refresh yourself with the sight of the
stuffed seal on whose nose the short-sighted Ferrers Major had balanced
his spectacles before Mr. Dutton came in. Or, again, it was agreeable to
speculate on the number of buns a mammoth might be able to put
simultaneously into his mouth, seeing that a huge yellowish object that
stood on the top of one of the cases was just one of his teeth....

Of course it depended on how many teeth a mammoth had, but the number of
a boy’s teeth might be some guide, and David, in the throes of grinding
out the weekly letter to his father, passed his tongue round his own
teeth, trying to count them by the sensory quality of it. But, losing
count, he put an inky forefinger into his mouth instead. There seemed to
be fourteen in his lower jaw and thirteen and a half in the upper, for
half of a front tooth had been missing ever since, a few weeks ago, he
had fallen out of a tree on to his face, and the most industrious
scrutiny of that fatal spot had never resulted in his finding it. In any
case, then, he had twenty-seven and a half teeth, and it was reasonable
to suppose that a mammoth, therefore, unless he had fallen out of a tree
(if there were such in the glacial age) had at least twenty-eight. That
huge yellow lump of a thing, then, as big as David’s whole head, was
only one twenty-eighth of his chewing apparatus. Why, an entire bun
could stick to it and be unobserved. A mammoth could have twenty-eight
buns in his mouth and really remain unaware of the fact. Fancy having a
bun on every tooth and not knowing! How much ought a mammoth’s
pocket-money to be if you had to provide on this scale? And when would
its mouth be really full? And how... David was growing a little
sleepy.

“Blaize!” said Mr. Dutton’s voice.

David sucked his finger.

“Yes, sir!” he said.

“Have you finished your letter home?”

“No, sir,” said David, with engaging candour.

“Then I would suggest that you ceased trying to clean your finger and
get on with it.”

“Rather, sir!” said David.

The boys’ desks, transferred from their old class-room, stood in a
three-sided square in the centre of the museum, while Mr. Dutton’s
table, with his desk on it, was in the window. The door of the museum
was open, so too was the window by the master’s seat, for the hour was
between four and five of the afternoon and the afternoon that of a
sweltering July Sunday. Mr. Dutton himself was a tall and ineffective
young man, entirely undistinguished for either physical or mental
powers, who had taken a somewhat moderate degree at Cambridge, and had
played lacrosse. By virtue of the mediocrity of his attainments, his
scholastic career had not risen to the heights of a public school, and
he had been obliged to be content with a mastership at this preparatory
establishment. He bullied in a rather feeble manner the boys under his
charge, and drew in his horns if they showed signs of not being afraid
of him. But in these cases he took it out of them by sending in the
gloomiest reports of their conduct and progress at the end of term, to
the fierce and tremendous clergyman who was the head of the place. The
Head inspired universal terror both among his assistant masters and his
pupils, but he inspired also a whole-hearted admiration. He did not take
more than half a dozen classes during the week, but he was liable to
descend on any form without a moment’s notice like a bolt from the blue.
He used the cane with remarkable energy, and preached lamb-like sermons
in the school chapel on Sunday. The boys, who were experienced augurs on
such subjects, knew all about this, and dreaded a notably lamb-like
sermon as presaging trouble on Monday. In fact, Mr. Acland had his
notions about discipline, and completely lived up to them in his
conduct.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Having told Blaize to get on with his home-letter, Mr. Dutton resumed
his employment, which was not what it seemed. On his desk, it is true,
was a large Prayer-book, for he had been hearing the boys their
Catechism, in the matter of which Blaize had proved himself wonderfully
ignorant, and had been condemned to write out his duty towards his
neighbour (who had very agreeably attempted to prompt him) three times,
and show it up before morning school on Monday. There was a Bible there
also, out of which, when the Sunday letters home were finished, Mr.
Dutton would read a chapter about the second missionary journey of St.
Paul, and then ask questions. But while these letters were being written
Mr. Dutton was not Sabbatically employed, for nestling between his books
was a yellow-backed volume of stories by Guy de Maupassant.... Mr.
Dutton found him most entertaining: he skated on such very thin ice, and
never quite went through.

Mr. Dutton turned the page.... Yes, how clever not to go through, for
there was certainly mud underneath. He gave a faint chuckle of interest,
and dexterously turned the chuckle into a cough. At that sound a small
sigh of relief, a sense of relaxation went round the class, for it was
clear that old Dutton (Dubs was his more general nomenclature) was deep
in his yellow book. When that consummation, so devoutly wished, was
arrived at, any diversion of a moderately quiet nature might be indulged
in.

Crabtree began: he was a boy of goat-like face, and had been known as
Nanny, till the somewhat voluminous appearance of his new pair of
trousers had caused him to be rechristened Bags. He had finished his
letter to his mother with remarkable speed, and had, by writing small,
conveyed quite sufficient information to her on a half-sheet. There was
thus the other half-sheet, noiselessly torn off, to be framed into
munitions of aerial warfare. He folded it neatly into the form of a
dart, he inked the point of it by dipping it into the china receptacle
at the top of his desk, and launched it with unerring aim, enfilading
the cross-bench where David sat. It hit him just exactly where the other
half of his missing tooth should have been, for his lip was drawn back
and his tongue slightly protruded in the agonies of composing a suitable
letter to his father. The soft wet point struck it full, and spattered
ink over his lip.

“Oh, damn,” said David very softly.

Then he paused, stricken to stone, and quite ready to deny that he had
spoken at all. His eyes apprehensively sought Mr. Dutton, and he saw
that he had not heard, being deep in the misfortunes that happened to
Mademoiselle Fifi.

“I’ll lick you afterwards, Bags,” he said gently.

“Better lick yourself now,” whispered Bags.

A faint giggle at Bags’s repartee went round the class, like the sound
of a breaking ripple. This penetrated into Mr. Dutton’s consciousness,
and, shifting his attitude a little without looking up, he leaned his
forehead on his open hand, so that he could observe the boys through the
chinks of his fingers. David, of course, was far too old a hand to be
caught by this paltry subterfuge, for “playing chinks” was a manœuvre of
the enemy which had got quite stale through repetition, and he therefore
gently laid down on the sloping top of his locker the dart which he had
just dipped again in his inkpot to throw back at Bags, and with an
industrious air turned to his letter again.

The twenty minutes allotted on Sunday afternoon school for writing home
to parents was already more than half spent, but the date which he had
copied off his neighbour and “My dear Papa” was as far as the first fine
careless rapture of composition had carried him. It was really difficult
to know what to say to his dear papa, for all the events of the past
week were completely thrown into shadow by the one sunlit fact that he
had got his school-colours for cricket, and had made twenty-four runs in
the last match. But, as he knew perfectly well, his father cared as
little for cricket as he did for football; indeed, David ironically
doubted if he knew the difference between them, and that deplorable fact
restricted the zone of interests common to them. And really the only
other event of true importance was that his aunt had sent him a postal
order for five shillings. It would not be politic to tell his father
about that, in case of inquiries being made as to what he had done with
it, when he got home in a fortnight’s time for the summer holidays.

He would have eaten it all long before then, for it was strawberry-time.
David bit heavily into his wooden pen-holder in his efforts to think of
something innocuous to say, and found his mouth full of fragments of
chewed wood. These he proceeded to masticate rather ostentatiously while
he still sucked his inky lip, the joy of this being that old Dubs was
still playing chinks, and would certainly, as a surprise, ask him before
long what he was eating. This was stimulating to the mind, and he
plunged into his letter.

    “We are being taken in the museum, because they are building a
    new first-form class-room. There was dry-rot, too, in the
    wainscotting of the old one. We have been doing Cicero this
    week, as well as Virgil, and Xenophon in Greek, and Medea, and
    Holland in geography and James 2. I have got to division of
    decimals which is very interesting, and square-root which is
    most difficult, because some have it and others don’t——”

David gave one fleeting blue-eyed glance at Mr. Dutton, and saw that the
blessed moment was approaching. The chink had widened, and there was no
doubt whatever that it was he who was being observed. Then he bent his
yellow head over his letter again, and chewed the fragments of
pen-holder with renewed vigour.

    “It was very hot all this week, and I and two other chaps were
    taken to bathe at the Richmond bathing-place day before
    yesterday by——”

“Blaize, what are you eating?” said Mr. Dutton suddenly.

David looked up in bland and innocent surprise.

“Eating, sir?” he asked.  “My pen-holder, sir.”

A slight titter went round the class, for David had the enviable
reputation of “drawing” his pastors and masters (always excepting Head)
by the geniality and unexpectedness of his replies. But on this occasion
the blandness was a little overdone, and instead of “taking a back seat”
Mr. Dutton put down his yellow novel on his desk, back upwards, and came
across the room to where David was sitting. The dart, with its wet, inky
point lay there, and it was too late to draw his blotting-paper over it.
But a more dramatic _dénouement_ than the mere discovery of an inky
dart, which might be assessed at fifty lines—or perhaps a hundred,
since it was Sunday—hung in the air.

“Open your mouth,” said Mr. Dutton, not yet seeing the dart.

David had a good large useful mouth, and he opened it very suddenly to
its extremest extent, putting out his tongue a little, which might or
might not have been an accident. That unruly member was undoubtedly
covered with splinters of common pen-holder, and nothing else at all.

“Sir-may-I-shut-it-again?” said David all in one breath, opening it, the
moment he had spoken, to its widest.

Mr. Dutton’s eye fell on the inky dart.

“What is that?” he said.

David gave a prodigious gulp, and swallowed as much wood-fibre as was
convenient.

“That, sir?” he said politely. “A paper dart, sir, inked.”

“Did you make it?” asked Dubs.

David’s face assumed an expression of horror.

“Sir, no, sir,” he said in a tone of wounded and innocent indignation.

Suddenly David became conscious that his impeccable scene with Mr.
Dutton was arousing no interest or amusement among the audience, and his
artistic feelings were hurt, for he hated playing to apathetic benches.
He looked earnestly and soulfully at Mr. Dutton, but missed appreciative
giggles. Nobody appeared to be taking the smallest interest in the
dialogue, and all round were bent heads and pens industriously
scratching. Then he saw what the rest of the class had already seen.
Standing just outside the open window, his foot noiseless on the grass,
was the Head, austere and enormous, and fierce and frowning. He had
picked up from Mr. Dutton’s desk the yellow-backed novel that lay there,
and was looking at it with a portentous face.

“Then who made it, if—I say, ‘if’—you did not?” said Mr. Dutton, still
unconscious of the presence of his superior.

“I suppose another fellow,” said David in very different tones from
those in which his moral indignation had found dramatic utterance.

Mr. Dutton took up the dart, and inked his shirt-cuff, but David did not
smile.

“Who made——” he began, and turned and saw.

“Oh, jam!” said David under his breath.

The Head left the window with the yellow book in his hand, took two
steps to the door, and entered the class-room. He was a tall,
grizzle-bearded man, lean and wiry, with cold grey eyes. To the boys he
appeared of gigantic height, and was tragedy and fate personified.
Terror encompassed him: he scintillated with it, as radium scintillates
and is unconsumed. But he scintillated also with splendour: he was
probably omniscient, and of his omnipotence there was no doubt whatever.
He had rowed for Oxford against Cambridge, and the boys wondered that
Cambridge had dared to put a boat on the river at all that year. He had
also got a double-first, which in itself was less impressive, and he was
believed to be fabulously wealthy. How any woman had ever ventured to
marry him no one knew; but, after all, if he had expressed a wish that
way, it was equally inconceivable that it should not be gratified.
Though there was not a boy in the school who did not dread his
displeasure above everything else in the world, there was none who would
not have taken an infinity of trouble to be sure of winning his
approbation. One of his legs was slightly shorter than the other, which
gave him a swaying or rocking motion when he walked, which David could
imitate admirably. But he would nearly have died of astonishment if he
had known that more than once the Head had seen him do it, and had
laughed in his beard with twinkling eyes.

There was no twinkle or laughter there to-day. Still with the yellow
volume in his hand, he came and stood before the skeleton of the
kangaroo, and a silence fell that will perhaps be equalled for
breathlessness on the day that the judgment books are opened, but
probably not before. Then he spoke:

“Silence!” he said.

(There was not any more silence possible, so he had to be content with
that.)

He addressed his lieutenant, who stood abjectly twirling a small
moustache and trying to look tall. But what was the use of trying to
look tall beside that Matterhorn, or to twirl an adolescent moustache
when the Head’s hand clawed his beard? It was simply silly.

“Mr. Dutton,” said the Head, when the silence had begun to sing in the
ears of the listeners. “By some strange mischance—I repeat, by some
strange mischance,—I have found this disgusting and licentious book on
your desk. How it got there, how it happened to be opened at—at page
56, I do not wish to inquire. It is more than enough for me to have
found it there. I am willing to believe, and to tell you so publicly,
Mr. Dutton, before the boys whom you are superintending on this Sunday
afternoon, I am willing to believe that some obscene bird passed over
the museum and dropped from its claws this stinking—yes, sir,
stinking—carrion. D