Date: Tue, 20 Dec 2016 21:08:39 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Holiday Special

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com This work fully
protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a),
302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No
reproductions are allowed without the Author's consent. (See full statement
at the beginning of Chapter One.)  Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who
have written to tell how much you're enjoying the story and please keep
writing to us and watch for further chapters.  For all the readers enjoying
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NOBLESSE OBLIGE
HOLIDAY SPECIAL
by Henry H. Hilliard with Pete Bruno
Playing the Hand Dealt

"Good God!" cried Crisp, the Mathematics master.  Dr Mitcham walked across
to the mullioned window that looked down upon the gravel of the forecourt.
He silently handed the glass of sherry to Crisp and turned his own eyes to
the scene below.  Drawn up in the open space before the venerable archway
that was the main entrance to the School was a very large and luxurious
motorcar.

"That's a Gobron-Brillié," said Clarke, a younger master, over his
shoulder. "It's French," he added needlessly.  Crisp turned and glared at
him, making it quite clear that this fact only compounded the effrontery of
the swanking machine and its owners and that Clarke himself was somehow
suspect by simply knowing these tasteless details.

The three continued in their observation from their eyrie, classes being
over for the day.  The continental vehicle was a tourer, with a long body
in jade green and faux basketwork and sported elaborate polished brass
fittings, including the hinge that held stiff the canvas top that protected
the thickly upholstered rear seat.  In that seat sat a determined-looking
lady under an enormous hat and by her side sat a tall, slim figure with
carroty hair and a disdainful expression.  Only the hint of the striped
trousers and crisp white collar betrayed that this personage was-- or was
to be-- a pupil of the School.

Whilst the boy was still, his mother was greatly animated and,
distressingly as her voice was able to penetrate the ill-fitting windows of
the Masters' Common Room, an American.  Sharp orders were barked to the
chauffeur and the footman as they leapt to unstrap two small trunks, a
suitcase and a hatbox.

"Surely he can't be bringing all that lot with him?  We have rules..."
began Crisp to the others just as the boy stepped down from the motor in
the manner of a Stuart monarch descending from the state coach.

"He's Craigth," said Clarke, pronouncing the name to rhyme with `gate'.
"The money's from beer, I believe, and Headmaster said that he'd done most
of his schooling in France and Italy -- Mentone, I think he said.  The boy
can speak the languages and it is said that he's bright."

Crisp snorted in disgust.  "Well he can't have that umbrella," he said,
indicating through the window.  "Only boys in the sixth can carry
umbrellas."

No sooner were the words upon his lips, than there was an sharp intake of
breath from the three of them.  Down below, the impossibly elegant ersatz
scholar, who was now wearing his shiny silk topper and leaning on the
illegal parasol, removed a thin disc of glass from his waistcoat pocket and
screwed it disdainfully into his left eye.

"Beau Brummel!" laughed Clarke and turned to see just how red and
apoplectic the Mathematics master had become.

"The fellows a funk!" he pronounced and downed his sherry in a single gulp.



Lady Eudora Craigth was not one for mincing words, she periodically and
loudly proclaimed, and thus she was frequently put out when she found that
her translation from her native Philadelphia upon her marriage to Sir
Gordon Craigth Bt was to a country where mincing words was a national
pastime and almost nothing was ever said directly and indeed to do so was
looked upon askance.  She was distressed to find English society beset with
unspoken rules, secret codes and a minefield of shibboleths that seemed
specifically designed to exclude outsiders such as herself.  In her first
few years she felt wounded-- as only a lover can-- and she had committed
many social gaffs of which she was now painfully conscious (and still more
of which she remained mercifully ignorant) and all of which had somewhat
dulled this love for all things `British'-- which for most of her life had
only been from afar.  But she was an intelligent and determined woman and
firmly set about consummating this long-held passion, in this instance by
making sure her son was enrolled in one of England's greatest public
schools.

Lady Eudora had made one important discovery and it was one that linked her
two great nations far more than a mere and supposed shared language: Sir
Gordon's money, distastefully brewed, as it were, from Scottish beer, was,
if applied liberally and strategically, an entree into this closed society.
The British establishment, for all its Royal Enclosures and Grindling
Gibbons carvings, was greedy and more than willing to take her tainted
gold, especially where there was a want of it.

"Headmaster," she began as he poured the tea, "Sir Gordon and I would be
very pleased if you could take Archibald.  It was Earl de Gray and His
Majesty himself who recommended this school for, as you know, I'm a
comparative stranger in this country and we have lived abroad for a good
many years."

The Headmaster tried not to blink and took in the none-too-subtle
connections that the tiresome woman was alluding to.  "I have heard that
Sir Gordon might put up for Parliament," he said at last.

"It is always a possibility, of course, Headmaster, and C.B. holds him in
high regard of course," she said, referring to the Liberal Prime Minister,
"but he has his financial interests" she added, preferring the word to
`business', "and we have our estate in Surrey.  Sir Gordon is very much a
man of the land."

The Headmaster gave a tight smile.  He had a low opinion of Liberals, and
especially of Campbell-Bannerman, and was forced to doubt the choice of
some of His Majesty's friends.  He changed the subject.  "Lady Eudora,
Archibald does not seem to have had the usual sort of preparatory schooling
that the other boys have-- all those years on the Continent..."

"I assure you he has had the very finest education, Headmaster.  We had
French, German and Italian tutors and he had a year at Le Institut Rosey in
Rolle."

"But it is not English..." began the Headmaster.

"He can fence, draw, ride horseback and add.  What more do you want?" she
almost snapped.  She paused to regroup and began in a different voice to
emphasise a supposedly shift in topic.  "We have seen much of the education
in the United States and Europe and Sir Gordon is very keen to `honour'
education in this country," she began.  "In a practical way, of course."
The Head looked perplexed.  She went on: "By that he means-- we mean-- that
the fine standard in this country-- in this ancient school, for example--
could be upheld by increasing the funds at the disposal of the School
Governors for...er...the enhancement of...what is already fine...but
perhaps could do with some modernization."

The Headmaster knew a bribe when he heard one and a look gave Lady Eudora
permission to remove her gloves.  "We'll give you £5000 for scholarships
and I want to build a modern games pavilion-- it's a million years behind
The States."

The offer was far more than The Headmaster had expected, but he felt that
lurking beneath was surely more.  "And something to help restore the spire
on Old Thom?"

"We'll pay for it all, but Craigth gets a seat on the Board."

"Now Lady Eudora, I can't promise...the Bishop has to...."

"Either my husband becomes a governor or we will send Archibald to Harrow,"
she said with finality and making to pull on her gloves.

There was some more hard bargaining and `horse trading' as they said back
in Pennsylvania and, by the end of afternoon tea, Archibald Craigth was to
be admitted to the third form and the School was to gain a good deal of
money for the restoration of its crumbling edifices as well as a completely
new sports pavilion to be built in the Greek style and with hot and cold
running water and tiled shower baths-- the likes of which was completely
unknown in an English public school and having to be explained in great
detail to the Head who was a broken man and who meekly consented to the
final humiliation of naming this temple in honour of the new School
Governor.



Archibald Craigth himself did not get off to a good start.  With his
haughty and superior manner he did not endear himself to his fellow
third-formers and consequently spent a good deal of his first weeks
friendless and alone.  The boys resented his immaculate clothes and the
knife-edge crease in his school trousers.  The older boys thought there was
something rum when it became known that Craigth had comforts and
refinements in his school bedroom that he had no right to enjoy.  They
watched with envy and disgust as the motor van from Harrods delivered
hampers of `tuck' to Craigth while the rest were half-starved and
malnourished -- cases of scurvy having been reported in the gutter press
only the previous year.  Books arrived from London retailers and then the
damn fellow's mother supervised the gradual removal of the rickety
furniture supplied by the School only to have it replaced by superior but
unmanly pieces gleaned from auction houses.

"No sir," said Craigth, firmly but politely, "It is pronounced puits, not
puis.  Un puits d'artésien, not puis.  Le chatte est dans le puits."
The boys giggled at the euphemism.

"Nonsense Craigth there is no difference in the sound; puits... puis..."
and he repeated it several times.

"Sir, it is all in the soft palate and epiglottis..." and the boy
pronounced the two words with no discernible difference to anyone's ears
but his own.  The boys became restless again and reaffirmed their low
opinion of Craigth.  This was shared by the French master, Mr Hebburn, who
taught the language in the manner that the English cooked food: with a good
measure of contempt for anything actually foreign.

But by the middle of the term Archie had begun to gain some ground.  He
shared his tuck with some of the fellows in his House and at games Archie
proved to be a very fine runner and an elegant hurdler-- his long legs
sailing over the obstacles with an almost uncanny feel for where the bar
was.  He received the plaudits of some of the other fellows who had
imagined that he would be a funk at games, but there was little disclosed
on his impassive visage and he undid some of his good work when he
commented unfavourably on St Kenelm's shabby `half-change'. This solecism
was made while being unaware that this boy came from an ancient family who
could trace their line back to the kings of Mercia but lived in a crumbling
castle with only two or three habitable rooms.  `Smike' St Kenelm was
popular and many of the other boys provided him with food and clothing
while the School had long given up on trying to collect his fees,
especially when a recent fall of stones in the Great Hall killed his mother
and two cows who had taken up residence there.

However, the Pavilion when it was completed was an unqualified success and
the steaming water from the overhead roses was one of the few pleasantly
warm places in the whole, dismal School and infinitely preferable to the
stone trough and cold water pump that had sufficed hitherto and thus the
generous funding of Craigth's Pater could not be lightly dismissed.  And
Archie enjoyed another success connected with endowment in its other sense:
the boys in his House saw with delight and envy the cock on the snobbish
athlete as he soaped himself in the showers after practice and stepped into
his silk underwear-- items specifically forbidden in the school but somehow
allowed for the son of a School governor and benefactor.  The cruel
nickname that the boys had privately given him, `The Plunger', in honour of
the long rubber device that the boys had to frequently employ to unstop the
`bogs' in their House, came also to be used as a flattering comparison to
long, pink-and-white cock with its bulbous head that emerged from an
impressive red bush. Few in the third form were so liberally endowed and
some as yet did not have more than a few wisps of hair down there-- and
none of such a splendid hue.

Thus Archie's stocks rose and fell with the vagaries of such things and the
boys came to be used to him by the end of Michaelmas term.

"Poole," called Archie, "I'm starting a club and I wondered if you'd like
to join?"

Martin, the younger son of the Marquess of Branksome, was huffing after
running around the playing field and he stopped at where The Plunger was
setting up the hurdles.  He bent over with his hands on his hips while The
Plunger, seemingly unaffected by his own exertions, strolled closer so that
they might talk more confidentially.  The boys were always forming clubs at
the School -- mostly short-lived affairs: a School newspaper, chess,
debating, photography, a Conservative Club and so on.  "What sort of club,
Plunger?"

"Well, Poole, I want it to be the most exclusive club in the School; only
the top chaps, you know."

"Well, why are you telling me?"

The Plunger looked slightly offended.  "Because you will be a foundation
member, of course."

Martin saw this for what it was: The Plunger wanting to solidify his
somewhat precarious status in the School.  It also implied that he was The
Plunger's friend and until now Martin had thought little about their
relationship, but did not want to wound him by stating the obvious.  He
looked for more information.

"It will be a gambling club like the Hell Fire Club or the Kit Kat Club of
a century ago.  We'll play faro and whist for high stakes..."

"I don't know how to play whist and faro; I can only play snap and happy
families."

"Don't be such a baby, Poole.  I'll teach you -- I have a book-- and
everyone will have to wear wigs which they will tear off in despair at
their terrible losses and maybe they should arrive disguised in
highwaymen's masks."  The Plunger mimed the actions.

"It sounds very romantic, Plunger, but I don't know about high stakes; I
only get five bob a month and then only if the Pater remembers."

"Don't worry about that, I'll give you the money.  The important thing is
the costumes and who should be allowed to join," replied the boy, clearly
excited.

"Who is to be invited?"

"Well, there's you and me of course and I thought Biffo and Custard and
Pongo-- his uncle is a Duke, isn't he?"  Martin thought he still was and
nodded.

"...and St Kenelm, I thought," continued The Plunger and looked up to
Martin for a reaction.

"Well that is very decent of you Plunger, especially as the poor fellow has
just lost his Mater and all that, but I think you might have to advance him
the money to gamble, you know."

"Oh that's perfectly alright, Poole, he's a fine fellow and he reads well
in Debrett's.  You will join, won't you?"

"Of course, Plunger," said Martin fulsomely.  "We're pals."

The Plunger could not help himself; he grinned with genuine pleasure before
fighting to regain his composure.

They parted for their respective devs -- lessons--with Martin smiling to
himself.  The Plunger's club was surely just an excuse to dress up and he
saw that he was being used as a sort of Trojan horse so that The Plunger
could mix more easily with the scions of some of England's most noble
families.  The Plunger was a terrible snob and a climber, but Martin
somehow found him endearing and then there was the promise of all that
legendary tuck in his room.  Martin's tummy rumbled.  Then there was the
thought of The Plunger himself, naked in the shower bath, with his imposing
height and long cock that required much soaping when he was sure Martin was
watching.  Martin's loins tingled.



***



"Here're the tickets for Stratford, Crisp," called Clarke as he came into
the room.  He removed tickets for the Shakespeare Memorial Company from his
pocket.  Crisp was behind a pile of corrections -- behind in both senses
because he knew they should have been completed a week ago in time for
half-term reports.

"Thank you, Clarke," said the master.  It was good of you to get them."

"It should be a good season; Benson is staging King John and that has
plenty of swish." Crisp pulled a face at the expression.  "That will be 15
shillings, Crisp"

"Fifteen!"

"Yes, it should have been two quid, but Craigth got them for me.  His ma
knows someone, it seems."

At the mention of the foppish new pupil he grimaced but then was all too
aware of his own position.  "Er, Rodger," began the master in a quieter
tone, standing and drawing him away from the other occupants of the room,
"I seem to find myself a bit short this week..."

"You already owe me for that whisky I got for you last month and I have to
pay Craigth."

"Yes, well...I've had some expenses, my wife..."

"Yes your wife," replied Clarke flatly.  It was well known that Mrs Crisp
had left Crisp and was now living with another man-- possibly Crisp's own
brother -- in Bristol, but the fiction was maintained that she was merely
on an extended holiday as a divorce would have meant the sack.  "And you
haven't been lucky on the horses, have you?"

It was true, for it was commonly believed that Crisp owned money to a
bookmaker in the town.  "You know," began Clarke is a more friendly tone,
"Craigth's father has an interest in Bayardo -- a bay stallion-- and he
said that he was looking good for the St Ledger."

Crisp wanted to strike Clarke or Craigth or someone.  He contented himself
with snapping the indelible correcting pencil, wishing it were someone's
neck and fought to keep his voice even.  "Thank you for the tickets,
Clarke.  I will go and see Craigth and get him to thank his mother and I
will pay him myself."

Clarke moved away to talk to Dr Benbow and Crisp returned to the pile of
papers, which had grown no smaller in the course of the afternoon, and
savagely marked down `Spanker' Holme-Oake's doltish efforts in
trigonometry, despite his father being the First Sea Lord.



***

"Toast for the both of us," ordered Kettering.  Martin himself was not
invited to supper with the podgy sixth former but was required to make the
toast over the fire in his school bedroom.  "He has a fine bottom, don't
you think?" said Kettering in a disinterred voice to his visitor as he
looked over the bent form of his fag.  Martin felt that his proprietary
tone was more suited to describing a horse than his own person and he was
unsure that he wanted to be described so in front of Montford.

"Perhaps," replied Montford with bored indifference.

"I say, Kettering," said Martin as he straightened up and eased the first
piece of toast from the long fork, "will you help me with my trig prep?"

"Perhaps when Montford and I have finished our chat."  He reached for a box
under his bed and took out a small bottle of brandy and added a nip to the
cocoa.  "Go and black my boots now."

"How's your brother, Poole?" asked Montford suddenly, but in a kind voice.
Martin's older brother, the Earl of Holdenhurst, had been at school when
Montford had been a new bug, but Martin was immensely grateful for the
connection, for he admired Montford -- a god-like prefect-- very greatly
and felt a pleasant tingling whenever he saw him on the playing fields and
now, at such close quarters, Martin blushed to the very roots of his blond
head.  He dared to glance up.  Montford seemed impossibly grown-up for a
schoolfellow and confidently at ease with life in a way Martin thought he
could never be.  Martin took in his darkly handsome face-- he shaved-- his
long legs and the way he filled out his striped school trousers.

"Fine thanks, Montford," stammered Martin.  "I had a letter from him last
week; he's back from Egypt."

"What was he doing out there?" continued Montford.  Martin was in seventh
heaven that Montford had even noticed him.  Kettering shook his boots at
Martin but was ignored.

"He was Lord Baring's private secretary for a bit and was organising his
memoirs, I believe.  But he didn't really like it."

"He played rugger at school I seem to remember," the sixth-former said
airily.

"But not any more -- and its far too hot in Egypt for rugger," Martin joked
before bursting out excitedly: "I watched you playing lacrosse last week!"

"We beat Porterhouse by two goals."

"Yes, and you scored one of them while we were a man down," continued
Martin excitedly recalling for the handsome prefect the exact positions of
the School team inside the restraining line during several critical
face-offs.

"You're interested in the game?" asked Montford at last as Martin ran out
of steam.

"Oh yes!  I'd love to play."

"Well, why don't you come and practice with us after prayers on Thursday?"
Martin thought he was going to faint.  "I'll make sure the other chaps
don't hurt you."

"Oh I don't mind if they hurt me, Montford.  I'm pretty strong."

The lacrosse captain leant across and felt Martin's arms then slid his
hands down Martin's thighs.  Martin tingled pleasantly between his legs and
felt like they might give way at any moment.  He bit his lower lip.

"Indeed you are; promising muscle for a young fellow," concluded Montford
with a trace of a smile that broadened into a laugh as he touselled his
blond hair.  "Now you better fly and do Kettering's boots, there's a good
fellow."

Martin raced out of the door in a state of high excitement and eager to
show he was obedient, but he still caught Kettering saying: "Young Poole's
a little Adonis, what?"  He did not hear what Montford replied.

When Martin returned ten minutes later with the clean boots and his own
homework he was disappointed to find that Montford had departed and only
the faint hint of an illicit cigar lingered to remind him of his hero's
presence.

"Let me look at that trig," said Kettering as he consumed the dregs of his
spiked cocoa and Martin handed over his jotter.  Kettering unbuttoned his
flies and, still with his eyes on the mathematics, said: "Get to work,
Poole, it will help me figure this out.

Martin repressed a weary sigh and, dropping to his knees, fished into the
depths and produced Kettering's pale, slug-like member from inside his
cotton combinations.  "Warm your hands first," admonished his fagmaster.

Martin dutifully performed on the unappetising penis until his wrists
ached.  "I can't get it hard, Kettering," he complained after the passage
of some minutes.  Without looking up from the book Kettering said for the
hundredth time: "Put it in your mouth then."

"Certainly not!" Martin snapped back to equal his hundred."

"Then work harder.  You'll never get into that lacrosse team if you don't
try and if you don't succeed I won't be able to tell you where you went
wrong with these isosceles triangles."

Martin repressed a second sigh and thought hard about Montford.

"You're looking a little full in your trousers, Poole," said Kettering at
length, looking down, and indeed Martin did have an erection.  "You like
your little job, eh?"

"Oh yes, Kettering," lied Martin with blatant insincerity, "but are you
close yet?"

"Nearly there," huffed Kettering.  "Just a little faster."

Eventually Kettering spilled and, with little ceremony, he wiped himself
off and buttoned up.  For all Martin's efforts it was only a modest amount
and there was little danger of Martin's trigonometry being soiled.  Martin
stood and shook his aching arm.

"Number 6 was a right angle triangle, Poole; read the questions more
carefully and in 8 you did it correctly except that you forgot to carry the
one."

"Thanks, Kettering."

"Thank you, Poole.  Do you want to kiss me?" he asked sarcastically,
pouting a pair of thick, moist lips, still exhibiting traces of the
buttered toast.

Martin took in the flabby figure with its dusting of curly fluff over a
flaccid, spotty face.  "I think not, Kettering."

"You would have kissed Montford."

Martin said nothing but took his jotter and made for the door.  Kettering
was right.



It goes without saying that Martin could hardly wait until Thursday.  He
found sleep elusive and pleasured himself in the dark, all the while
thinking of the lacrosse boys and of Montford, the sixth form prefect and
captain, in particular.

It had been Montford who had formed the team under the guidance of a
Canadian master who had since returned to McGill University.  At the same
time there were many who saw it played for the first time at the London
Olympics, just a few months before, and the game had caught on in several
boys' schools in England and a version was widely played in many girls'
schools.

Martin presented himself on the rectangular pitch, flying straight from
Chapel with his short trousers worn under his uniform.  He found he had to
wait some minutes for the older boys to appear.  To his joy, Montford had
not forgotten and threw Martin his spare jersey.  It was comically too
large, but Martin was thrilled and contrived in his mind not to return it,
enjoying the knowledge that it had been worn by his hero.

There was some good tempered ragging of the third former, but Martin was
instructed in the rudiments of the game, being shown how to hold the longer
and shorter crosse, with Montford himself at one point standing behind
Martin, pressed into his back, and positioning his hands on the shaft.  The
captain took the boys through some drills in which Martin participated and
then there were some specialised ones for the `middies' only and the
offensive and defensive players stood aside with Martin.  Then Martin was
given a few minutes in the goal and he found himself hopeless and every
shot got past him.  The team laughed, but Marin did not feel too
embarrassed.

Even in practice it was a rough game and Martin was struck in the ribs by
Joublet's stick.  He fell to the ground and Joublet was apologetic and
several boys gathered around him, lifting his jersey to see the ugly bruise
already forming.  Martin fought back his tears almost successfully and
basked under the praise of all the older boys to such an extent that he was
actually glad of the injury.

Then it was over and the big lads and the slighter figure of Martin trudged
off to the new Craigth Pavilion, inside whose Hellenistic portals awaited
the shower baths-- still yet a novelty in the School.

Off came the uniforms amid the din of excited voices and scrape of boots on
the floor.  Then there was the hiss of the water and the clouds of steam in
the cold air that smelt of sweaty boys.  Martin shed his clothes without a
single qualm and joined the naked fifth and six formers under the sprays.
He stared unashamedly and for many years afterwards, had he been asked to
do so, could have, with fidelity, described the cocks and balls of every
team members that afternoon.  The soap was passed from boy-to-boy and they
lifted up their arms and soaped they legs and generally provided a feast
for the eyes.

They became rowdier and their ablutions became forgotten.  Orme smacked the
rump of Ticehurst with a loud snap.  There was a gasp.  Ticehurst
retaliated by making a grab for Orme's swinging and unprotected privates.
The cries and laughter reached a crescendo.

"Don't worry about it," said a voice.  It was Montford who had come over to
where Martin stood wide-eyed.  "It's team bonding.  It doesn't mean
anything.  And don't worry about that either."

Martin removed his gaze from Montford's naked, adult body and looked down
at his own person, which he noticed was erect, but he was too excited in
the swift moving and noisy hubbub to feel embarrassed.  Montford raised his
arms and began to vigorously soap his hairy armpits.  "I wish it was as big
as yours, Montford," said Martin boldly.

"Well, it's a good size for 14 year-old fellow, boomed the prefect as he
looked down "It must be the biggest in the third form."

"Not quite," said Martin, glancing down and then up at Moutford with a
grin.  "The Plunger's got the biggest."

"So I've heard he must...Hey you chaps!"  The riotous boys were making
grabs at Montford and Martin.  Montford stood in front of Martin to protect
him and pressed him back against the tiles with his meaty buttocks.  Martin
thought he was in heaven.

Blows and slaps fended off the attackers but Orme lingered and began to
seriously pleasure Montford's cock.  Montford let him, all the while
pressing back onto Martin.  Some of the others paused to watch.

"Come on, Montford, a captain's load!" encouraged Orme who was also
pleasuring himself.  There was a pause of some minutes and the room went
quiet.  Then Montford spent with a grunt in Orme's fist, while Martin, at
the same moment, found he spilled all down Montford's meaty thigh.

There was a small cheer and the crowd good-naturedly departed and Martin
was left alone with Montford.  "I'm sorry, Montford..."  he began, feeling
slightly ashamed for the first time.

"Not to worry, Poole," replied Montford with a grin.  He picked up a towel
and began to roughly dry Martin.  "It's all part of lacrosse, you know, and
you will have to get used to it if you want to play.  You weren't upset by
the fellows, were you?"

"Oh no, Montford... not at all," Martin hastened to add.  Montford finished
by saying that that was good and went on to talk about the team as he
dressed.  Martin listened attentively, gazing up at his idol.

"You know, Poole, you're very pretty.  Kettering has rather a pet for you.
Martin pulled a face.  Montford laughed and said, "I though so."  He
touselled Martin's hair again and Martin was reminded of William, his
brother. "Well, the other chaps on the team think so too-- they told me
so-- and would be very pleased if you could train with us again.  But only
if you want to and you've seen what it is like..."

Martin didn't have to be asked twice



Hilary Term saw Martin the most enthusiastic of `bobs' on [The Plains of]
Moab, which, in the terminology of the School, meant sportsmen on the
playing fields.  As the days lengthened, Martin could be seen doggedly
running laps and on Thursdays he trained the hardest of any of the boys.
This coincided with a growth spurt and some of the team members suggested
that young Poole might well find a position in the School side in the
following year.

Martin found that he did well as an attackman with the short crosse where
his agility and stamina were telling and in the practices he was unselfish
in feeding to the other attackers in open positions for scoring.  Montford
noted that Martin was singularly adept with either hand and Martin beamed
when this was pointed out.

Although the excitement of that first time in the shower baths was seldom
repeated, Martin found he looked forward all week to the few minutes' talk
he had with Montford as they walked up from Moab to the pavilion and as
they sat companionably side-by-side to remove their muddy boots.  Martin
always prayed they would be alone for this precious few minutes and
contrived little topics so he would not appear tongue-tied before his hero.
In the showers, surrounded by the other boys, he was able to feast his eyes
on their grown up forms and for a short while he too felt what it was like
to be in the world of men.

In his bed at night he relived these times, with exquisite pleasure, and
often fell asleep hugging the jersey that Montford had first given to him.
Martin felt that his whole life was only sustained by these Thursdays and
the moments with Montford, with the rarer excitement of actual matches when
they were played at home and where he was an eager spectator and critic.
At odd moments he wondered what it all meant.

Then the most dreadful thing happened.  One Thursday Martin turned out to
train with the lacrosse team as usual -- being first on Moab after prayers
and running laps until the older boys arrived.  Montford was not among
them, but Martin thought little about it, imaging that his House Master had
perhaps kept him late.  But training concluded without his appearance and
Martin asked Ticehurst where he was.  Ticehurst wasn't sure but Orme joined
them and said, "Old Montford has gone up to Sandhurst, Poole, didn't you
know?"

Martin barely heard the words and felt for an instant that the bottom had
fallen out of his world.  He rushed from Moab to his House, not bothering
to shower or change, and he flung himself facedown on his bed.  Hot tears
streamed from his eyes and after a bit he wanted to intensify this torture
so he reached for Montford's jersey and sobbed into that.

After half an hour Martin felt that he couldn't lie on the bed any longer
so he changed and cleaned himself enough to make the journey to Kettering's
room.

"Hello, Poole, you're early," said the sixth former as he opened the door.

"What's happened to Montford?" Martin blurted out without any ceremony and
on the verge of tears again.

Kettering was about to say something sarcastic when he was suddenly pricked
by some modicum of finer feeling and looking down at Poole -- or rather
level-eyed for Martin was almost the height of the dumpy six-former-- he
noted how distraught he was.  He shepherded him inside, with a guiding hand
on Martin's bottom.

"He's gone to Sandhurst, Poole; he was down for it all year.  His father
and brother are in the 9th Queen's Royal Lancers -- the Dragoons, Poole,
all his family really; you must have known that."

Martin didn't know that at all.  "But he never said he was going,
Kettering, he never said good-bye to me."  Martin glanced up.  "I mean..."
Martin hesitated.  "I mean the lacrosse team needs him."  A sniff betrayed
him.

"Yes, he was a fine fellow, Poole, and I'll miss him too."  Martin looked
up again.  "You know, if I could be a tenth of the chap that Montford
is..."  There was a long pause in which Martin said nothing.  "You don't
have to toss me to-night, Poole," Montford said at last with a grin.
Martin managed a weak smile and left the room.



In the following weeks towards the end of Summer Half, The Plunger was
terribly busy and was seen less and less on Moab and more frequently
returning from the post office with mysterious parcels.

Martin was moping in the library, idly turning the pages of an ancient book
of woodcuts showing the terrible instruments used to meet out justice to
witches, scolds and heretics in less humanitarian times.  He sighed just as
a voice said, "I say, Poole."

"Hello, Plunger," said Martin without enthusiasm as he turned to see his
redheaded friend who had come up behind him.  The Plunger was a man on a
mission, but he paused to see that Poole was downcast and that his eyes
were red.  He decided to press on thinking that he might be able to provide
a distraction.

"I say, Poole," he repeated, "I have just got this book on card games and I
thought we might go over the rules of faro."  Martin looked as if he wanted
nothing less.  "Come on Poole, help me out.  We are having our first
meeting next Saturday."

Martin suddenly realised that it was a moment to be helpful and that his
friend was dangerously dependant on his new club being a success in view of
the humiliating setback he had only recently suffered when he had been
caned by a prefect for slighting a sixth former who has appeared in Chapel
wearing a wristlet watch -- a present from an uncle in the Blues.  The
Plunger's pronouncement that such devices were un-gentlemanly combined with
the Plunger daring to appear in Hall in swallows tails when other boys in
his year wore tail-less black jackets colloquially known as "bum freezers",
was ill-timed, to say the least.

Hence Martin put aside his own self-indulgent feelings and joined The
Plunger in his room where the mysteries of the card game, with its banker
and its abacus for recording what suits had been dispensed from the
lacquered box were puzzled over until they thought they had mastered it and
The Plunger then went off to round up several of the other members for
further instruction and for a discussion about club rules and costumes --
which were apparently de rigueur.

At last the appointed Saturday arrived for the first meeting of the
`Damnation Club' as it had been so named (although for politeness's sake it
was written: `D--nation Club').  The starving boys' mouths were watering at
the prospect of all the tuck that The Plunger had promised as they knotted
their highwaymen's masks and adjusted the powdered wigs that The Plunger
had bought and as they made their way past the envious eyes of their less
exalted brethren towards The Plunger's room in Despenser House, which had
seen little to equal the sight since its foundation in 1525.

The Plunger had certainly gone to a lot of trouble.  Set out on his school
bed were the delectable comestibles bearing labels from well-known
providores in Oxford Street and Knightsbridge, the bottles and tins
glinting temptingly in the candlelight.  A table had been covered in a
baize cloth upon which were set out stacks of hexagonal gambling counters
and decks of cards emblazoned with Bengal tigers.  The Plunger apologised
for there being no brandy or gin, with ginger beer having to substitute in
this more temperate age.

A dozen boys -- all new members and gleaned from the very best families in
the School-- filtered in and, removing their black kerchiefs, made
immediately for the food and drink, each making sure that Smike had his
fair share as he was so malnourished.  Pongo Cheam had found a coaching
cloak in props and The Plunger congratulated him on the find while the
Hon. Reggie Clumber-Coote (the grandson of the former Archbishop of York)
dramatically pulled a pair of duelling pistols from the wide scarf that
formed his belt.  Archie checked carefully that these weapons were not
primed and set them aside on his French prep before turning to welcome
Chevening, a fifth-former who had seemed to have developed quite a `pet'
for his red-headed host--especially in the shower baths after games-- and
thus was enthusiastic upon being invited to become an inaugural member of
the `D--tion' Club.  Then Roley Aldwych opened the door and there were
gasps.  Aldwych, from the Upper Fourth and vice-captain of the second XV
Rugby team, was astoundingly turned out in a dress with side hoops or
panniers and a tightly laced bodice. On his head a mob cap perched
awkwardly upon a wig of piled blond curls.  The rugger player's youthful
face had been powdered and his cheeks rouged and Martin noted the authentic
details of patches and beauty spots.  "Why you're magnificent, Roley!"
cried the delighted Plunger, clapping his hands.

"Thanks, Plunger," replied the senior in an oddly masculine voice, as he
shook his petticoats, "I'm Polly Peachum, you understand.  The fellows in
Quincunx Quad didn't half give me a ragging," he added without seemingly
unduly worried.

Soon the meeting was called to order, The Plunger banging the handle of one
of the pistols on the table, and the boys paused in their consumption of
several different kinds of cake, cold sausage rolls, jellies, biscuits and
the ginger beer.  The not very complicated rules of the Club were gone
over, with Archie being appointed president unopposed and then the more
complicated rules of faro were refreshed.  Custard suggested that the
D--nation Club could next perform a highway robbery, with the butcher's van
as a likely target, but this idea was received coolly.  Pongo spoke next
and said that there should be whoring with wenches and doxies.  The Plunger
placed the proposer and Reggie on a subcommittee to look into this before
the next meeting.

The time for play was approaching and, while the boys were having a last
bite from The Plunger's veritable beano, St Kenelm approached and thanked
Archie for providing him with a stake.  "It's nothing, Smike, we wanted you
to join and I have sent a postal note to your pa for that new pig."  St
Kenelm was overcome and was just thanking his host when the door flew open.
There was a cry from those assembled, `Biffo' Bewley-Vance-Bewley dropping
his Cadbury chocolate, and all turned in alarm to stare at the masked and
bewigged adult figure that filled the doorframe.

"Welcome to the Damnations, Mr Crisp," declared The Plunger, smoothly.  And
indeed it was quickly realised it was indeed the unpopular Mathematics
master and who merely grunted and moved inside to occupy a chair while The
Plunger went on to explain, with a marked lack of conviction, that Mr Crisp
was very interested in the mathematics of probability and the game of faro
in particular.

Crisp was initially a dampening presence on the assembly and Martin
couldn't understand why The Plunger had allowed him or indeed invited him
to join their schoolboy club. Eventually, however, the thrill of the game
took over and Crisp's initial boring remarks about intriguing sequences of
numbers ceased and he became just another player.

The Plunger was the banker and dealt the cards from the `shoe', carefully
burning the first as a `soda' and placing the house card face up on the
right and the players' or carte anglaise on the left.  Bets were placed on
the fall of cards as they were dealt and the counters were placed on a
polished board with a painted deck placed in the centre of the green baize.
Quickly Martin found that he had lost the two farthings he'd placed on the
three of spades when The Plunger also dealt a three-- of clubs in this
case-- as the banker's card, but he won sixpence equally rapidly when he
found that he had bet on a card of higher value than the carte anglaise --
in this case a knave of hearts.

Thus the game proceeded, with bets placed on the turn of the cards as the
`shoe' was exhauster of its contents.  For interest there were variations
that the punters began to employ for reversing the intent of bets and
wagers that neither won nor loss began to pile up on the board.  Custard
used the abacus to count the suits that emerged from the shoe and soon
found that he had amassed a fortune of one shilling-and-fourpence.

There was a pause for refreshments, The Plunger obtaining a fresh deck and
shuffling them in the shoe.  Martin found that he was up eightpence and was
pleased that St Kenelm was up a shilling.  "How are you doing, Sir?" he
asked, turning to Crisp.

"I'm up ninepence, Poole, and I have seen the pattern that forms.  It is as
Euler predicted in the 1770s."

Martin hadn't heard of the Swiss savant and hoped that he wouldn't have to
so he quickly moved towards the ginger beer.

The second half of the evening saw a change in tempo and the betting became
wilder, with sixpences or even shillings being tossed on the table as if
they were mere ha'pennies. Martin dared to count his money at one point and
found to his delight that he was up five bob and thought that it now didn't
matter if his father forgot his pocket money this month.  Custard's abacus
had not helped him and he was down two shillings-and-a-farthing and Roley
Aldwych thought he was down four shillings until he found that one-and-six
had become lodged in the folds of his farthingale and so his losses were
not catastrophic-- and certainly not for the scion of the Earls of
Northbank.

However it became apparent that Mr Crisp was losing substantially and was
persisting through a run of particularly bad luck.  Soon his losses
approached a whole pound and The Plunger offered him the role of banker.
The master would have none of it and as nine o'clock approached his losses
were now two pounds-five.  The Plunger suggested that a halt be called and
the other players made to withdraw.

"Sit down all of you!" shouted Crisp.  He nodded briskly for The Plunger to
continue, perspiration visible beneath his wig, and a small win provoked a
self-satisfied grin and he relaxed slightly back into his chair.  All eyes
were now riveted on Crisp and his cards and he started to lose again.  The
tension was increasing and Custard didn't even notice that half his seed
cake had fallen to the floor.  Presently The Plunger `called the turn'
which meant there was betting on the order of the final three cards in the
shoe: the banker's card, the players' card and the final card called the
`hock'.  The room hushed and Crisp said, "I've got this and it's
four-to-one."

But the cards were against him and he hadn't got it at all, as the ugly ace
of spades seemed to say, when turned face up, to the knave of diamonds and
the sly nine of clubs that followed and The Plunger swept up the last of
the counters into the hungry maw of the bank.  There was a dreadful
silence, for Crisp was now five pounds in debt, Martin rapidly computed.

The unlucky master let out an animal cry and, overturning the table, went
down on one knee and tore off his powdered wig in despair and threw it onto
the sausage rolls with some force.  The Plunger looked at Martin with a
raised eyebrow.  The D--nation Club was now an assured success.



Main story continues. Thank you for reading and Merry Christmas to all our
readers.  If you have any comments or questions, Pete and I would really
love to hear from you.  Just send them to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and
please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.