UNDERGRADUATE ARTICLE
Giving A Hand
By ANTHONY THWAITE (Christ Church, Oxford) ND we'd appreciate it very much if you gave the regular man a hand with the scouts."
And that was the end of the interview. I was sitting in a very large chair in a very small London club; trying to look keen, manly and fully aware of my responsibilities; opposite me was the Headmaster of k. Preparatory School (" gravel soil, experienced matron, boys encourage to stand on their own feet "). Subject to written confirmation, I was to teach English, History and Geography throughout the school, coach all games, help with house duties, produce plays, and " give a hand with the Scouts." For six months I was to be that literary butt, a prep. school master.
So I set out. My luggage included a tennis-racket (which I hoped would impress the boys, but it turned out to be the wrong term) and a copy of Decline and Fall, which a smirking friend told me was " really a guide-book to the whole business." The fortunes of Paul Pennyfeather at Llanabba Castle were little encouragement to me on the journey, and I was relieved to see that no one-legged assistant-master was there to meet me when the train drew in. The taxi which took me to the school (" Five miles from Y., in glorious wooded estate ") was, indeed, driven by a deaf and very reckless man, but he gave me to understand that he was nothing to do with " this teaching racket," and seemed very scornful of those who were. He told me with immense disgust that he once took a customer up there and saw a full-grown man (" must have been fifty if he was a day ") playing Indians with the boys. My smile was sickly, and I clutched Mr. Waugh's book a little more tightly. My arrival at the school was not auspicious. The only people in sight were a small group of housemaids who were leaning out of an upstairs window; their convulsed (and largely incom- prehensible) comments on my age, size, eccentric luggage (it also included a very, large and very old typewriter; over which I tripped on descending from the taxi), possible background and probable prospects made my first instinct flight back to home and Anglo-Saxon. After waiting at what turned out to be the back-door to the boot-passage for about five minutes, an elderly man arrived, dressed in what could only have been a Druid's smock. Was I then, he said, the new master ? Then I would be sleeping in the Cottage, eating in the Hall, washing in the Red Bathrdbm and Form Master of 3B. This seemed precise knowledge, a firm rock in the middle of pedagogic anarchy, and I was grateful for it. I asked the Druid, idly, whether it wasn't a lot of work cleaning all those shoes. It seemed, however, that he was the Senior Classical Master.
That first day was strangely unremarkable for major inci- dents but unique in its confusion. At Staff Dinner, for instance, I sat at my place for quite a quarter of an hour, waiting for the food to arrive. It was then that I noticed everybody also eating. A tall, lean man, with the concentrated stare of the ascetic or dyspeptic, bent across to me with what might be called an admonitory smile : " At X., you know, we serve ourselves." It seemed to be the school motto: At the Staff Meeting in the Headmaster's study I was again almost driven to flight by the news that I should be supervising an institution called " Latin Paper "ion Thursday afternoons. Remembering Caesar and• my Responsions, this seemed not only hypocrisy on my part but also misrepresentation on theirs. But I was silent, and waited for Thursday.
The first part of Thursday afternoon, I had noticed casually, was devoted to Scouting. In my apprehension about Latin Paper, this had paled into insignificance, but I thought I had better find out what my part in this esoteric game was to'be. My own experience of the Scouts had ended with my inability to pass the Second Class knot-tests, and, though I was not actually drummed out of the Movement, I found that my chances of promotion were slender; and unless I could be a King's Scout or carry a Bushman's Thong, there seemed little point in going on. But this situation was new, I realised. I was supposed to know more about knots and morse and tree- names and rules of health than the boys. Well, we should see.
At two o'clock we assembled on the lawn outside Big Room window. The four patrols were lined up with something a good deal less than military precision. Mr. Z., the Scoutmaster, hadn't appeared from upstairs, and Owls Patrol looked as if they might take to the woods at any moment, so with my old parade-ground panache I called the Troop to attention. Trup, trup 'shun. Trup will advawnce, roit TOIN " Their progress was remarkable. They looked a little shocked, but no doubt' they weren't used to the speed and fire of a real military word of command. It was only then that I noticed a figure at my elbow. It was Mr. Z. " Thanks, Thwaite, I'll take over," he said, and I hope it was only my imagination which saw pain in his eyes. He explained to the Troop that the afternoon would be spent in practising Semaphore, so that they would be proficient when the time came for the Grey Shield competition. After dismissing them so that they could collect the flags, the trouble began. He turned to me. " I wonder," he said, " whether you'd mind checking the Curlews' and Plovers' results in the Lower Field." I realised that it was too late to confess I didn't know A from M when indicated by flags in a perfunctory manner; my only hope was the decency and co-operation of the English boy. I expected, in fact, Good Scouting.
I found myself in the Lower Field, Curlews on one side, Plovers on the other, and Mr. Z. about to begin flag-wagging at the top-stile. K., a pale and poetic youth, the Patrol Leader of Curlews, was being very active with a large pad and pencil. I realised that the contest had begun, yet I was still confident in the omniscience of Curlews and Plovers about such things; but not for long. I was peering over K.'s shoulder, trying to make out the message (" HELLO CURLEWS COLLECT BRUSHWOOD AND . . .") when I noticed a sudden stop in the transcription. " What is it, K.? " I asked. "Has the- message stopped? " " No, sir," he replied, " I didn't just catch what that last word was." " Well, ask him to send it again." With a curious gesture (one hand on top of his head and the other pointing at his left ear), he signalled to Mr. Z. at the top of the hill. Back came the message again, a mean- ingless wave of arms and flags. " You've got it now, haven't you? " I asked. " No, sir, I can't seem to get any of that lot." It was then that an intelligent Tenderfoot came to my rescue. " I'm pretty certain it was, Collect brushwood and light fire in Stamping Ground," he said. " That's where we usually have our fires." " Good lad," I said cheerily. " The Stamping Ground it is." With Indian whoops we reached a clearing in the wood, surrounded by a few tree-trunks fashioned into benches. In the centre of the clearing was a fireplace made out of flat rocks. " Now then, Curlews," I said briskly, " collect that brushwood and make a roaring great blaze. In ten minutes the fireplace was piled high with wood, I gave K. the single match which I knew from my own Scouting days was de rigueur in such circumstances, and soon the fire was lapping away at the lowest branches of the overhanging trees. Things were going gloriously. " What about a, song ? " I yelled.
It was at that moment when my own voice was raised loudest in the praises of Gitchi-Gummi that Mr. Z. arrived. How he did it I don't know, but in a few seconds the whole patrol was forming a chain-gang from the lake to the fire, smothering it with water. Something told me that that message had been misread. And in ten minutes there was Latin Paper.
* Mr. Z. came to see me that night, after the affair had been sorted out. Apparently the message read, " Collect brushwood and take it to the Head's woodshed." The Plovers, left on their own, had, by ignorance or guile, taken their message as an instruction to clear weed from the far side of the lake. Their clothes were ruined. Mr. Z. and I had a rather cold heart-to-heart about the plans for the Grey Shield.
Next week we identified Six Common Trees, on the lawn.
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