The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [241]
Stewart, very repentant, came down in a great coat to watch the finish. The House did not win.
Personality and will can do as much as the Pelmen advertisements say, but they cannot force the pace up the Cow-Top and then lead a quarter mile sprint to Combs. A huddled heap after the Valley dyke was all that was left of Ross’s training.
A week later came the house Platoons competition and muffled up and very white Ross came down from the San to watch. He was bitterly conscious of his failure and wondering how he would be able to endure another term of the cold superiority of Stewart and the glowering animosity of the whole House.
But suddenly he saw that the House Platoon were drilling as they had never drilled before or—thank God!—have since. Public opinion is the most unaccountable thing in the world and with his failure had suddenly come a popularity that he would never have enjoyed before had he been triumphant. The House, in their own great way were showing him their change of opinion. Their equipment was clean, and under Stewart as platoon commander they were drilling with an enthusiasm which went far to counteract the effect of the lethargy of their previous efforts.
It would make a splendid ending if the House could be allowed to win the Shield, but this is a story of school life and anyone who knows the House will know that that is out of the question. Suffice it to say, however, that they were third, and that as Ross went down the grass slope to Chapel that evening, arm in arm with Stewart it seemed almost as if he had forgiven the House rather than that they had forgiven him. And after all that is greatness.
OXFORD STORIES
PORTRAIT OF YOUNG MAN
WITH CAREER
Jeremy came into my room at half-past six, just as I was assembling my sponge and towels and dressing gown and things for a bath. I saw him as I came out of my bedroom, looking for something to write a message on. He was making straight for my portfolio of drawing paper. I called and made myself known to him.
Jeremy was in my house at school; he has what would be known in North Oxford as a “personality.” That is to say he is rather stupid, thoroughly well satisfied with himself, and acutely ambitious. Jeremy purposes to be President of the Union.
I said to him, “Hullo, Jeremy, I am afraid you find me on the point of going to have a bath. I never miss a bath before dinner; I shall tonight if I do not go at once. The bathroom is shut at seven. But do stay and drink some sherry won’t you?”
“Thanks,” said Jeremy, and sat down.
I reached for the decanter and found it empty. There must have been nearly a bottle there that morning.
“Jeremy, that damned man of mine has finished the sherry. I am sorry.”
“Never mind. I’ll just smoke a cigarette and go.”
My cigarettes are particularly large and take at least a quarter of an hour to smoke. I banished all my dreams of white tiles and steam and took a cigarette myself.
“I haven’t anything particular to say,” said Jeremy, “I was just passing your College and thought I might as well drop in for a little. It is hard to know what to do before hall, isn’t it?”
“I generally have a bath.”
“Ah, our baths are not open at this hour.”
He propped his feet on the side of the fireplace. He was wearing that detestable sort of dark brown suede shoes that always looks wet.
“Oh, I know one thing I wanted to ask you. I want to meet Richard Pares. I feel he is a man to know.”
“An amiable rogue.”
“Well, will you introduce me to him.”
“You know, I hardly know him.”
It was quite true and, besides, I dislike introducing Jeremy to people; as a rule he begins by calling them by their