Читать книгу Roper's Row - Warwick Deeping - Страница 21

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Man, being by nature a lazy creature, is provoked by the industry of the indefatigable few, and Moorhouse, who like most English youngsters worked hard at playing, was yet able to understand Hazzard and Hazzard’s devotion. It was just a question of being interested. At a time when most young men were thinking of their batting averages, or whether they would get a place in the Rugger team, or of some particular petticoat that showed signs of consent, Hazzard was thinking of his scalpel or his stethoscope. Work was his play. That lame foot of his, and a particular temperament, and the attentive dark eyes of Mary Hazzard, had conspired to make him what he was.

Moreover, Moorhouse was a gentleman. He did most things so very well that he was apt to think less of the doing of them than the louts who have to scuffle and argue. Life came to him easily. There was no need in his case for crude self-assertion. The simile of the big dog applied. Also, being a little slow and deliberate in his reactions, one of those infinitely good-tempered Olympians who are never in a hurry, he saved time and tissue, and had his very handsome head well above the crowd’s pushings and flurries. He gave the appearance of slowness, but his was a fallacious slowness, being in reality deliberation, like the easy poise and movements of an athlete. He had what the players of ball games would call the power of anticipation.

Moorhouse first heard of the “Bunch of Grapes” affair from Soames, who was spluttering forth the epic event to certain fellows who came from the suburbs. Soames had a black eye. He was leaning against the railings of the college, and he was obviously proud of his black eye.

Moorhouse, joining the group, understood the significance of Soames’s splutterings. Contusions were badges of honour; they had been liberally distributed; Bullard—it appeared—had a beauty.

“Some rag—I can tell you. They fetched the Bobbies in. But you should have seen the Squit. Someone trod on his old fiddle.”

Moorhouse was in position. Having appreciated Soames’s soaring snobbery, and gathered the facts, he commented on them with a frankness that was both simple and casual.

“You’re a lot of cads.”

Soames flared up.

“Oh, are we! Supposing you tell Bullard——”

“With pleasure——”

For Bullard, big with bacon and eggs, appeared upon the steps of the college, his right eye a blue-black bulge.

“I say, Bully, Moorhouse has something to tell you.”

Moorhouse had. He stood there with his hands in his trouser pockets, a slight smile on his face.

“Oh, Bullard, I was just telling Soames that you are a lot of cads. That’s my view.”

Bullard laughed.

“Righto. You’re such a damned superior person. Supposing we leave it at that.”