Acton's Feud by Frederick Swainson

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[Illustration: ACTON DROPPED TO THE GROUND LIKE A BLUDGEONED DOG.]

ACTON'S FEUD

A PUBLIC SCHOOL STORY

BY
FREDERICK SWAINSON

1901

WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON
GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED
SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND
1901

AD MATREM

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE FOUL 1

II. THE PENALTY 8

III. THE REGENERATION OF BIFFEN'S HOUSE 15

IV. BIFFEN'S PROGRESS 22

V. COTTON AND HIS JACKAL 27

VI. THE LAST CAP 36

VII. THANKS TO ACTON 49

VIII. BIFFEN'S CONCERT 57

IX. THE END OF TERM 65

X. THE YOUNG BROTHER 75

XI. TODD PAYS THE BILL 88

XII. RAFFLES OF ROTHERHITHE 93

XIII. "EASY IS THE DOWNWARD ROAD" 99

XIV. IN THE STABLE 106

XV. GRIM'S SUSPICIONS 112

XVI. TODD "FINDS HIMSELF" 119

XVII. RAFFLES' BILL 126

XVIII. HODGSON'S QUIETUS 133

XIX. HOW THEY "'ELPED THE PORE FELLER" 138

XX. ACTON'S TRUMP CARD 146

XXI. LONDON AND BACK 156

XXII. THE PENFOLD TABLET FUND 161

XXIII. BOURNE _v._ ACTON 170

XXIV. A RENEWED FRIENDSHIP 179

XXV. A LITTLE ROUGH JUSTICE 187

XXVI. THE MADNESS OF W.E. GRIM 194

XXVII. CONCERNING TODD AND COTTON 204

XXVIII. ACTON'S LAST MOVE 209

XXIX. WHY BIFFEN'S LOST 215

XXX. THE END OF THE FEUD 225

ACTON'S CHRISTMAS

I. SNOWED UP 237

II. OVER THE FELLS 248

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

ACTON DROPPED TO THE GROUND LIKE A BLUDGEONED DOG Frontispiece

PHIL WALKED DOWN THE STEPS WITHOUT A FRIENDLY CHEER 40

ACTON JUST REACHED IT WITH HIS HEAD 50

AS THE TRAIN MOVED, GRIM SAID, "THREE CHEERS!" 74

ACTON THREW HIM INTO THE SNOW-HEAP 78

A LITTLE YELLOW, EAR-TORN DOG BUSTLED OUT OF SOME SHED 94

"I'M GOING TO HAVE THE SEVEN TEN, OR SHOW YOU UP" 128

THE GREEN POWDER UNDERWENT SOME WEIRD EXPERIMENTS 142

HE PUSHED UP HIS WINDOW AND CRAWLED THROUGH 160

"CUT, YOU MISERABLE PUPPY" 172

HE GAVE ME A LONG, STEADY LOOK OF HATRED 204

AS THE HORSES WHIRLED PAST, HE CLUTCHED MADLY AT THE LOOSE REINS 226

CHAPTER I

THE FOUL

Shannon, the old Blue, had brought down a rattling eleven--two
Internationals among them--to give the school the first of its annual
"Socker" matches. We have a particular code of football of our own, which
the school has played time out of mind; but, ten years ago, the
Association game was introduced, despite the murmuring of some of the
masters, many of the parents--all old Amorians--and of Moore, the Head,
who had yielded to varied pressures, but in his heart thought "Socker"
vastly inferior to the old game. Association had flourished exceedingly;
so much so that the Head made it a law that, on each Thursday in the
Michaelmas term, the old game, and nothing but the old game, should be
played, and woe betide any unauthorized "cutters" thereof. This was almost
the only rule that Corker never swerved a hair's breadth from, and bitter
were the regrets when Shannon had sent word to Bourne, our captain, that
he could bring down a really clinking team to put our eleven through their
paces, if the match were played on Thursday. Saturday, on account of big
club fixtures, was almost impossible. Corker consented to the eleven
playing the upstart code for this occasion only, but for the school
generally the old game was to be _de rigueur_.

So on this Thursday pretty well the whole school was out in the Acres,
where the old game was in full swing; and, though I fancy the players to a
man would have liked to have lined up on the touch-line in the next field
and given Shannon the "whisper" he deserves, O.G. claimed them that
afternoon for its own, and they were unwilling martyrs to old Corker's
cast-iron conservatism. Consequently, when Bourne spun the coin and
Shannon decided to play with the wind, there would not be more than
seventy or eighty on the touch-line. Shannon asked me to referee, so I
found a whistle, and the game started.

It was a game in which there seemed to be two or three players who served
as motive forces, and the rest were worked through. On one side Shannon at
back, Amber the International at half, and Aspinall, the International
left-winger, were head and shoulders above the others; on our side, Bourne
and Acton dwarfed the rest.

Bourne played back, and Acton was his partner. Bourne I knew well, since
he was in the Sixth, and I liked him immensely; but of Acton I knew only a
little by repute and nothing personally. He was in the Fifth, but, except
in the ordinary way of school life, he did not come much into the circle
wherein the Sixth moves. He was brilliantly clever, with that sort of
showy brilliance which some fellows possess: in the exams, he would walk
clean through a paper, or leave it untouched--no half measures. He was in
Biffen's house and quite the most important fellow in it, and no end
popular with his own crowd, for they looked to him to give their house a
leg up, both in the schools and in the fields, for Biffen's were the
slackest house in St. Amory's. He played football with a dash and vim good
to see, and I know a good few of the eleven envied him his long, lungeing
rush, which parted man and ball so cleanly, and his quick, sure kick that
dropped the ball unerringly to his forwards. He was not in the eleven; but
that he would be in before the term was over was a "moral." He was
good-looking and rather tall, and had a certain foreign air, I thought;
his dark face seemed to be hard and proud, and I had heard that his temper
was fiery.

Bourne had chosen him to play against Shannon's team, and as Acton bottled
up the forwards on his wing Bourne felt that the school's future right
back would not be far to seek.

I soon saw that the school was not quite good enough for the others:
Shannon was almost impassable, and Amber, the half, generally waltzed
round our forwards, and when he secured he passed the ball on to Aspinall,
who doubled like a hare along the touch-line. The question then was "Could
Acton stop the flying International, who spun along like Bassett
himself?" And he did, generally; or, if he could not, he forced him to
part with the ball, and either Baines, our half, lying back, nipped in and
secured, or Bourne cleared in the nick of time. Nine times out of ten,
when Acton challenged Aspinall, the International would part with the ball
to his inside partner; but twice he feinted, and before either of the
school backs could recover, the ball was shot into the net with a high and
catapultic cross shot. Again and again the game resolved itself into a
duello between Acton and Aspinall, and Bourne, when he saw the dealings
with the International and his wiles, smiled easily. He saw the school was
stronger than he thought.

The interval came with the score standing at two against us. When I
started the game again I found that our fellows were pulling along much
better with the wind, and that some of Shannon's men were not quite so
dangerous as before, for condition told. We quickly had one through, and
when I found myself blowing the whistle for a second goal I began to think
that the school might pull through after all. Meanwhile Acton and Aspinall
were having their occasional tussles, though somewhat less often than
before, and three or four times the school back was overturned pretty
heartily in the encounters.

Though there was not a suspicion of unfairness or temper on Aspinall's
part, I fancied that Acton was getting rather nettled at his frequent
upsets. He was, I considered, heavier than Aspinall, and much taller, so I
was both rather waxy and astonished to find that he was infusing a little
too much vigour into his tackling, and, not to put too fine a point on it,
was playing a trifle roughly. Aspinall was bundled over the touch-line a
good half-dozen times, with no little animus behind the charge, and
ultimately Bourne noticed it. Now, Bourne loathed anything approaching bad
form, so he said sharply to Acton, though quietly, "Play the game, sir!
Play the ball!" Acton flushed angrily, and I did not like the savage way
he faced round to Bourne, who was particularly busy at that moment and did
not notice it. The game went on until within about five minutes from time.
Amber had been feeding Aspinall assiduously for the last ten minutes, and
Acton had, despite his cleverness, more than he could really hold in the
flying International. He stalled off the attack somehow, and Bourne always
covered his exertions, so that it seemed as if there would be a draw after
all. At last the ball was swung across, and Aspinall was off on a final
venture. Acton stuck to him like a leech, but the winger tipped the ball
to his partner, and as Acton moved to intercept the inside, the latter
quickly and wisely poked the ball back again to Aspinall. He was off again
in his own inimitable style, and I saw him smile as he re-started his run.
I rather fancy Acton saw it too, and accepted the smile as a sneering
challenge; anyhow, he set his lips and I believe made up his mind that in
any case Aspinall should not get the winning goal. How it exactly happened
I cannot say, but as Aspinall was steadying himself, when at top speed,
for an almost point-blank delivery, I saw Acton break his own stride,
shoot out his leg, and the next moment the International was stumbling
forward, whilst the ball rolled harmlessly onward into our goal-keeper's
hands. I could hardly believe my own eyes, but it was a deliberate trip,
if ever there was one! Aspinall tried to recover himself, failed, and came
with a sickening crash against the goal-post. I blew the whistle and
rushed to Aspinall; his cheek was bleeding villainously and he was deadly
pale. I helped him up, and he said with his usual smile--who could mistake
it for a sneer?--"Thanks, old man. Yes, I do feel a bit seedy. That back
of yours is an animal, though." He tried hard to keep his senses; I saw
him battling against his faintness, but the pain and shock were too much
for him; he fell down again in a dead faint.

We improvised a hurdle and carried him up to the school. Acton, pale to
the lips, prepared to bear a hand, but Bourne unceremoniously took him by
the arm and said with concentration, "No thanks, Acton. We'll excuse
you--you beastly cad!" I heard Bourne's remark, though no one else saw or
heard. Acton's hand closed involuntarily, and he gave Bourne a vitriolic
look, but did nothing nor said anything. We took Aspinall up to
Merishall's--his old house--where he was staying, and left him there still
unconscious.

What astonished me was that no one save Bourne had noticed the trip, but
when I came to think it over the explanation was easy. Acton had, whether
from accident or of purpose, "covered" his man and blocked the view from
behind. I myself had not really _seen_ the trip, but it would have
been plainly visible for any one opposite on the touch-line, and luckily
there was no one opposite. The goal-keeper might have seen it, but Roberts
never attends to anything but the ball--the reason he's the fine keeper
that he is. Bourne had actually seen it, being practically with Acton, and
I knew by his pale face and scornful eyes that he would dearly have liked
to kick Acton on the spot.

I was, as you may guess, intensely pleased that no one had an idea of the
foul except Bourne and myself, for I could imagine vividly where the
rumour of this sort of "form" would spread to. We'd hear of it for years
after.

I mentally promised that Acton should have a little of my opinion on the
matter on the first opportunity.

CHAPTER II

THE PENALTY

I arranged to see Bourne that evening, when we should have heard the
doctor's report on Aspinall. In the evening Bourne strolled into my room,
looking a little less gloomy than I expected. "Briggs says that there is
nothing broken, and that as soon as Aspinall gets over the shock he will
be all right. The cut may leave a scar, but that will be about all. All
the same, Carr, I think that's too heavy a price to pay for the bad temper
of one of our fellows who can't stand a tumble into the mud at 'footer.'
You saw the villainy, didn't you?"

"I can't say I actually saw him trip, but there's no doubt whatever that
it was an abominable foul."

"None at all. I saw him, worse luck, tolerably plainly."

"Do you know anything about him?"

"Practically nothing."

"I think Biffen's rather fancy he's going to lift them out of the mire."

"Can't say I envy them their champion."

"What strikes me as odd is that such a magnificent player should do such a
vile trick."

"Rum, certainly. The affair will give quite a professional touch to our
'Socker' fixtures, and the Carthusians will ask us to bar our bullies when
they come down again. Oh, this _is_ sweet!"

"I say, Bourne, this business must not move one inch further. You've
spoken to no one?"

"Is it likely?"

"We'll not have any of our dirty linen washed _coram populo_, old
chap. Frightful bad form. No one knows but you, Aspinall, and self."

"Surely Aspinall will----"

"You don't know Aspinall, old man. He'd shrivel up sooner than say a word
more. Bet you he'll speak of it as an accident. Remember, he was captain
of the school here once."

"Which makes it a blacker shame than ever," said Bourne, wrathfully.

"I've inquired casually of the Fifth, and it seems our friend once
distinguished himself in the gym. Lost his temper--as _per
recipe_--and Hodgson had to knock him down before he could see that
we put on the gloves here for a little healthy exercise, and the pleasure
of lifting some of the public schools championships. He, however,
apologized to Hodgson, but I don't think he'll do the honourable here."

"Then, the chief attraction of the beauty is its temper?"

"Or want of it."

"Who is he, anyhow?"

"Yorkshire people, I believe. Own half a town and no end of coin. Been to
school in France and Germany, and consequently came here rather late. I
know his head-piece Is all right, and I imagine his amiability is only a
little foreign blood working its way out. He will be with us in the Sixth
at Christmas."

"Delightful prospect. What I want to know is--how are we to settle this
business as far as he is concerned? Ought Moore to know?"

"I don't think so. Never trouble Corker more than you can help, old man.
That's a tip for you when I'm gone. Besides, masters generally mishandle
affairs of this sort. I rather fancy I'll put it to Aspinall when he pulls
through."

"Do. One thing, though, is pretty certain. He'll never get his cap as long
as I'm captain of the footer eleven. I'd rather come out of it myself."

"Of course. I see there's no help for that, but, all the same, it will
make complications. What a pity he _can_ play!"

"It is, for he is a back out of a thousand."

Bourne's voice had in it a ring of genuine regret, and whilst I could
almost have smiled at his unaffectedly tragic tone, I could see the vista
which his resolution opened up. I heard the school shouting at Bourne to
let the finest player out of the eleven in, and all the shouting would be
across "seas of misunderstanding." I know Bourne saw the difficulties
himself, and he left my study soon after with a rather anxious look on his
face. Personally I determined not to think about the matter until I had
seen Aspinall. From the very first I had never expected any help from
Acton. There was something about the whole of his bearing in the caddish
business that told me plainly that we would have to treat him, not as a
fellow who had been betrayed to a vile action by a beastly temper and was
bitterly sorry for it, but as a fellow who hated us for finding it out.

I saw Aspinall two days later, and as we walked towards the station I
broached the matter.

"Certainly; I thought he tripped me, but he has written me and said how
sorry he was for my accident, so, of course, it rests there."

"Candidly, Aspinall, have you any doubt yourself?"

"No, old fellow. I'm sorry, but I really think he tripped me. He was riled
at a little hustling from Shannon's lot, and I may have upset him myself
occasionally. But it is a small matter."

I looked at the bandages across his cheek, and I didn't think it small.

"But, Aspinall, even if we leave you out of the business, it isn't a small
matter for us, especially for Bourne."

"Well, no; hardly for you," he admitted. "'Twas a piece of sheer bad form.
It shouldn't be done at our place at all."

"If you were in Bourne's place would you bar him his place in the eleven?"

Aspinall considered a full minute.

"On the whole, I think I should--at least, for one term; but I'd most
certainly let him know why he was not to have his cap--privately, of
course. I should not like it to get about, and I do not fancy Acton will
say much about it."

That night Bourne and I crossed over to Biffen's, and waylaid Acton in his
den. I'm pretty sure there wasn't another room like his in the whole
school. No end of swell pictures--foreign mostly; lovely little books,
which, I believe, were foreign also; an etching of his own place up in
Yorkshire; carpets, and rugs, and little statuettes--swagger through and
through; a little too much so, I believe, for the rules, but Biffen
evidently had not put his foot down. Acton was standing on the hearthrug
with his back to the fire, and on seeing us he politely offered us chairs
with the air of a gentleman and a something of grace, which was a trifle
foreign.

I saw that Acton's polite cordiality nettled Bourne more than a little,
but he solemnly took a chair, and in his blunt, downright fashion, plunged
headlong into the business.

"Only came to say a word or two, Acton, about Thursday's match."

"A very good one," he remarked, with what Corker calls "detached
interest." "Aspinall's accident was more than unfortunate."

"The fact is," said Bourne, bluntly, "neither Carr nor I believe it was an
accident."

"No? What was it, then? Every one else thought it was, though."

"We know better. We know that you deliberately fouled him, and----"

Acton paled, and his eyes glittered viciously, though he said calmly,
"That is a lie."

"And," continued Bourne, "though there is not a fellow even a respectable
second to you at 'footer,' I shall not give you your cap as long as I am
captain of the eleven. That is all I came to say."

Acton said quite calmly (why was he so uncommonly cool, I asked
myself?)--though his face was red and white alternately: "Then listen
carefully to what I say. I particularly wanted to have my footer cap--why,
does not concern any one but myself--and I don't fancy losing it because a
couple of fellows see something that a hundred others couldn't see, for the
sufficient reason that there wasn't anything to see. I shall make no row
about it; and, since you can dole out the caps to your own pet chums, and
no one can stop you--do it! but I think you'll regret it all the same. I'm
not going to moan about it--that isn't my way; but I really think you'll
regret it. That is all; though"--this with a mocking sneer--"why it
requires two of you to come and insult a man in his own room I don't
understand."

"I came to say that if you'd apologize to Aspinall things might
straighten."

"Might straighten! Oh, thanks!" he said, his face looking beastly
venomous. "I think you'd better go, really."

So we went, and I could not but feel that Bourne was right when he said on
parting, "Our friend will make himself superbly disagreeable over this,
take my word for it! But he won't get into the eleven, and I won't have a
soul know that old Aspinall's scar is the work of a fellow in St. Amory's,
either. If they have to know, he must tell them himself."

CHAPTER III

THE REGENERATION OF BIFFEN'S HOUSE

To say that Acton was upset by our visit and our conversation and Bourne's
ultimatum would be beside the mark; he was furious, and when he had cooled
down somewhat, his anger settled into a long, steady stretch of hate
towards us both, but especially towards Bourne. He simmered over many
plans for getting "even" with him, and when he had finally mapped out a
course he proceeded, as some one says, "diligently to ensue it;" for Acton
was not of that kind to be "awkward" as occasion arose, but there was
method in all his schemes.

It so happened that Worcester was captain of Biffen's house, and also of
Biffen's "footer" team. My own opinion was that poor old Worcester would
have given a lot to be out of such a house as Biffen's, and I know he
utterly despised himself for having in a moment of inexplicable weakness
consented to be permanent lead to Biffen's awful crowd on the Acres. He
died a thousand deaths after each (usual) annihilation. Worcester and
Acton had nothing in common, and, except that they were in the same house
and form, they would not probably have come to nodding terms. Worcester,
of course, looked up to the magnificent "footer" player as the average
player looks up to the superlative. After the first game of the season,
when Acton had turned out in all his glory, Dick had thereupon offered to
resign his captaincy, even pressing, with perhaps suspicious eagerness,
Acton's acceptance of that barren honour. But Acton did not bite. Captains
were supposed to turn out pretty well every day with their strings, and
Acton was not the sort of fellow to have his hands tied in any way. So he
had gently declined.

"No, old man. Wouldn't dream of ousting you. You'll get a good team out of
Biffen's yet. Plenty of raw material."

"That's just it," said Worcester, naively; "it is so jolly raw."

"Well, cook it, old man."

"It only makes hash," said Worcester, with a forlorn smile at his own
joke.

But now Acton thought that the captaincy of Biffen's might dovetail into
his schemes for the upsetting of Bourne, and therefore Dick's proposal was
to be reconsidered. Thus it was that Worcester got a note from Acton
asking him to breakfast.

Worcester came, and his eyes visibly brightened when he spotted Acton's
table, for there was more than a little style about Acton's catering, and
Worcester had a weakness for the square meal. Acton's fag, Grim, was busy
with the kettle, and there was as reinforcement in Dick's special honour,
young Poulett, St. Amory's champion egg-poacher, sustaining his big
reputation in a large saucepan. Worcester sank into his chair with a sigh
of satisfaction at sight of little Poulett; he was to be in clover,
evidently.

"That's right, Worcester. That _is_ the easiest chair. Got that last
egg on the toast, Poulett? You're a treasure, and so I'll write your
mamma. Tea or coffee, Dick? Coffee for Worcester, Grim, tea for me. Pass
that cream to Worcester, and you've forgotten the knife for the pie.
You're a credit to Sharpe's, Poulett; but remember that you've been
poaching for Biffen's footer captain. That's something, anyhow. Don't
grin, Poulett; it's bad form. Going? To Bourne's, eh? I can recommend you,
though it would be no recommendation to him. You can cut, too, Grim, and
clear at 9.30. See the door catches."

Grim scuttled after the renowned egg-poacher, and Worcester and Acton were
left alone. When Worcester was fed, and had pushed back his chair, Acton
broached the business to which the breakfast was the preliminary.

"Fact is, Worcester, I've been thinking how it is that Biffen's is the
slackest house in the place."

"Oh! it's got such a plucky reputation, you know. The kids weep when
they're put down for Biffen's. Give a dog a bad name--"

"But why the bad name?"

"Dunno! Perhaps it's Biffen. I think so, anyhow. At any rate, there's not
been a fellow from the house in the Lord's eleven or in the footer eleven,
and in the schools Biffen's crowd always close the rear. By the way, how
did you come among our rout?"

"I think mater knew Biffen; that's the explanation."

"Rather rough on you."

"Don't feel anything, really, Worcester."

"Well, Biffen has got a diabolical knack of picking up all the loose ends
of the school; all the impossible fellows gravitate here: why, look at our
Dervishes!" (Dervish was the slang for foreigners at St. Amory's.)

"We've certainly got more than our share of colour."

"That's Biffen's all the world over," said Dick, with intense heat; "you
could match any colour between an interesting orange and a real jet black
among our collection. Biffen simply can't resist a nigger. He must have
him. What they come to the place at all for licks me. Can't the
missionaries teach 'em to spell?"

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