Kathleen | Page 2

the fire.
A thumping tread sounded on the winding stairs, then the faint clink of
a large metal tray laid on the serving table outside, and a muffled knock
at the "oak," the thick outer door which Forbes had "sported" when he
came in at six to write his stint. He unfastened the barrier and admitted
Hinton, the scout, who bore in a tray of eatables, ordered by Forbes
from the college store-room for the refreshment of his coming guests.
Forbes, like most men of modest means, made it a point of honour to
entertain lavishly when it was his turn as host, and the display set out
by Hinton made an attractive still life under the droplight. A big bowl
of apples and oranges stood in the centre; tin boxes from Huntley and
Palmer, a couple of large iced cakes, raisins, nuts, and a dish of candied
fruits ended the solids. There was also a tray of coffee cups and a huge
silver coffee pot bearing the college arms, flanked by a porcelain jug of
hot milk. De Reszke cigarettes, whiskey and soda, and a new tin of
John Cotton smoking mixture completed the spread--which would be
faithfully reflected in Forbes's "battels," or weekly bills, later on.
Young men at Oxford do themselves well, and this was a typical
lay-out for an undergraduate evening.
Hinton, a ruddy old man with iron-gray hair and a very red and bulby
nose, was a garrulous servant, and after a tentative cough made an
attempt at small talk.
"I didn't see you in 'all to-night, sir."
"No," said Forbes, "I had some writing to do, Hinton."
"Oh yes, sir," said Hinton, according to the invariable formula of

college servants. A moment later, after another embarrassed cough, he
began again.
"Very wet night, sir; they say the towpath will be under water in
another day or so."
Forbes was not a rowing man, and the probable submerging of the
towpath was not news that affected him one way or the other. His only
reply was to ask the scout to refill the coal-scuttle. For this task Hinton
donned an old pair of gloves and carried in several large lumps of coal
in his hands from the bin outside. Then he disappeared into the
adjoining bedroom to pour out a few gallons of very cold water into
Forbes's hip bath, to turn down the sheets, lay out his pajamas, and
remove a muddy pair of boots to be cleaned. Such are the customs that
make sweet the lives of succeeding undergraduates at Oxford. It is
pleasant to know that Palmerston, Pitt, Gladstone, Asquith--they have
all gone through the old routine. Forbes's father had occupied the very
same rooms, thirty years before, and very likely old Hinton, then a
"scout's boy," had blacked his boots. Certainly Forbes senior had lain in
the same bedroom and watched Magdalen Tower through the trees
while delaying to get up on chilly mornings.
"Anything else to-night, sir?" said Hinton, as Forbes put down Belloc
and began to clean a very crusty briar.
"Nothing to-night."
"Thank you, sir," said Hinton and took his departure, after poking up
the fire and removing the dead tea things.
The eight o'clock chimes spoke as Hinton clumped downstairs, and a
few moments later Forbes's guests began to straggle in. All were wet
and ruddy from rain and wind, and, as they discarded raincoats and
caps, disclosed a pleasant medley of types. The Scorpions was a rather
recent and informal society, but it had gathered from various colleges a
little band of temperamental congenials who found a unique pleasure in
their Sunday evening meetings. None of them was of the acknowledged
literary successes of the university: their names were not those seen

every week in the undergraduate journals. And yet this obscure group,
which had drawn together in a spirit of satire, had in it two or three men
of real gift. Forbes himself was a man of uncommon vivacity. Small,
stocky, with an unruly thatch of yellow hair and a quaintly wry and
homely face, he hid his shyness and his brilliancy behind a brusque
manner. Ostensibly cynical and a witty satirist of his more sentimental
fellows, his desk was full of charming ballades and _pieces d'amour_,
scratched off at white heat in odd moments. His infinite fund of
full-flavoured jest had won him the nickname of Priapus. But beneath
the uncouth exterior of the man, behind his careless dress and
humorously assumed coarseness, lay the soul of a poet--sensitive as a
girl, and devout before the whisperings of Beauty.
Stephen Carter and Randall King were first to arrive, and seized the
ends of the fireside couch while Forbes poured their coffee.
"A Clark Russell of an evening!" said Carter, stretching his golfing
brogues to the blaze.