The White Feather | Page 6

his father's house on the outskirts of the town. From time to time his

father went up to London on matters connected with business, leaving
him alone in the house. On these occasions Mitchell the younger would
write to Stanning, with whom when at school he had been on friendly
terms; and Stanning, breaking out of his house after everybody had
gone to bed, would make his way to the Mitchell residence, and spend
a pleasant hour or so there. Mitchell senior owned Turkish cigarettes
and a billiard table. Stanning appreciated both. There was also a piano,
and Stanning had brought Sheen with him one night to play it. The
getting-out and the subsequent getting-in had nearly whitened Sheen's
hair, and it was only by a series of miracles that he had escaped
detection. Once, he felt, was more than enough; and when a fag from
Appleby's had brought him Stanning's note, containing an invitation to
a second jaunt of the kind, he had refused to be lured into the business
again.
"Yes, I got the note," he said.
"Then why didn't you come? Mitchell was asking where you were."
"It's so beastly risky."
"Risky! Rot."
"We should get sacked if we were caught."
"Well, don't get caught, then."
Sheen registered an internal vow that he would not.
"He wanted us to go again on Monday. Will you come?"
"I--don't think I will, Stanning," said Sheen. "It isn't worth it."
"You mean you funk it. That's what's the matter with you."
"Yes, I do," admitted Sheen.
As a rule--in stories--the person who owns that he is afraid gets
unlimited applause and adulation, and feels a glow of conscious merit.
But with Sheen it was otherwise. The admission made him if possible,
more uncomfortable than he had been before.
"Mitchell will be sick," said Stanning.
Sheen said nothing.
Stanning changed the subject.
"Well, at anyrate," he said, "give us some tea. You seem to have been
victualling for a siege."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Sheen, turning a deeper shade of red and
experiencing a redoubled attack of the warm shooting, "but the fact is,
I'm waiting for Drummond."

Stanning got up, and expressed his candid opinion of Drummond in a
few words.
He said more. He described Sheen, too in unflattering terms.
"Look here," he said, "you may think it jolly fine to drop me just
because you've got to know Drummond a bit, but you'll be sick enough
that you've done it before you've finished."
"It isn't that--" began Sheen.
"I don't care what it is. You slink about trying to avoid me all day, and
you won't do a thing I ask you to do."
"But you see--"
"Oh, shut up," said Stanning.

III
SHEEN RECEIVES VISITORS AND ADVICE
While Sheen had been interviewing Stanning, in study twelve, farther
down the passage, Linton and his friend Dunstable, who was in Day's
house, were discussing ways and means. Like Stanning, Dunstable had
demanded tea, and had been informed that there was none for him.
"Well, you are a bright specimen, aren't you?" said Dunstable, seating
himself on the table which should have been groaning under the weight
of cake and biscuits. "I should like to know where you expect to go to.
You lure me in here, and then have the cheek to tell me you haven't got
anything to eat. What have you done with it all?"
"There was half a cake--"
"Bring it on."
"Young Menzies bagged it after the match yesterday. His brother came
down with the Oxford A team, and he had to give him tea in his study.
Then there were some biscuits--"
"What's the matter with biscuits? _They're_ all right. Bring them on.
Biscuits forward. Show biscuits."
"Menzies took them as well."
Dunstable eyed him sorrowfully.
"You always were a bit of a maniac," he said, "but I never thought you
were quite such a complete gibberer as to let Menzies get away with all
your grub. Well, the only thing to do is to touch him for tea. He owes
us one. Come on."
They proceeded down the passage and stopped at the door of study

three.
"Hullo!" said Menzies, as they entered.
"We've come to tea," said Dunstable. "Cut the satisfying sandwich.
Let's see a little more of that hissing urn of yours, Menzies. Bustle
about, and be the dashing host."
"I wasn't expecting you."
"I can't help your troubles," said Dunstable.
"I've not got anything. I was thinking of coming to you, Linton."
"Where's that cake?"
"Finished. My brother simply walked into it."
"Greed," said Dunstable unkindly, "seems to be the besetting sin of the
Menzies'. Well, what are you going to do about it? I don't wish to
threaten, but I'm a demon when I'm roused. Being done out of my tea