Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2007 09:25:31 -0500
From: Jon Kent <jonkent@post.com>
Subject: SANDHAVEN

DISCLAIMER: This is an erotic (sexy) story about Young Friends. In it there
are some boys who enjoy doing sexy things together. Now, there are some
places in the world where you are not allowed to read sexy stories like
this until you are old enough. The people who live where you live decide
what you can read and what you can't read. They think that if boys read
sexy stories they might want to go out and try some of these activities
themselves. Now, if you are a boy or a girl, it's very likely you are
forbidden to read stories like these. So if you are a boy or a girl, what
you have to do is READ NO FURTHER. STOP RIGHT NOW and go to sites where you
are allowed to be, or maybe just go out and get some sunshine. BUT
DEFINITELY DON'T HANG AROUND HERE if you are not allowed to.

You might like to know that this story, the people in it, the places in it,
and the things that happen are completely fictitious. Even if they weren't,
all the people would be dead because this story, the story that never
happened, happened a long long time ago. And all it is meant to do is
amuse, entertain, and even instruct a little. It's probably got a lot of
literary merit, and there may not be as much of the sexy stuff that people
like, but the writer hopes enough people enjoy it enough of the time to
make it worth reading.


And, by the way, this story's for Dean, wherever it may find him. Dean?
One of the most generous, honest, and whole-hearted boys it was my good
fortune to come across. Bless you, Dean, wherever you are.


SANDHAVEN

CHAPTER I

WELCOME TO SANDHAVEN

If on a sunny afternoon, having little else to do, you may choose to take
yourself to a garden, and, having made yourself as comfortable as you can
in some shaded arbour, you may settle down to peruse the small volume you
now hold in your hand. A brief glance at the title will confirm that you
are indeed holding a copy of 'Sandhaven', and it is into world of Sandhaven
you may now enter.

Sandhaven is a dismal, half-dead, half-alive sort of town, generally
speaking. Nothing much happens, so people amuse themselves with keeping an
eye on other people's business, quizzing each other's motives, and
gossiping. Some will protest they dislike gossip; what they mean is they
dislike gossip about themselves; for it has been well said that no one
gossips about other people's secret virtues, but of people's secret vices
there is no end. In Sandhaven even rumours without a leg to stand on find
ways to circumambulate the town with delicious dexterity. There is hardly a
person in town not thoroughly conversant with his neighbour's history; and
new-comers to town furnish sufficient gossip for several days.

Sandhaven itself is a compact affair, compressed between the sea to the
north-east and rolling hills to the south-west. It lies in the county of -
but never mind that - it is a seaside town typical of so many in England,
possessing the requisite harbour and small cathedral, the latter affording
it just enough dignity to avoid the epitaph 'horrible hole'.

Ah, the cathedral, dedicated to the memory of St. - but never mind that -
if you have read one ecclesiastical dedication you have read them all, and
there is nothing particularly memorable about this one. But the cathedral
itself! Ancient early English, dominating the centre of the town where
South Street runs into North Street separated only by Market Street. The
long, dim nave, the splendid chancel, the all-but-grand cloisters. The
Close in particular is picturesque, especially when the chestnut trees are
in bloom, as they are not as our history unfolds. In short, the shadow of
this venerable heap falls long and dark where the cobbled tributaries swirl
round the vortex that is the Mercat Cross, from where, in all directions,
row after row of houses and shops spill higgledy-piggledy towards the
pretty white-washed cottages that have a good view of the coast and the
brandy-dark sea beyond.

It must be admitted the seaward aspect of the town is less than favourable;
here the streets become lanes and alleys, the shops 'marine stores' or
'eating-houses', and an odour of India-rubber, fish, and shucked oysters
pervades all. It may be true it was a bold person who first ate an oyster;
but the fishermen (and women) of Sandhaven are glad he did.

Then come the tiny, unevenly-cobbled footpaths leading to the quay. Ah, the
quay, the quay, the silvery quay, new and commodious with more hustle and
bustle than in any other part of town. So many sights and sounds to detain
the enchanted traveller. But we, dear friends, must hurry along to that
select and salubrious quarter near the cathedral. Two houses in particular
need a little describing. Look there, to your left, no, to your Left, in
the Close. That is the 'Corner House', yes, that one, the tall,
black-looking house with as many windows as your father has mansions. No,
no, it is pointless peering so myopically at the windows, for nothing is
ever seen at them except the dull sepia curtains that hang there all the
year round, and seem to have hung there since time immemorial. A narrow
strip of greenery separates the Corner House from the Deanery, and a high
wall has been built around it. Here lives Mr. Barkitt, Sandhaven's man of
mystery; Mr. Barkitt, the bachelor.

And a regular old bachelor he is, too, - tall, slim but not emaciated,
sallow-skinned but not wholly unattractive; though he would be much
improved if the corners of his mouth were not drawn down and his starched
collar hid his wrinkled neck; as it is, he has the face of an ill-kept
grave. Of course the good folk of Sandhaven know all about him, or think
they do. Mr. Barkitt, rumour says, was the eldest child and scion of a
certain colonel who was 'lost' in Africa. The nature of this particular
loss has yet to be defined but it suffices the good colonel disappeared
somewhere in the Dark Continent; therefore, the presumption of loss is
legitimately permissible. Of an African 'son' - rather less than legitimate
- silence is best; for the good folk of Sandhaven have long adopted the
maxim that silence is golden when - but never mind that - let rumour gallop
on regardless. Mr. Barkitt had a fortune though 'had had' is the more
appropriate tense since he has spent most of it helping out of his
difficulties a younger brother. Fortune surrendered, Mr. Barkitt had
subsequently been crossed in love, and is now left to live out the rest of
his never-very-bright life in the shadows of the cathedral. To his credit,
he counts it no great misfortune; for life has taught him that most of
life's misfortunes rarely happen, if we ignore them long enough.

But "the other house, what of the other house?" I hear your impatient
cry. Patience! Patience! Remember, patience is required when the fish are
not biting. Ah well, the other house is not far from Mr. Barkitt's and is
as close as his to the cathedral, only, not being in the Close but in the
Mercat Cross, it is of less importance. It stands right in the street,
without any discernible garden; but, though smaller, it is resolutely
brighter than Mr. Barkitt's. And, its owner-occupier, too, is decidedly
brighter than Mr. Barkitt.

Mr. Dale, known and respected by all who know him, has been left a widower
with three children whose very presence bring a degree of healing to his
soul. Mrs. Dale herself has not been forgotten, buried as she is in the
corner of the yard that stands nearest to the cathedral. The Dales have
lived in Sandhaven so long it seems likely they will all die here, which
prediction bears fruit in the form of the inert but fondly-remembered mater
of the family. But no more of that. It is the surviving Dales who form the
mainstay of our interest.

Mr. Dale knows enough law to conduct a jolly practice as a solicitor,
benefiting from the fact that, being a lawyer, his ignorance of legal
matters does not quite amount to that of his clients, who, if truth be
told, are entirely ignorant; and, of course, his debts, like yours and
mine, have to be paid; for all would agree the Law is costly. So, the
respected Mr. Dale is able to sleep at night with no worries that the good
folk of Sandhaven, other than perhaps Dick the butcher, lie abed muttering:
"Let's kill all the lawyers."

The eldest of the Dale sons, Charles, is nigh on seventeen years old, but,
to be frank, is so slight and girlish that most people think him much
younger, say fifteen or sixteen, or in certain light even thirteen or
fourteen. Nevertheless, Charlie's feminine disposition isn't without use,
as, with the cares of housekeeping on his young shoulders, he has speedily
grown into an entirely sedate maternal surrogate in this motherless
household. In recent months, Charlie's culinary skills have grown apace,
and he is equally adept at serving cakes and ale to the hoi polloi as
caviar to the general.

Indeed, Mr. Dale has given into his charge the young Frederick and the even
younger Louis. And Master Frederick is no feather-weight.

Freddy, at thirteen, is a meaty, hearty, rollicking boy, not particularly
fond of his lessons, daring and thoughtless in the extreme, but brave and
warm-hearted; the kind of boy for whom there are never enough days in the
weekend. A favourite with the less studious of his companions, Freddy is
one of the thirteen who form the treble part of the choir cathedral. And
what angels the choir are, at least in face, form and song; for the choir
master long ago learned never try to teach a pig to sing; it's a waste of
time and only serves to annoy the pig. As for Freddy, the only thing that
seems to touch him is music - not quite the only thing but more of that
later. The boy seems to have inherited his mother's taste and talent but,
as yet, little of the sublime patience necessary to achieve anything out of
the common. True, Freddy grumbles a great deal at the practice necessary
for his singing; but he always manages to do his part as well, if not
better than his fellow-choristers, and well deserves the ruffle of hair or
pinch on the bottom the choir master so generously gives each of his pretty
charges.

With no little delight, Freddy recalls the time the choir master told him
to stop grumbling, shut up, and get on with it; he didn't care what Freddy
thought and, in any case, God had helped Bach write that unsingable
sequence, so they were jolly well stuck with it, adding: "Do not forget,
dear boys, that every time you fail, you have the opportunity to begin
again more intelligently!" To which Freddy added: "Yes! and we'll fail even
better next time!"

Freddy has a clear, strong voice, sings with effect and emotion, though is
sometimes carried away by the sheer joy of 'Man's Desiring'. He likes
nothing better than to go with a chum into the organ-loft, after choir
practice, or after a service, or during half-holiday, and, as the boys put
it, 'footle around' on the grand old organ. And in recent days Freddy's
dexterous fingers have managed to produce some delightful outpourings,
which have left his chums gasping in admiration. Yet young Freddy is
friends with every one but with no one in particular. He doffs his cap
respectfully to the Dean and spends many a half-hour with him up there in
the belfry, helping to ring the bells, for which the cathedral is nominally
famous. O what joyous peals issue from the belfry as man and boy pull
together!

As to whether Freddy is a true Christian, it can only be said that he does
feel genuine repentance on Sunday for what he does on Saturday - and for
what he intends to do on Monday. Nor does he allow anyone to lead him into
temptation; as Freddy says, he can do that perfectly well for himself. So
much for Freddy for the moment; now for Charlie, and he deserves almost as
much notice.



Charlie, if report is accurate, has been taken from school to help nurse
his mother through the trials and tribulations of a difficult delivery, and
to nurse her during her prolonged and not wholly successful
recovery. Possessed of no mean abilities and mental capacities, Charlie,
nevertheless, did not hesitate when the summons came to leave his school
for the sake of his newly-arrived sibling and his invalid mother; but when
the mother was gathered into the arms of the Lord, Charlie saw little
before him but drudgery, hard work and the end of his dreams. Mr. Dale,
lost in his own sorrow, never guesses what it is his son is leaving, and
having muttered a few quiet words of commendation allows him to get on with
it. Of course Charlie never for one moment thinks of shirking his duty,
but, when unseen by his easy-going, good-tempered but myopic father, takes
it hard and goes about the house heavily and mournfully, bearing all of
Freddy's pranks with a martyr-like expression, rarely looking into those
books which till now have been his solace and delight. For chief amongst
his hobbies have been reading, listening to music, and silence. But to the
little one, now five years of age, left in his care he is always gentle,
always tender, and Louis could hardly have been more devotedly cared for if
their own dear mother were still above ground.

See them even now, little Louis prancing nakedly, soapily, in the tin bath
whilst Charlie, warmed towel at the ready, prepares to take the cherub in
hand, both hands, and dry him by the light of the silvery moon that pours
through the kitchen window. O brave new world that has such boys in it!

There seems one other bright spot in Charlie's dreary life; that is the
hour he spends daily in the organ-loft in the cathedral, yes, dear reader,
the selfsame loft where brother Freddy disports himself with such
delight. Charlie still allows himself the privilege of receiving tuition on
the organ from Marvin, the marvellous organist, who, justly proud of his
pupil and protégé, gives him free use of his instrument. And for once
Charlie's diminutive stature is of positive benefit as he perches on
Marvin's lap, his fingers guided to achieve some remarkable organic
results. In this one thing, the brothers, Charles and Frederick, are alike
- music seems to be born in them; and even Freddy does not mind blowing
patiently so long as Charlie plays. And after many an Evensong, as people
proceed from the cathedral, they pause to listen as sweet melodies ring
through the Gothic pile. Agreed, it is rather eerie sometimes, but Charlie,
poised on Marvin's lap, urged on by the spur of his tutor's impatient
desire for more, forgets his troubles and lets his fingers seek and speak
while the younger Dale blows away contentedly. Then both boys return
looking all the brighter for that one half hour of bliss.

But let us not leave the description of Sandhaven without peeping behind
the sepia drapes of Mr. Barkitt's establishment, and airing a little of his
history, remembering that though history rarely repeats itself, novelists,
like historians, all too often repeat each other. Mr. Barkitt is a worthy
soul, really; but one whose light is often hid underneath the nearest
bushel. Never is a poor Sandhaven family heard of, that Mr. Barkitt's
charity does not relieve, but all is done in such a gloomy, stern way, and
accompanied by so many advisements, admonitions and precepts, that
essential generosity is lost sight of. He lives alone with one servant, and
few friends to enliven his days. In his younger days he has been a handsome
chap, admired by all, but rumour has it, betrayed by one who proved false
and faithless; and locking his heart, he crept away from the splendour of
youth to settle down in the long littleness of Sandhaven. He seeks no one's
company, and tolerates none who bores him, for, as he is wont to say, bores
are naught but bottled stout, once the cork is drawn, only froth comes out.

The Corner House is cheerless, though Mr. Barkitt's means are amply
sufficient to furnish it, even with luxuries. His younger brother, the
selfsame who swallowed, literally, most of the family inheritance seems the
only one for whom he has a spark of affection. No resentment remains. He
was Mr. Barkitt's darling in youth, and now he is always delighted to see
or help him, the elder brother having learned that while money isn't
everything, it indubitably keeps one in touch with one's family.

But of all this Sandhaven knows nothing for Mr. Barkitt, the bachelor,
keeps such secrets to himself.

Of one trouble he makes no secret is the way the boys of Windsor School
('for the Sons of Gentlefolk') treat him. The playground of the old red
school-house runs along the bottom of his garden, and constantly either his
apples or pears go missing, or scarecrows, shaped uncommonly like himself
are carefully planted amongst his radish-beds. Indeed, a cat, labelled 'A
Pussy for You', was once left at the tradesmen's entrance by a 'gentle
rascal in a college-cap', his servant said. And even Freddy Dale was guilty
of singing something about "barmy Mr. Barkitt" (to the tune of 'Brother
Jacques') as he passed the front door one day.

Does Mr. Barkitt like boys at all? you may ask. Ask not; the conclusion is
foregone. It is true he often observes their comings and goings from behind
his sepia curtains but what his true feelings are remain as elusive as
Colonel Barkitt, fortune's fool, lost in action, somewhere in Darkest
Africa. And to those who murmur, "Good riddance," 'tis no great matter.

We can only imagine then what it must have been to him, poor old thing, to
hear announced one morning that his brother's son was to be sent to him for
a time, as nothing could be done at home. Ah, the burdens of old age you
may sigh, but when you consider the alternative, it's not so bad.

Poor Mr. Barkitt!

Poorer Ralph!

For, in a curious way, age is much less complicated than youth, there being
much less time and far fewer options.



CHAPTER II

A WELCOME OF SORTS

Mr. Barkitt is seated in his battered old armchair warming his hands before
a miserly fire, awaiting his nephew's arrival. The frown on his brow is
deeper now, the corners of his mouth drawn more firmly down than usual; for
the boy is late, and the one crumpet toasted in his honour is soggy and
cold. "Just like a boy," he remarks to no one in particular, though he
feels he has made a hit, a very palpable hit. Oh, he really is a
bad-tempered, irascible man. On his gravestone he'll probably have the
words 'Just you bugger off!'

Has he forgotten the fact that the poor boy has been travelling all day,
and that he, as a boy, is as equally anxious to partake of crumpet as his
uncle is to serve it?

At last steps are heard, firm young footsteps, followed swiftly by a ring
at the door so confident as to startle the man from his armchair. He hears
the front door open and close, murmurs between man and boy, and calls
through the parlour door, "Come in, nephew Ralph; make haste, and shut the
door; it's draughty."

Nephew Ralph nods his thanks to the servant who has carried his baggage,
and steps into the parlour as directed. Let us observe him through his
uncle's eyes.

He is a tall, well-made fellow, of some fifteen years, with an altogether
aristocratic air about him. His head is well-set on his shoulders; his
face, framed by a shock of auburn hair, is pale almost ivory, and lit by
large expressive but strangely-sad dark eyes. Mr. Barkitt picks up his
glasses, and scans the boy from head to foot. He is well-dressed, jacket of
Harris tweed, grey flannel trousers that may slightly small for him, hence
the bulge at the flies; his brogues are sturdy walking shoes, well
polished, well cared for.

"H'm! foreign-looking of course," the uncle mutters, forgetting that Ralph
has inherited his dark hair and eyes from his mother. Then he adds, "So you
have come at last. How is it that you are so late? I like boys to be..."

"I'm awfully sorry, uncle," says Ralph quietly; "the engine broke down just
outside Sandhaven, and we were obliged to wait half an hour. I tried..."

"I do not expect to be interrupted," interrupts Mr. Barkitt. "I suppose
your mother never taught you that."

Fire springs to the boy's cheeks. He bites his lips, for they quiver, but
only says, "I beg your pardon, sir. I was anxious to explain..."

"Yes, yes, impetuous youth," says the man irritably. "Now come and have
your tea. I have ordered fresh toast. Yonder crumpet is fit for neither man
nor boy."

Ralph, tummy rumbling, obeys willingly enough, though his heart is
heavy. He has never seen his uncle before, and having heard so much of his
charity, is taken aback by his unexpected crotchetiness. He thinks with
sinking heart of the days and nights he must spend under this roof, a
stranger in a strange land.

It is a silent meal. Mr. Barkitt devotes his attention to his cat - the
very pussy once labelled and abandoned at his rear entrance, the pussy who
has become useful companion and feline friend, who sits, even now, licking
at the remains of the unbuttered crumpet. Ralph is left to his own
thoughts. He wonders what friends, if any, he will make in this 'horrible
hole' - for so he has labelled Sandhaven, unaware, as yet, of the charms of
the cathedral, the Close, and the organ loft. "Will there be any boys like
me?" he wonders. "Any boys like me who..." So deeply is he thinking that he
is startled to hear what sounds like the echo of a question:

"And how is your poor father, my poor brother? I suppose he is no better
than he should be," sighs Mr. Barkitt, who, if we were privy to his secret
thoughts would have us know that younglings are God's punishment for having
sex; and perhaps the knowledge that boys are given us to discourage our
nobler emotions.

"He's pretty well, I believe," replies Ralph, and if his uncle looked in
his face he would see how sorrowful it looks.

"Ah! just what I expected from you - heartlessness! The young are always so
heartless. Just as if he could be well with all the trouble you've caused
him. Just think of your dear little brother and your..."

"Please don't, uncle! You must never speak of them to me," cries the boy
passionately, starting to his feet; "you don't know, you just don't know at
all - you must not blame me too much; I can't bear it." Then he sits down,
and turns his head away from Uncle Barkitt.

"Now don't go and pretend to have any feelings. I don't believe in boys -
they were always hypocrites. But let that pass for the moment. Do you want
any more to eat? No. Well, you've eaten as much as I do in a
week. Boy-like, I suppose."

Ralph would very much like another thick slice of bread but dares not
disturb the look of that nice little twopenny loaf, so is
silent. Mr. Barkitt has the things cleared away.

"What time do you go to bed?" is his question, when the clatter of
tea-things has ceased; "at eight?"

Ralph actually laughs out loud at the ridiculous suggestion. Fancy a boy
his age retiring at eight! Controlling himself quickly, he says, "Not quite
so early as that, uncle, but I will go any time you wish. I suppose you are
early?"

"Every light is out at ten," is the curt reply. "In my young days we were
sent to bed at a respectable time. I hope you are not late in the
morning. Early to bed, early to rise. I shall expect you down at half-past
seven."

Ralph doesn't laugh then; he does not appreciate turning out in the cold
dark morning so early. However, he says, as politely as he can, "All right,
uncle, I shan't be late if I can help it."

"I shall appreciate you're helping it my boy. I can't think of anything
that could keep you lying there abed in the morning. I suppose like most
boys you lie there dreaming of what might be rather than getting up and
getting on with what could be. No, the earlier you rise the better. Good
habits, acquired early, remain a life-long blessing."

Ralph walks to the book-case to hide his smile. He might have known what to
expect there; sermons, commentaries, biographies and the like. He runs his
fingers along the spines. There are a surprising number of volumes devoted
to Ancient Greece. This is promising. He takes down a musty volume entitled
'Everyday Life in Ancient Athens', draws a chair to the fender, and settles
down to read it. It's really not so bad as he expected; and some of the
bowls are graphically designed. He finds himself crossing his legs and
placing the volume over his lap. He risks a glance at his uncle who seems
to have fallen into a snooze.

The boy's thoughts drift sadly back to the events which have led to him
coming here - his dear home, home to him no longer; the mother and brother
so dearly loved, and so suddenly and rudely snatched away from him, some
people say by his fault. It is true, he had been with his brother when he
fell over the cliff and was carried home lifeless. And had he not gone
there in defiance of his father's word the tragedy might never have
happened.

Then his mother, than have hurt he would have sooner died, sank under the
grief of losing her youngest son. Had he not brought this calamity on his
own head? His father had sternly turned him out of the house, and sent him
from his sight, heaping on his head reproach after reproach, until
departure became almost a relief. Thus it was that he'd been sent to his
uncle's to be under the strict rule of the master of Windsor School. He'd
never dreamt of revolting; he was too heart-broken for that; and as he
looked into the future it seemed there could be no rift in the clouds, no
balm to soothe his trouble mind; he could not believe in the forgiveness of
a God Who'd watched his brother tumble over a cliff.

Ah, dear Reader, if only Ralph knew that God would pardon him, for that's
His duty; and to those who would say God is dead, I retort 'Pish! Not dead
but alive, though working on a less ambitious project than the human
race. Let us pray that Ralph becomes firm friends with young Freddy, who
like Lord Byron, is always at his most religious upon a sunshiny day.

These thoughts crowd in on Ralph as he sits with the volume on his knees,
his dark eyes growing even darker as they gaze into the flickering fire.

At half-past nine precisely, Ralph is startled from his reverie.

"Ring the bell, nephew, if you please."

Ralph makes one more failure; for he gives the bell a strong pull and sends
a loud, harsh peal ringing through the silent house. His apologies are lost
in his uncle's horrified exclamation, "Well, Ralph, if the bell is broken I
shall make you pay the bell-hanger's bill. How can you be so rough."

The boy is relieved to see another face appear on the scene. It is his
uncle's man servant. Ralph wishes he knew the man's name. To tell the
truth, he is surprised the 'man' is so young; perhaps early twenties; and
so remarkably handsome. If he were not so besieged by his own cares, Ralph
would give the matter more thought, but for now he simply wishes to get
through the first evening in his new home. The servant is carrying a huge
family Bible. He seats himself down on the very edge of a chair just inside
the door. Mr. Barkitt motions Ralph to shut his book.

"I suppose you do not have prayers at home?" he says. "Your father is not
like-minded with me, and your mother..."

"Mother always used to read with us boys," he says, curling his toes tight
under the table to prevent his voice trembling.

"Indeed!" comes the retort. "I should have thought..."

"You think," cries Ralph hotly, "that because my mother was not English
that she was a heathen, and everything that was bad; but, I can tell you,
she was the loveliest, best woman I shall ever know. No, I will not hear
her spoken against."

The silence is broken only by a light cough from the young man seated by
the door.

The boy's emotion is too genuine for even Mr. Barkitt to remark on; so he
opens his book and proceeds with the long dry reading that Ralph learns to
dread. Immediately after the last 'Amen' has been pronounced, Mr. Barkitt
takes his lamp in his hand, and saying a brief goodnight to the boy, turns
to ascend the stair.

Ralph's room is like the rest of the house; but being only a boy, he does
not notice the shabby curtains at the window, or that the quilt on his bed
is only patchwork. With a great sigh of relief, he slips out of his shoes,
socks, shirt and vest, then slips across the landing to what he takes is
his bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror and washbasin, he soaps
himself vigorously as if to wash away the cares of the day. He reaches for
the towel rail and is only half-surprised to find none there.

There is a gentle rap at the door. It opens, and standing before him is the
manservant, holding out a large blue towel. He is smiling, and the smile is
of such relief to Ralph that tears start to his eyes.

"I fear you have chosen the wrong bathroom," murmurs the young man. "In
your own room, on the right, you will find a latched door. Behind that door
is your own bathroom. I have placed towels there for you, but for tonight
this bathroom will serve equally well, I trust."

Ralph murmurs his thanks. It is odd but he feels no shyness standing before
this man, even though he is tripped to the waist.

"Thank you for your kindliness," says the boy, "and if I may so bold as to
ask your name."

"My name is Stephen Stevens," replies the young man with a faint nod of the
head.

"And what should I call you?" asks Ralph.

"In the presence of the master, you might like to call me Stevens."

"Yes, I shall do that," says Ralph brightly, "but otherwise I shall call
you Stephen. And I shall be grateful if you call me Ralph."

"Master Ralph, 'tis better," smiles Stephen Stevens, stepping backwards
from the bathroom. "And Master Ralph, just call me should you need
anything. My room is just down the landing, second on the right. I am
there, at your disposal."

Good nights exchanged, Ralph turns again to the mirror, and is surprised to
be greeted by a smiling face. Happier, he completes his ablutions, returns
to his room, and finishes undressing. Then, dressed in his favourite
blue-striped pyjamas, he sits down on a chair by the window, pulls the
blind up and looks out.

In the frosty moonlight of the January night lies the cathedral - its
silvered grey walls and buttresses standing clearly out against the sky,
the beautiful outlines of the belfry tinged with the white light of the
moon, glimmering on its windows, playing hide-and-seek with the shadows in
the cloisters. It is a beautiful night, and Ralph sits and gazes at it till
the stillness seems to enter his soul. He tries hard to look his new life
in the face.

Living alone with his uncle would be simply unbearable; but now he has
Stephen; and tomorrow there will be school, and he will be sure to find
some happiness amongst his school fellows. Then there is the sea, his great
delight, and the cathedral where he can always find a shelter. Perhaps he
will find a friend to help him; a special friend; one of the masters or
boys might take a shine to him and help him out.

As he sits thinking and wondering in the darkness, he is a little
astonished to see a light glimmer in one of the windows in the chancel. He
looks a little longer and then a steady light shines out in the darkness;
and presently a sound comes through the still night air that makes him
rise, open his window and lean out. It is only an organ, very faint, but
enough to rivet Ralph's attention, but amongst the blended chords Ralph
weaves his hopes, his dreams, his reveries. Sometimes he can hear quite
distinctly, and at others he can only catch the deep sounds of the heavier
parts of the music.

He listens till the cold thoroughly chills him, but he does not mind for
there is something thrilling in the chill. He creeps to bed, and slides
beneath the crisp sheets, then pulls the patchwork quilt over his
shoulders. He finds he has grown stiff, and with the dim music echoing in
his heart, he slips into slumber, with, oddly enough, an image of Stephen
Stevens smiling back at him from the mirror of his soul. Ralph senses that
Stephen Stevens is a satellite of the house of Barkitt - constellated, yet
apart, ever attendant, yet ever distant. As he surrenders to sleep, the boy
whispers the words his mother taught him - "Forget today's trials and
tribulations; for tomorrow is another day".


CHAPTER III

SCHOLARS THREE

"I say, Charlie, I wish you'd say if you're coming to the festival," cries
Freddy, making a dash at his boots. "The choir chaps have got leave to let
their friends have tickets for the chancel."

Charlie sighs in exasperation. "How can I come, Freddy?" he says, a little
impatiently; "if you'll stay home and cook father's supper, and look after
the little one, I can go."

"Well, I simply don't have time to lend as helping hand today, but I surely
shall tomorrow." Charles sighed, knowing that for Freddy, tomorrow is
always the busiest day of the week.

"Oh, drat it, Charlie, let supper cook itself; I know that grub is part of
a balanced diet, but you place far too much importance on it; as for the
little one, stick him in the garden, and he'll be just fine. You positively
must come. All Sandhaven will be there. So positively come!"

"I positively can't," says Charlie. He's cross and disappointed there seems
no chance of his being able to go. He has heard the boys practising; he has
helped Frederick with his parts, and he feels very much inclined to follow
his advice, but of course it's impossible, so he contents himself with the
feeble consolation that he's doing his duty.

"It's an awful nuisance," continues the younger brother, tugging at a knot
in his bootlace till - "Oh, it's broken! Fetch me another lace, won't you?
We have to stick at that stupid thing day after day. There are a couple of
blockheads who just won't learn their parts. Bruce is one; he will persist
in singing three notes ahead of everyone else. And oh! Charlie, young Mole
is going to take the alto in the recitative; it's fine entertainment to see
him; he screws up those little red lips of his, shuts one eye, and sings as
if he were out ploughing a field."

"But he has a very sweet voice, doesn't he?" inquires the older brother;
"indeed, the music the choir makes is much better than it sounds, despite a
tendency always to finish a piece just after it ends. Still, as I always
say, nothing is impossible."

"And when you say nothing is impossible, I say try sticking your cock up
your own arse and shagging yourself! That for me at least is impossible."

"Frederick Dale!"

"Well, yes, I'll give Mole that; but he's such a conceited little
monkey. He'll be up on cloud nine for days after this recital. And there's
one thing one can always be sure of with a Sandhaven congregation." Freddy
pauses for effect; then adds, "They may not like music, but they absolutely
love the noise we make."

"And I suppose no one else will think a lot of himself for singing well,
too," murmurs Charlie pointedly.

"You must mean me," answers Freddy serenely untroubled; "unlike Mole, I
take no chances; I take every note above A with my right eyebrow," which he
raises in delightful demonstration.  He gathers his books from the four
corners of the room and adds, "No, Charles Dale, no one would be better
pleased than I if the whole thing fell on its arse; it's all a great to-do
about nothing." With which he departs to school leaving Charlie alone with
his thoughts, the cooking and the cleaning, but ever hopeful for signs of
improvement in his younger sibling.

Freddy does not go straight to school; he hardly ever does. There's always
some fun going on between school and home, and he intends to miss none of
it. The road is alive with boys of all ages and sizes, all crammed into
their school dress, the high collars, the tight little jackets, and the
even tighter school trousers, known with due cause as 'bum freezers'. They
congregate outside the walls till the great bell warns them that they have
barely time to reach their places before call-over. And when half a hundred
boys are out together, what lack of fun? Freddy joins a group of boys at
the corner of the Close; they are mostly his class-mates.

"Hulloa, Dale!" cries one, "there's a new row on. Hilton and Bruce have
been climbing the Deanery chestnut trees and pelting pebbles, only tiny
ones, mind you, at his poor dear cat, and the old.." The blank is left to
the imagination. "...comes over and declares he'll have their backsides
walloped; they should be so lucky."

"Serve them jolly well right," opines another boy, "if they are such
ninnies as to go after the cat when the Dean is going into the cathedral."

"Who's that?" inquires Freddy suddenly, as a newcomer turns the corner of
the Close and appears to halt, as if unsure what step to take next.

"Not one of our fellows," says Bruce, "but, I say, he's a bit of a
smasher. Wish I cut a figure like that! Wonder who he is."

"Looks rather moonstruck," remarks Gillett, a companion of Freddy's. "Let's
hail him. There might be some fun in this. Hulloa, you there! What do you
want? Don't you know this is private property?"

The stranger, who is Ralph Barkitt, turns at the sound of Gillett's
voice. "No, I didn't. Will you tell me the way to Dr. Tunstall?"

"New boy, eh?" inquires Gillett, a little condescendingly. "Oh, yes, a new
boy, to be sure; and I suppose you are somebody's son. You go down this
turning, well at least we do, take the first turning on the right, then the
second turning on the left, then turn right again, and first on the left;
and if you don't make a beefstake, you'll..."

"Be right back at this very spot again, I fancy," laughs Ralph.

"Why certainly," grins Gillett, as if it is the most natural conclusion in
the world. "On the other hand, if you're pushed for time, go through that
red gateway there, and you'll find yourself in the Square. Ring the bell at
the entrance before you, and when the porter comes - you can't miss his
porter's nose - say something like, 'Please, sir, I'm come to school.'"

"All right; but don't you think you'd better take me there, in case I get
frightened. I am, after all, a new boy," laughs Ralph.

Freddy, much taken by the new boy's spirit, links his arm in his own, and
guides him towards the red gateway. "Let's be done with those ninnies," he
says, "let me be your guide and comforter." Freddy adds 'comforter' as
something from the Bible, though he's not at all sure what it might
mean. Ralph allows himself to be guided across the Square where he is
suddenly abandoned by Freddy who calls back, "Sorry, it's the bloody bell."
And indeed, a not over-pleasant clanging has set all the boys rushing to
the school door.

Ralph, comforted by the assistance so freely given, makes his way to the
entrance, rings the bell, and tells the beacon-nosed porter his
errand. Sitting in the dark little waiting room, he is glad he has met two
who will soon be his school-fellows; he muses which is the more appealing -
the tall, fair, freckled boy, or his merry, brown-faced companion.

While our hero waits, though whether he will turn out to be the 'hero' of
our story, only the future can know, let us give a little attention to the
doctor who will shortly appear looking rather stiff and stern in his
scholastic dress.

He is by name the Rev. James Cleveland Tunstall, M.A. (the boys' very own
Turnstile); and by nature he is one of those hard, dry men, who seem to
have little sympathy for anyone, and who are much more feared than loved by
those who have to do with them. Thus he would be wildly misjudged if this
were the reader's only sense of him. For in truth, he is just the man for
the school; clever enough to inspire awe in his boys; strict and powerful
enough to maintain control and order; cautious but clear-sighted, just but
unbending, so that masters and boys know that he knows what is best for
them. The boys perhaps like him that bit better than the masters; for they
sense in him a kindred spirit who is as comfortable as he is commanding
amongst them; and while the masters might not love him, they submit because
they are his inferiors in most things.  Yes, it is true that 'Turnstile'
must not spare the rod lest he spoil the child, but, unlike so many men in
power over boys, he wields that power lightly, and often chooses bare palm
on bared bottom rather than the cane that cuts deep. Living in Sandhaven,
he cannot help having 'stories' attached to him, but as he has just entered
Ralph's life, let us agree to let that be for the moment.

The Rev. Tunstall, a man who might have been a soldier had he not been
carved in Christian mould, had earlier received notice of his new pupil, so
that after an intimate talk he leads Ralph into the big schoolroom where,
"You must learn fast, my boy, and soon must go to Oxford, where, I suspect,
your first year or two will be in utter wretchedness,"; and before twelve
o'clock Ralph is able to call himself a Windsor scholar. His masters soon
find out that they have no mean abilities to deal with; the new boy is
undeniably clever; and being used to a large school all his life, he falls
very naturally into the ways he finds here. His school-fellows - for none
is as yet a 'bum chum' - are struck by his aristocratic bearing and easy
manners, and they think not to laugh at him or play their usual pranks on
him. They sense that most likely they will get the worst of it if they try;
and, it must be admitted, some of the younger boys are smitten on the spot
with the sort of hero-worship that can enslave us all. Reader, forgive them
at this moment, on this spot; for you, too, once stood in their tiny shoes
peering hopefully upwards. You, too, were once tossed on buoyant seas,
where billows rolled beneath your surges of joy.

The morning passes quickly; and when the boys troop into the courtyard,
Ralph makes his way to the only boys he has yet spoken to - Freddy Dale and
Gillett. They are on the look-out for him, and on his appearance accost him
with: "Well, Sir Stranger, survived your first morning in school?"

"Not much misery," replies Ralph, "though I didn't see you in school."

"Not in the fifth," says Freddy, scanning his senior companion. "Gillett
likes to grace the fourth with his presence, and I hang back to keep him
company. How shall you like old Turnstile?"

"Oh, all right, I think. He's a dry old stick, but seems fair enough. There
is something of the soldier in him, which is much that can be said of a
priest. I say, have you far to go home?"

"No, only just here," replied Freddy, much taken by the confidence of their
new companion. "Tell us your name, and where you hang out."

"The name's Barkitt, Ralph, and I've come to reside with..."

"Not with old man Barkitt, in the Close," blurts Gillett. "Goodness
gracious!" cry both boys simultaneously. "Is he a relation of yours?" asks
Freddy.

"My father's brother. My uncle."

"I say though, poor chap," groans Gillett in genuine pity. "How do you like
him?"

"Can't say. Only came here yesterday," replies Ralph a little
curtly. "You'd better look out what you say; he is my uncle, you know."

"No offence where none intended," soothes Freddy. "Never mind Robert here;
when you've been at Sandhaven long enough, you'll not mind Sandhaven
manners."

"Dale here is a great friend of old Barky's... Mr. Barkitt's," adds
Gillett, "...likes him awfully."

"Oh, yes," assents Freddy; "he's awfully fond of me. But, I say, if you're
doing nothing better, cut along with me to the cathedral. It's choir
practice, don't you know? And there's free grub to be had."

The boys take their leave of Gillett who has an appointment with a pair of
lamb cutlets, and make their way into the cathedral. It is as beautiful
within as without; large and lofty, with every portion beautifully
balanced; no ungainly pillars; no dark corners where none ought to be;
stained windows that shed a beautiful sober light through the saints
painted on them; and a superb organ at the entrance to the choir. For
Ralph, it is an altogether perfect building, as he finds a corner, and sits
down with a deep sigh of content to make the afternoon his own.

By-and-by the quiet is broken by a few faithful dropping in for the
afternoon service. There are not many souls, some thirty perhaps, and
nearly all women and children; one or two elderly gentleman, and a handsome
young fisherlad, who creeps into an out-of-the-way seat on the edge of
Ralph's corner. The service is read by an old grey-haired canon; and Ralph
leans back to listen to his new-found friend in the choir. Freddy looks
extremely well in his surplice, hair brushed into something like order, and
his merry face composed into something almost sober.

The singing is good for a small seaside town. Freddy sings a solo, and,
Ralph, enraptured by his voice, barely notices the young fisherlad now
pressed close against him in their own dark, warm corner. "Freddy ain't
'alf good," whispers a voice in his ear; and Ralph instinctively murmurs an
inaudible reply. He turns to the fisherlad, who is much his age, and asks
sotto voce, "You know Freddy Dale, then?"


"I can't rightly say as I knows the lad," comes the reply, "but I knows of
him, and what I knows I like." As he speaks, the lad moves along the dark
oak bench until his thigh burns against Ralph's, who, for a moment, feels a
rush of almost-religious ecstasy. "The a'ternoon service is short, but I
usually comes 'ere for Evensong if I can," the voice continues. "I likes to
sit in the dark and feels what I can feel. What 'bout you, young sir, do
you likes to sit in the dark, and feels what you can feel?"

Know, O incredulous Reader! that at that very moment the gong is whacked to
signal the end of an absurdly brief afternoon service; and Ralph rises, not
without difficulty, and betakes himself out at once, hoping to fall in with
his new friend. As he passes in the narrow confines, he feels his buttocks
brushed by fishy fingers, and blushes to think he has brought embarrassment
to Sandhaven's son of the sea. As he reaches the belfry door, he observes
Freddy standing there.

"Oh, I say, Barkitt!" cries Freddy, "here's a lark. One of the ringers has
broken the stop of the tenor bell, and I want to go up and have a look at
it. Have you been up into a belfry ever? It's awfully fine fun. Come along,
we shall catch it if we're seen. Are you game, Barkitt? Oh, do say you are
game!"

"Rather!" exclaims Ralph, peering into the doorway. "Lead the way."

"Look out then," cries Freddy, already on the steps; "it's dashed rickety
here. Mind your cranium! Mind your arse! Stoop pretty low - now!" Then,
"Never mind," as Ralph trying to avoid one beam strikes his brow against
another. "Did it knock its little head? Never mind; a quick kissie and all
is well. Now, take care do; up this way. Can you see?"

"Not a fucking thing," gasps Ralph; "and don't go so fast; all I see is
that arse of yours."

At last they emerge, dusty, cob-webbed, and out of breath, on a little
stage, with great bells hanging above them; one seems just ready to act as
a giant snuffer, ready to descend on the boys and snuff them out like a the
last Evensong candle.

"Rather nasty if that thing drops on us," says Ralph. "Which is that?"

"Oh, that one tolls for weddings and funerals," explains Freddy; "and, as
we ain't even engaged, it would most likely do for our funeral. Now, you
ready to go on?"

"Wherever to?" asks Ralph, clearly incorrect in his assumption they are at
journey's end.

"Why, up the bloomin' ladder to the top. You do want to see the broken
bell, don't you? And do stop frowning so; just follow my lead; for I never
do anything wrong when people are looking."

If truth be told, Ralph's interest in bells, broken and otherwise, has
waned, but Freddy's buttocks, swaying perilously before him, seem to cast
an enchanted spell, and he cannot but pursue them. So the boys start off
again, pausing at last on the top of a short ladder, and sit themselves by
a little window, on a beam over a whole chime of bells.

"What a joke if we set them ringing," grins Freddy, tapping one with his
boot.

"Not much of a joke when we got down What's to be seen out here?" Ralph
leans over and looks out.

Immediately below him are the cloisters, then the chimneys of the High
Street. To the right the chestnut trees that hide his home from view; and
out on the horizon a glorious expanse of sea, silvering to grey. He feels
something pressed into his lap.

"There. That's yours. I promised you some grub, and grub you shall have."

Ralph examines the object in his lap; it is a beef sandwich, somewhat
squashed, stinking of mustard, English not French, but deliriously
delicious on his lips.

"I say Fred... I may call you Fred, mayn't I?"

"I shall be poxy crossed if you don't," grins Freddy, wiping some mustard
from Ralph's lips, then inserting the mustardy finger into his own mouth.

"It's ever so good of you to bring me here," mumbles Ralph, mouth half
full. "It's simply glorious."

"Do you like the sea?" asks Freddy. "I say, Ralphy, if you do, we shall get
on famously. I will be a sailor one day, see if I don't."

"Sailor? Is that what you're after?" says Ralph; and when he sees the
flashing eyes, he learns the boy's secret.

"Rather! Oh, Ralphy boy, to be at sea, all at sea, away from a cramped-up
schoolroom, and out on the briny! How splendid to see a storm come up, and
feel you're at the mercy of waves and wind! And then the sights that can be
seen, and the adventures. Oh, yes, a sailor's life for me."

Freddy pauses as if struck by an idea; but as he looks down, his expression
turns to one of consternation. Ralph's eyes follow.

"Oh, drat it!" exclaims young Dale; "I've gone and given myself a stiffy
again! The sea gets me so excited and that's what happens. God rot, it's
just not fair. I shall have to wait ages for it to go down."

The boy's erection is all-too-obvious as it presses against the thin grey
flannel of his school trousers. Ralph considers offering the obvious
solution, but this after all is a church; more! this is a cathedral! On the
other hand, although the idea is disconcerting, therein may lie its value.

"Just ignore it," is his advice; "but let's leave the subject of the sea
for a while. I didn't know you sang solo in the choir; you have a very fine
voice, you know."

"I know," sighs Freddy, "but it's a precious bother. Fancy sticking three
practices a week; and services, too. But I'm so glad you were here
today. To tell true, Ralphy, I was showing off a bit in the solo for
you. Don't know why; just felt like it. Say you'll come again, oh, do come
again. I shall love it every time you come!"

"Then I shall come just for you," smiles Ralph; "but I should think we'd
better be tumbling down that ladder again, unless we wish to be locked up
for the night. And don't forget; we are in God's house."

Freddy laughs and says, "I don't think God exists, but I don't want Him to
know I said that. And I don't bother praying because I know He's got more
important things to do than listen to me." His companion is learning how
difficult it is to know when young Dale is being serious. "But the bell,
which is it?" he asks.

"Why, that one," says Freddy. "See where the stop has gone. If we set it
going, it will swing round and round, like a windmill. The Dean would be
wild; he's awfully particular about his bells."

"Well, they're awfully jolly ones. I heard them yesterday, coming along in
the train."

"Yes, they always practise on Tuesday evenings," explains Freddy; "now go
along. Follow me. Mind you don't tip the ladder over."

The boys make their way gingerly down the ladder, but progress is halted by
a peal of laughter from Freddy. "I say," he calls to the boy just above
him; "you've got a stiffy, too. Must be the excitement of the bells." He
pauses, then cries, "Hey, Ralph, have a little care! Don't stamp my fingers
off; I shall want them tonight most likely."

The boys are still laughing when they reach the landing, but they hear
sounds below that make them pause and peer at each other as well as they
can in the gathering gloom. Their erections wilt in the darkness.


CHAPTER IV

BATS IN THE BELFRY

The Dean is a portly, elderly gentleman, not particularly partial to
violent exercise, but ideally suited to life in Deanery, so much so that
some said he'd been designed by a Church committee. He rarely goes from
Sandhaven; he has lived here long enough to seem part of the cathedral
itself. And now, after the service, he has entered into a discussion with
the master bell-ringer, and finally, much to the master's dismay, has
resolved to go up and see for himself. Not that he has the least about
'stops', or knows half as much as Freddy Dale does; but he has a mind to
see, and when once the Dean has made up what little there is of his mind,
no one can turn him from his purpose. Illogical and contradictory he may
be, but no one can fault his boyish enthusiasm.

"It's rather a nasty job, sir, gettin' up those stairs," suggests the
master-ringer respectfully, in a tone that reminds one of a well-tugged
forelock.

"Tut, tut!" interrupts the Dean, as if the remark were a reflection on his
girth. In matters of food and drink, the Dean believed in abstinence, but
that it should always be practised in moderation. Indeed it is his proud
boast that while age has increased his eagerness for conversation, it has
no decreased his appetite for food and drink one iota.

"An' it's dusty and dark..."

"Well, my good man, there's such a thing as clothes-brush in most homes;
and you can take a lamp. Show me the way up, with promptitude, if you
please."

Of course, the ringer can say no more, so he goes to fetch a lamp; then,
carefully leading the way, the two begin their journey. And quite a journey
the poor Dean soon finds it. He commences by puffing and blowing hard, as
step after step is taken. At last he calls out: "Stop a moment, while I get
my - my handkerchief," the final word a substitute for the more accurate
'breath'.

"Would you rather turn back, sir," asks the man, casting a circle of light
on the almost bald, almost tonsured head below him; thinking
anachronistically the circlet of hair has made a forced landing on the
Dean's head.

"No, no; proceed," comes the sharp retort, and they commence the ascent
again.

Meanwhile Ralph and Freddy are standing, astonished and dismayed, at the
foot of the ladder. There are unmistakable sounds of two or more persons
labouring up the stairs. Who can it be? And of the ringers would be
fleet-footing it up as easily as anything; but there is a light flickering,
heavy footsteps, and occasional voices.

"Into this alcove," whispers Freddy; "if we are lucky, they may pass us
by." He pulls Ralph into the niche, though there's barely room for one, let
alone two boys. He pulls Ralph tightly to him, and his nostrils are
assailed by the scent of cinnamon, or some such aromatic stink that wraps
itself warmly round him. He feels the other boy's breast pressed against
his own; feels his belly press against the other's; feels the warmth of his
thighs; and the hard column of Ralph's cock against his own
stiffness. Freddy suppresses a giggle; he knows he's being naughty, and
delights in his new friend's naughtiness.

"There isn't enough room for the two of us," whispers Ralph, his lips
brushing Freddy's ear; "Let's make for the beam again, and immediately the
boys clamber up the ladder, with as little noise as possible, to their old
perch.

But not quite silently enough.

"What was that?" asks the Dean suddenly, his voice attractively leaping an
octave, stricken by the phrase, 'from Hell it comes', yet bravely
countering with, "and to Hell it can go!"

"Rats most likely, sir," comes the reply, though its lack of conviction
signals he has never heard rats breathe as heavily as that. "Rats or bats,
mostly likely," he says, though to himself he adds, "or boys."

"Oh, rats; h'm!" says the Dean, heartily wishing he was safe at home in the
Deanery, perusing his engraved drawings of 'Choir Boys from Europe', and
nursing... but he can't give his mind to that now; he must give it to the
mad ascent. So on they go.

The culprits - rather large and knowing 'rats', to be sure - can only hear
the voices; they can't yet be sure to whom they belong.

"Let's slide along the rather; then they won't see us," suggests Ralph.

Is it accidental or on purpose that Freddy's left knee touches one of the
deep bells as he passes, and send a dismal, though musical, moan through
the encircling gloom?

Ralph, hearing a yelp from below, nearly falls from his perch with
laughing. He hears a voice below ejaculate: "What the dickens, Wilson! Was
that rats as well?"

"No, sir," replies Master Wilson, scared himself; "nor bats neither. I
don't think we should proceed further in this business, sir, if you don't
mind."

"Nonsense, man!" exclaims the Dean, never more determined than now; he
would begin whistling "Who would true valour see," if it didn't interfere
with a need to complete his thoughts; "Infirm of purpose! Give me the lamp,
if you don't care about it; I'll go myself."

Of course, this is out of the question, and at last the pair arrive on the
platform.

Then Wilson turns his lamp around, but can discover nothing to account for
the noises they heard; but before he can speak, another sound reaches his
ear - a smother, faint, bubbling giggle; and the poor soul, forgetting the
awkward position of the Dean, turns quickly, and choosing the better part
of valour, scrambles down again - with the lamp. The wounded soldiers at
Scutari could not have been more dismayed than the Dean had Florence
Nightingale herself left them lampless, as well as legless.

Our two rascals are observers of this scene, and it proves too much for
Freddy, who gives smile loud enough to approach a laugh. "Damn it," he
whispers; "isn't life just like a cucumber?"

"How so?" whispers Ralph.

"One moment it's in your hands; next moment it's up your arse."

This time it's Ralph who cannot forbear but laugh, as he recalls the words
of Samuel Johnson: "a cucumber should be well sliced, dressed with pepper
and vinegar, and then..."

"Who is there?" demands the Dean, vainly trying to penetrate the gloom. "Is
there anyone above me?"

"Yes, sir," gasp Ralph and Freddy in unintentional synchronicity, almost
laughing themselves into stitches. "We are above you." The Dean cannot help
but respond to the boys laughter; laughter is something he always enjoys,
except when the communion wine is shooting down his nose.

"Who is it? Expose yourselves! Come to my aid this instant!"

"It's Freddy Dale and another chap, sir. We came to see the bell," says
Fred, nothing daunted by their exposure; and he begins to scramble along
the rafter, followed closely by Ralph, who isn't quite so sanguine; he is
not familiar with the Dean.


To tell the truth, the ecclesiastic is somewhat relieved to hear Fred's
voice, he waits till they reach his side, and ever one to eschew
obfuscation comes immediately to the issue.

"You have no business here, boys. You have frightened Wilson, and left me
very awkwardly situated. Can you make your way down? Take care; it's so
tight in here that a dog must wag his tail up and down."

"Oh, yes, sir! Awfully sorry, sir; we'd no idea you were coming up," says
Freddy, with another little giggle, whose charm affects the Dean; for he
laughs too. What must those boys have thought of him as he toiled up the
steps, puffing and panting below their sweet..." He terminates the thought,
and says, "I dare say you didn't; but it would have been the worse if it
had been only Wilson, who, I must say, has not the affection or experience
to appreciate that boys must be boys, and have their little adventures. But
remember this is forbidden ground in the future. Now we will descend; and
descend with care, dear boys, descend with care." The Dean is aware of his
bulk, but takes solace in the thought that if God had wanted him to touch
his toes, he would have affixed them to his knees.

The coming down is worse than the ascent; the Dean frequently pauses to
gaze up and check that all is well above him. He is struck, metaphorically,
by the handsome buttocks of the unknown boy, and asks; "Who is your
companion, Dale? Barkitt, eh? What, any relation of my friend Mr. Barkitt?
Well, my boy, I must make your acquaintance in the daylight. It's no use
trying to make further investigation in the dark. I shall investigate you
when circumstances are safer."

Ralph is much amused; but as he is above the Dean he cannot hurry at
all. The end of the staircase is all but reached when, with a sudden slip
and grab, the Dean's portly figure and a flailing Freddy finish the descent
in a most unceremonious manner.

Freddy is safe; for he is sprawled on his back on the front of the
cushioning Dean, whose arms lock him in a fine embrace. "There, boy, I have
you!" Freddy lies there in no little comfort, and as the Dean seems in no
haste to move, he avails himself of the fleshy comfort. The Dean's concern
for the boy is physical; his fingers slip beneath the boy's shirt and
circle his belly, no doubt checking for minor injuries. The Dean's breath
is lemon mint behind Freddy's ear; the boy sighs as his senses are
filled. The gentle squeezing of his belly brings the boy's flesh to life;
he breathes in deeply, holds the breath, and creates enough space between
trousers and skin for the man to...

To their aid Ralph springs backwards, and calls, "Are you hurt, sir? Say
you are not hurt," he begs, trying hard to be grave.

"No, no, not at all," says the gentleman; for the Dean is nothing if not a
pragmatic optimist; asked if his whisky glass was half full or half empty,
he would drain the amber nectar, and the pronounce the glass in need of an
immediate refill. He unceremoniously bounces Freddy up and away. "We were
merely pausing for reflection on God's mercy." He brushes his dusty coat
sleeve. "How about you, Dale? Nothing broken, I trust. I should not wish to
have you broken into a thousand fragments."

Freddy is sitting on the lowest step, not in the least discomfited; he
smiles, while imagining the Dean counting up nine hundred and ninety nine
fragments, and then one more, to put poor Freddy together again. Fancy
rolling down the belfry stairs and landing on top of the Dean. It's
altogether too much for his gravity, which is never very steady; his giggle
is infectious.

The two others look at him at moment; then Ralph joins in till the Dean -
who is inclined to be a little 'crusty' - cannot but join in the general
laughter. The sight of his dusty clothes and scratched hands make him think
that after all there is something to justify the boys' merriment, and his
features relax into a smile, till he is laughing as heartily as his young
companions.

"Let us brush you down, sir," says Ralph. "It would never do for you to be
seen in this plight. Whatever would people say." While Ralph takes the
vanguard, Fred brings up the rear, thinking to himself that, despite the
Dean's portentous presence, his bottom is most round, shapely, and
firm. With a sigh, he wonders if the Dean can balance a chalice on his
bottom.

"Sigh no more, boys, sigh no more. You needn't tell any one of our little
adventure," says the Dean whilst being put to rights. "This is not a
particularly dignified position for me," though the position is not without
its delights, as Freddy's fingers stroke and fondle in the kindly light.

"No, sir; we're awfully sorry for you," says Ralph. "Fortunately it's
getting dark, so no one can see..." Mischievously he leaves the sentence
unfinished.

The Dean feels he must take the boys to task, even though it means
maintaining the status quo a little longer. "What made you want to see the
bell, boys?" he asks. "I cannot think how you found your way there."

"We wanted, at least I wanted, to see how it was broken," explains
Freddy. "I took Ralph, Barkitt, with me. He didn't know it was
forbidden. Then we heard someone coming, and we went back to hide; we
didn't know it was you; we meant no harm, sir."

"No, I suppose not. However, never go up there unaccompanied again. As it
is, poor Wilson is witless, and I have had all this trouble for nothing."
He adjusts his position; "Goodness," he thinks - though goodness has
nothing to do with it - "surely I am not dusty down there." The man looks
over his shoulder at the boy. "By the way, Dale, was it you I saw up in the
trees yesterday."

"Me, sir? No, not me, sir," says Freddy promptly. "You wouldn't catch me up
in the trees."

"You are to sing solo at the festival next week, are you not?" inquires the
Dean, wondering if there is method in the boy's apparent madness.

"Me, sir? No, not me, sir; Bruce takes most of the solos."

The Dean turns to the taller and more silent of his companions, and says
kindly: "So you are Mr. Barkitt's nephew. Are you on a visit?"

"No, sir; I am living there for the time being. I have been entered at the
school; I only came yesterday."

"Indeed! Entered at the school? From where have you come?"

"Dover, sir; near Dover."

"Ah, yes, I know Dover well. Your father and mother live there, I suppose."

"Yes, sir" - the boy winces - "my father does."

"Have you any brothers or sisters?"

"No; not one, sir."

Ralph steps back, wishing himself somewhere else, and free from this
insistent catechising. He feels the crimson, unseen by the Dean, deepening
on his cheeks. Freddy steps round the Dean to join him.

"Come then, boys," says the Dean; "let us be on our way." As they walk, he
continues, "An only child. Well, do your father credit, my boy, work hard
at school and think of me as a friend any time you need one. You will
remember our first meeting well. And you are welcome, you are both welcome,
any time at the Deanery, particularly after school when I sometimes find
time on my hands, and little of merit at my fingertips." They stroll across
the cathedral grounds, and pause before the gate. The Dean looks at the
young face of the newboy - such eyes! - and guesses that something lies
underneath the quiet glance and low voice; some secret that weighs his
young life sadly down. He will enjoy assisting this boy, bringing him some
needful relief, balm for the soul, and kisses for the... unlike that other
Dean, he never wondered but he praised the fool who had invented kissing.

They wish each other goodnight; the boys raise their caps, and scamper away
into the dusk, followed by a linger look from the Dean. Oh, to be a boy
again! But as that can never be, the next best thing is to have one, or
even two. Yes, that will do, and those two will do just fine.

"Isn't he a jolly fellow?" laughs Freddy, as they enter the High Street,
for Ralph will not go into his dull, new home until absolutely obliged.

"Yes, he seems jolly enough' though I wish he would produce more matter
with less art. What's his name?"

Freddy bursts into laughter, which puzzles Ralph, then explains: "He's
jolly because he's Jolly. That's his name, don't you see? The Reverend
Jolly. Theophilus Jolly. His son's in our form at school. Did you notice
him? An awfully good-looking little chap, as clever as Solon, and only
eleven. Knows all of the Commandments - all ten of them."

"Isn't the Dean old to have such a young son?"

"He has a young wife, an awfully nice creature; but Charlie, my brother,
says it's a bit of a bed and breakfast marriage; still young Jolly is a
decent little chap, if a bit too pious for my taste. I prefer my chaps a
little indecent, you might say," laughs Freddy.

Ralph has noticed the boy in question, and is struck with the delicate,
handsome face, and the eyes, through which an innocent, happy soul shines
out. "Little Jolly must be a clever chap to be amongst such wise men as
you," he muses.

"Oh, he's a delight' he'll do anything and everything he's told; he's a
great favourite with the masters too; private tuition, free, gratis, and
for nothing, and all that malarkey. It's only the bullies who don't like
him. Now look at all this stuff you're learning; aren't I a wonderful
tutor? But don't think I'll stay dumb about our adventure; that's not my
style. Why the moment I get in, Charles'll know about it. Shall you tell
your uncle?"

"Not I," laughs Ralph; "but I may tell Stephen; he's our serving man; and a
good sort too; more than kind though less than kin, you might say. But
who's Charles? That's a bit of a moniker for anyone. But like
Theophilus. Wouldn't want to be stuck with that."

"Charles is my brother. Charlie for short. He does the mothering over
Louis, that's our baby brother, and me."

"Is that all there is of you?"

"Yes, us and Papa; our mother died last year, don't you know?  Now my
brother is like a mother to me, only we don't have sex quite so often." He
grins at a shocked Ralph, who, realising he is joking, grins rather weakly
back.

Ralph looks hard at his companion. Freddy seemed quieter when he spoke
last; but he seems to name his mother without much sign of emotion. When,
if ever, will he be able to do the same? Every time he mentions his mother
an obstinate lump rises in his throat, and makes his voice tremble.

"We had another brother," adds Fred; "he was a cripple, and he died three
or four years ago."

"I should like to have an older brother. Isn't it awfully nice?" inquires
Ralph.

"I suppose so. Charlie's a great bother sometimes; but I suppose he's of
great use, too. Look here; here's a job to keep Charlie quiet
tonight. Shan't I catch it?" And he shows Ralph a tear in the knee of his
trousers. "I shall send the bill to the Dean; he made me do it. But I say,
here we are. I'd better get in, and start making peace with Charlie."

Freddy turns and stretches out his hand to Ralph. As boys do, they shake
hands solemnly.

"Hasn't it been fun?" inquires Freddy. "You're all right. I like being with
you." His dishonesty disarms the older boy who finds himself blushing. He
releases the younger boy's hand, and turns away to hide the fire in his
cheeks.

"By then, Ralphy; I'll come and make love to you at 5 o'clock tomorrow; but
if I'm late, just start without me. Sweet dreams," and he is indoors and
gone, leaving Ralph to wonder if he is jest, or not.

It's tea time, Freddy said, and Ralph's imagination pictures a happy tea
party at the Dales' - with the father, the elder brother, the youngest
brother, and the cheerful Freddy - all happy, and free and easy, while he -
he shudders to think of the dimly-lit, dismal parlour at the Corner
House. However, he has a strap full of lesson-books that will take him all
evening, and perhaps a visit from Stephen; so he pulls his face straight,
and saunters home.

He is quite satisfied with the way in which he has spent his first day in
Sandhaven. He likes Freddy's free, open manner, and cheerful face; and he
feels glad that the boy has taken a fancy to him. Then his introduction to
the Dean comes to mind, and he feels sure he has found one who will be his
friend. As he knelt before him in the belfry, dusting his trousers, he felt
a bond grow between him and the man, and he knows, that with tender care,
this bond will grow into something really special.

He can't say much for Sandhaven. The cathedral and its vicinity are
certainly picturesque. He cannot judge the High Street, for it is dusk, and
they were busy chatting when they had passed along it. But he cannot forget
that glimpse of the sea - the same beautiful sea that washes the shores of
his own home. He must go down to the sea at the first opportunity; it was
one thing Freddy would be sure to fall in with.

Then, as he turns in to the little green gate of the Corner House, he tried
to think that it is best for him to have come to live here, and that some
day he will feel glad of it. Yes, the boy is determined now; he will make
this world the best of all possible worlds, or die trying.


CHAPTER V

UP AND OVER

Mr. Barkitt's prayers are long this evening; "not quite as long as 'War and
Peace'," thinks Ralph, "but then again not nearly as funny." When these
long prayers are over, and Ralph escapes to his room, his first action is
to open the window, and look for the light in the cathedral. There it is
surely enough, and by listening intently can catch the music. He very much
wonders who it is who pays these nocturnal visits to the dark, deserted
building. Ralph loves to hear music - sweet, melodic music - it awakens all
the better feelings in his heart, and quietens his troubled thoughts. This
music on the night air is sensual; the boy feels himself rising to it; and
presses himself against the cold, hard window sill. The music, so well
called the food of love, brings him nearer to that pure high standard he is
trying to attain; for Ralph, with all his faults, is trying hard to live a
life that should make him meet for heaven, though he may discover the keys
to the gates of heaven are the self-same keys to the gates of hell.

He goes on listening, longing to be closer. How can he get there and hear
whoever it is play? The doors are locked and bolted. Besides, he dare not
unlock the kitchen door; for the key grates so horribly, and his uncle is
sure to hear any movement. He hangs his head out of the window; the
pressure against his flesh is keen; not such a great height, but as he is
neither spider nor fly, he cannot walk down the side of the brick wall. If
he were at home, he would know whence to smuggle the linen-line into his
possession - for a moment, he pauses, and giggles to himself, for he can
hear Freddy Dale's voice urging, "Go on, do it. You know you want to, Do
it." He wishes Freddy were by him now; his flesh stiffens more. Perhaps
Stephen Stevens holds the linen-line, but he dare not investigate the man's
dominions on any account. But there are shops in town and money in his jar,
and he makes up his mind to purchase a rope and perform a little gymnastic
feat, and thus leave the house unobserved and unsuspected.

This is nonsense, and Ralph knows it, but it puts him in such good spirits
that he begins to whistle Brahms' 'The Grave is My Joy'. He strips away his
school uniform, drapes them carefully over the armchair, and, for few
moments, stands as God made him before the mirrored wardrobe. He recalls
his father's frequent admonition to "stand erect, boy, always erect". Well,
he is surely fulfilling his father's advice, for rarely has he been so
erect. He half turns and scrutinises himself side-on; he is a big boy; he
wonders how he compares with Freddy Dale. If they were stood together, side
by side, here and now, how would they compare? Perhaps it would be better
to stand face to face, chest to chest, belly to belly, and compare. His
hand slides towards his boyhood. "No, no, that way lies sin," he whispers
to himself; but, when all is said and done, he is only a boy; and his
fingers slide through the curly hair at the base of his stomach, and touch
-

A rap at the door terminates his reverie with extreme prejudice. He dives
onto his bed, scrambles below the single blanket, and slides between the
icy sheets. Between the words 'come' and 'in' his voice leaps what he
supposes is a full octave, which he knows in theory is the interval between
two musical notes on of which has twice the pitch of the other and lies
eight notes way from it counting inclusively along the diatonic scale.

Enter Stephen Stevens.

And what is this he is carrying? It's stone water bottle. He advances on
the bed, his smile as warm as the comfort he carries. He fails to see, or
chooses to ignore, Ralph's blue-striped pyjamas that lie atop the dark
brown blanket.

"Thought you might welcome this tonight, young sir," he explains,
indicating the bottle. "Starry, starry night, but frosty too." Ralph lies
as frozen as the frost on the window sill.

Stevens steps forward, and edges down the blanket and top sheet. Ralph's
body is ablaze. Stevens whistles, and whispers, "Best be careful where we
deposit this." He strips blanket and sheet to the boy's feet, and slides
the bottle against them; then raises blanket and sheet to the boy's
neck. Those dark eyes are gazing up at him. "Sleep well, young sir," says
Stevens; he leans over the boy and kisses his forehead; "everything's for
the best; you'll see; in the end, everything's for the best. Tomorrow you
will resume your education and that will enable you to listen to any old
nonsense without losing your temper.

The man is not long gone from the room, before sleep, sweet and impartial,
comes to the boy's relief.

And what of Freddy Dale?

He is not yet abed. Having gone home, full of the events of the afternoon,
he finds Charlie in a better humour; he generally improves as the hour for
his practice grows near; and he and their father laugh merrily over the
belfry story. Fred regards them both, and wishes he were a little
older. Ah, foolish youth; for no wise man ever wishes to be younger; nor
younger to be older.

"Freddy!" His brother's voice is indignant. "Why is it that no one listen
until I fart?" murmurs the younger Dale, who then hurries on with the
conversation: "He's rather a nice sort of chap, that Barkitt, who was up in
the belfry with me. He beats all the boys in the matter of looks, though he
doesn't seem to know it a bit; and he's an awful dab at lessons - in the
upper fifth, of course. Out of school he's first-rate; game for a laugh. He
was splendid at climbing those stairs in the belfry. I want to see what he
can do in the gymnasium. Were you at the service this afternoon, Charlie?"

"My name is Charles. No, why?"

"Because Barkitt, Ralph, was there. I want you to see him. There's
something about him I can't make out; something the matter with him."

"Just like you, Frederick Dale. You're completely off your head over this
new friend, but in a week there will be someone else who will put him quite
in the background. You're as fickle as Fate, Freddy."

"I dare say," retorts Freddy serenely. "It's more than one can say of
you. You haven't got a special friend in the whole town, I don't believe. I
wouldn't be you for something."

"Now, now, boys, hush, hush," comes a sigh from Mr. Dale. "Charlie, I
believe you have some work to do. Perhaps you can make a start while I help
Fred with his German exercise." Freddy echoes his father's sigh and says,
"Why should I learn German when I already speak the bestest language in the
world perfectly?" There is no response, and he adds, "I say, father, can't
Charlie comes to the festival on Tuesday? He says he can't leave Louis and
the supper."

"Stuff and nonsense!" says Mr. Dale directly. "Charles, my dear, why cannot
Sarah take care of Louis for once? And, as for supper, I expect we shall be
able to live even without it. You must and shall go to the festival."

Charlie's weary face lights up wonderfully as he hears his father's
words. He would never have asked leave to go; but he is thankful Papa has
remembered his longing, and is prepared to satisfy it. Freddy slips his
fingers into the bonbon dish, only to be reminded by Charlie that bonbons
are for after homework, not before.

"But I'm only helping myself," he pleads cheerfully; "and Papa always says
God helps those who help themselves."

Mr. Dale raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, Freddy, it is true that God helps those who help themselves; but God
help those who get caught helping themselves. As God once said; and I don't
think He was wrong, 'Bonbons are for after dinner, not before.' Therefore,
bonbons after homework remains the Eleventh Command in this household."

Unabashed, Freddy pops in a quick bonbon, murmuring "sweets to the sweet";
Mr. Dale forbears to point out that the Bard's 'sweets' are funeral
bouquets scattered on the grave of the fair Ophelia; as his younger son
joyfully adds: "Oh, yes, Papa! Sarah can cook supper and watch Louis too;
only I didn't care to ask you----"

"Why, my child?" Mr. Dale says kindly, laying his hand on the boy's arm;
"You are an inexpressible comfort to me, and I want you to have all the
sunshine you can get in this dull place." Both Dale boys blink in surprised
unison; for the most part Papa Dale seems blissfully unaware of the
dullness of his eldest son's life; but, being the dutiful sons they are,
neither comments on this sudden change of heart.

"That's a jolly good pater," cries Freddy, seizing the opportunity to shut
up his books. I guess the place will be crowded. I know lots of folks are
coming, who never come to the cathedral hardly. Are you going to play
tonight? Do you want me to blow?"

"Yes, tonight; Billy can't come, so we'll blow for each other," says
Charlie gaily. Though no great musician himself, Charlie will always blow
when his brother wants to play. So they have ever such a good time, while
Ralph, sadly musing in his lonely room, wonders who is in the cathedral.

Next day dawns as next will, and as his mother promised him, Ralph finds
tomorrow is another day, and with the new day comes renewed life and
activity. Cheerily Ralph goes to his new school duties, and looks anxiously
for the friendliest face in the crowded room. It is missing. Freddy rarely
manages to be in time two mornings running; he appears soon after the bell,
not seeming to care in the least for the consequences of being late. As he
cheerfully remarks to Ralph: "The clock is always too late or too early for
anything I want to do."


The story of the Dean's adventure has got about in a most mysterious way;
that he and Wilson had been up in the belfry; and that in coming down the
Dean had measured his length along with another on the dusty floor. Our
rascals join in the merriment, but do not care to enlighten anyone as to
who the ghosts were. Arthur Jolly is very indignant, refuses to believe a
word of it, and ends by saying he will ask his father all about it. Young
Arthur blushes furiously, and once more Ralph is taken by boy's utterly
unconscious beauty.

After morning school the boys troop into the courtyard for a game before
going home for lunch. Freddy seizes Ralph by the arm: "Come into the gym,
Ralphy. Are you up to that sort of game?" he asks, dragging his companion
towards the detached building they generally designate the hall. "I want to
see you on the horizontal bar. You took those steps so marvellously well
yesterday."

"What steps?" chimes Arthur.

A warning look is hardly needed from Ralph, and Freddy merely says: "Why,
some steps he went up yesterday, Mr. Curiosity. Come along, Ralph."

The gym is fitted up with every modern appliance for gymnastic exercise;
James Tunstall is much devoted to the ideal of 'mens sana' etc.,
particularly where his boys are concerned; for him, as perhaps for you dear
Reader, there is no great distance between the beautiful body and the
beautiful mind; at least as far as boys are concerned.

In the gym there is one, evidently the great man of the school, who is very
expert in the exercises, and he immediately pounces on Ralph.

"Now, Barker - what's your name? - show us what you can do?"

There is a good deal of sarcasm under the words, but Ralph appears not to
notice it; and, nothing loath, he throws off his jacket, strips off his
shirt, hands it to Freddy, and before his critical observers can believe it
he is on the bar, performing feats of skill with an ease and dexterity even
beyond the great 'man'. The boys crowd around the bar; some notice the
sheen on the boy's torso; some the hair in his armpits; some his pronounced
nipples; some the curve of his buttocks; some the bulge at the front of his
grey flannels as he stretches, face up, his back against the bar. The
boarders sigh, and some wish he were a member of their morning and nightly
shower troop. Suddenly the newcomer drops to the ground in the midst of
them, hardly out of breath.

"Whew!" whistles Fred; then he says loudly enough for all to hear, "Takes
the shine out of Tom Rayford, don't he?"

"Hold your tongue, Dale," snaps Thomas Rayford, not a bit pleased; "it's
true I can't do that whirlygig affair; too girly by far; but I wonder how
high this Barker can jump?" The challenge in his voice is explicit. "Barker
won't care to witness my exploits," he adds.

"Too true," remarks Bruce, Rayford's staunchest ally; "he won't beat
Rayford in the high jump."

"Try him! Try him!" cry the spectating boys, and a dozen hands stretch out
to adjust the jumping rope.

Rayford looks defiantly in Ralph's face; then says quite coolly: "Do you
care to try me?"

"Certainly," says Ralph briskly; then adds aside to Freddy, "What's he good
for?"

"About his own height, I should think, and he's taller than you. You'll get
nobbled, I fear."

"Don't care; I'll give it my best." Then Ralph proceeds to make the first
leap.

Of course for the first few leaps nothing occurs; both boys are evidently
in fine trim, make their runs well, go over coolly, and land on the other
side. Rayford steals a glance at his competitor; and Freddy detects a
grudging respect in the taller boy's eyes. With a grunt, Rayford strips of
his shirt and vest, and throws them to Bruce. Like Ralph, his chest is well
defined, nipples taut and proud in the chilly air.

Higher and higher the rope gets. till it reaches Ralph's shoulder; still he
does not hesitate, even when Rayford's respect turns to daggers. Up and
over they go, only this time it is evident that Rayford must make
considerable effort to do it. Not so Ralph. He seems to tread the air
first, then flies over as if he were the young Icarus soaring to the sun.

The younger boys are delighted, their cries urging the competitors onwards
and upwards. But one side suddenly sobers as Rayford makes one of those
dead stops, so terribly humiliating, before the rope instead of clearing
it. It is higher than he has ever managed. Still he is determined to do it,
if only to silence this young upstart.

One more try - another failure; red and angry, he dashes at it again, this
time jumping, but tangling the cord between his legs and bringing it
down. Still another desperate try, but with no success; and the pill is
bitter when Ralph soars over the rope to land lightly on the jumping
mats. He rises to his feet, and holds out his hand to Rayford.

Oh, dear Reader, his generous offer is met with scorn as Rayford turns his
back, grabs his clothes, and stalks from the gym. Ralph has made an enemy.

This show of agility and skill brings him into public notice, and he is no
longer a stranger in a strange land. All the boys go crazy after him, and
the attention does him good, and makes him cone out of his reserve, just a
little.


CHAPTER VI

The day before the festival, and Bruce, who was to have taken the soprano
solos, turns up ill, and among all the boys none is found so capable of
taking his place as Frederick Dale. Of course, it is a great honour; but
lazy Fred is by no means delighted at being chosen. He knows it means a
great deal of hard practice, and he hates recitatives; as Freddy so
immoderately puts it - "a recitative is mainly farts and raspberries" and
"continuo accompaniment is something up with which I will not put!" It's
not that he minds singing in a crowded cathedral; nervousness is not at all
in his line; but he is very much offended at having so much extra work to
do. Alas, schoolboys are rarely masters of their fate, and Freddy finds
himself drafted into service.

However, who, with a love of music in them, can fail to be brought to their
senses by such glorious music as he is practising? - Perhaps only one with
the ear of Van Gogh for music! And soon Freddy forgets his grievances, and
tackles his part with good taste and feeling; for the boy is as good as
gold - when he is singing.

A Sunday comes before the festival - Ralph's first Sunday away from his
home, and a weary day it is too. But there are services at the cathedral,
and Ralph in his loneliness makes his way there to seek more human company
than he can find at his uncle's - Stevens being away that weekend. The
place is well filled, and Ralph likes his seat. The sermon is as dry as the
dust in the belfry, or in the crypt, and Ralph has to listen with both ears
to take it in; as far as he can make out, the sermon suggests that all's
well that ends well - and vice versa. The boy finds more comfort in the
hymns and the old familiar words of the beautiful liturgy; it reminds him
of home; it is not easy to hold back the tears.

"Well, Barkitt, I wonder to see you here. How melancholy you look! Have you
been mooning all through the service?"

Disturbed in his meditations by the high, unbroken voice, turns to find the
quizzical glance of young Arthur Jolly drinking him in.

"Yes; I've no one to talk to when Dale is up at practice. What a lot of
time it does take up!"

Those who are surprised at Ralph's intimate declaration to a younger boy he
hardly knows may not know boys as well as they would like. Frankness comes
easy to boys such as Ralph Dale and Arthur Jolly. There is little of the
dissembling of adulthood; an honest question is honestly answered.

"Yes; still it's jolly there on Sunday afternoons; do come along when you
are free. My father says you are a fine young fellow, and welcome to our
home at any time. I say, don't look so blue. What's the matter?"

Cheerful Freddy has never troubled to ask that question; but here is this
young boy, with his great innocent eyes, looking full into Ralph's solemn
face. "Nothing; at least nothing that you can help," he says sadly.

To his surprise, the younger boy puts his elbows on his companion's knees,
and looks straight into his dark eyes with - "I don't want to pry; but it
seems too bad that you should be so gloomy when everything is so bright and
beautiful. And just remember: when things seem darkest, you can see the
stars best."

Ralph, much comforted, lays his hand caressingly over Arthur's; the boy
continues: "I shan't go on if you don't want me to. Perhaps you'll think
I'm talking cant. The boys call me Saint Arthur, I know; but I don't
care. I don't want to preach to you... Ralph, may I call you Ralph? ...if
you'd rather not hear anything."

"Go on, Arthur," says Ralph, quite touched. "I like you, and I'd like to
hear something to make me happier."

Arthur rises, and squeezes past Ralph into the dark corner at the end of
their pew. "Let me sit here," he whispers; "I know I have a light voice,
but I daren't disturb the choir. Look, push up beside me; that'll make
things quieter, and no one will suspect I'm here. There, yes, that's
good. I say, Ralph, you may be a little blue, but you are toasty warm, and
you smell like fresh baked bread. Let me snuggle in a bit. So, you are not
happy?" Ralph shakes his head and sighs. "No; I do believe I've forgotten
what happiness is."

"Well, the text for this morning's early service was 'Do unto others as you
would be done by'; and the speaker, a visitor, was ever so nice. He made me
feel as if, with all the joy to come by-and-by, we shouldn't be dismal
here; he gave us such a picture of what is behind the clouds, and, oh
Ralph, when the sun breaks through, all sorrow and sighing and tears and
night will be gone for good! Oh, I wish you'd been with me; I do think the
man would have helped you. He has ever such good ideas about happiness. I
think he meant that happiness is getting involved with something, or
someone, that gives you real pleasure; and which at the same time has real
meaning. Or something of that sort."

Ralph's eyes rest on the boy's sweet face, the rosy lips, the creamy
cheeks, the dusting of freckles, the young face, so animated and earnest
beside him. He puts his arm round the boy and pulls him close, saying
kindly: "Oh, Arthur, what do you know yet about joys and sorrows?"

"Oh, you are so warm and toasty," sighs the boy, dropping a little hand
onto Ralph's lap; "so warm when my fingers are so cold. Can you feel the
chill in my fingers? You don't mind do you?" Ralph does not mind though he
is slightly alarmed that Arthur's hand is resting on his growing
parts. Still, there is such innocence in the boy that all must be innocent,
and there is no pillow so soft as innocence. Ralph is as yet unaware that
Arthur has spent much of his boyhood doing what others did not.

"It is true I do not know much of the sorrows," says Arthur, pressing his
hand for emphasis and warmth; "but a good deal of joys; and feeling so
happy makes me sorry to see others miserable. As for me, I shall try my
utmost never to be miserable. Remember: a shared sorrow is half a sorrow,
but a shared joy is a doubled joy!" Arthur Jolly is his father's son.

"But perhaps being miserable is part of growing up. There are so many
grown-ups who seem so miserable."

 "Then I shall never grow up," declared Arthur stoutly. "I shall be the boy
who never grew up! It will never be beneath my dignity to climb a tree. I
won't wear a tie nor a solemn expression in the merry month of May. And
I'll never grow a damned moustache, no, sir, not even a fraction of an
inch."

If the boys are more observant, they'll noticed the slight figure of a man,
sitting just behind them. They would like his air, they would like his
smile, though they might be puzzled that this little man is taking notes in
church, and, believe it or not, dear Reader, chewing on a pipe. But our
heroes, if that is what they turn out to be, are preoccupied: Arthur grimly
determined never to grow up; and Ralph stirred beneath the boy's hand,
which absent-mindedly presses down on his lap.

Ralph feels himself grow beneath the boy's touch, but resolutely ignores
his flesh, and confesses, "I have a darling mother and brother behind those
clouds, Arthur, and I am so lonely without them." He feels what must be
Arthur's thumb soothing the tender flesh inside his upper leg.

"I'm so sorry - I didn't know," whispers Arthur; "but, I say, don't you
ever think of what joy, what everlasting joy, is on their heads now, how
happy they are, and how glad to be there. And just think, Ralph, what they
want for you is to be happy! To do and to be what makes you happy!" The
soothing thumb, joined by two fingers, is more insistent now. Ralph feels
himself lengthen, thicken, straighten and rise. "You do understand, don't
you, Ralph; all they want is for you to be happy; all I want is for you to
be happy. You do understand, don't you? Oh, say you do!" Thumb and fingers
are stroking full length now.

"Yes, I do," almost gasps Ralph, gathering the boy into his arms; "and I
feel so much better for you talking to me, helping me, soothing me. I feel
the happiness rising within mine; and happiness that will soon be
overflowing."

"But, come along now," he adds in a sudden changed tone, releasing Arthur
from his embrace and springing to his feet. The smaller boy, now on his
knees, presses his cheek against Ralph, and whispers, "Oh, let us stay a
few moments more; only stand there while I offer a prayer for your
happiness."

Ralph steps back.

"But, Arthur, the service is over, and I must not be late. We shall have
all the time in the world - later. But it's time I was back at the Corner
House." He raises the boy gently to his feet.


"Fancy us living next door to one another," chirps Arthur, as catching the
hand Ralph holds out to him, they make their way to the aisle. "I think
it's awfully jolly."

"What is there jolly in having a gloomy old party like me for a neighbour?
- and you're such a baby," laughs Ralph. "You have done me more good than a
world of doctors. My father sent me to a doctor; he said I had melancholia;
but just because a doctor has a name for your condition doesn't mean he
knows what it is, or how to treat it."


"I'm not a baby," protests Arthur; "I'm eleven and two months. Don't call
me a baby..." then adds shyly... "unless I'm your baby."

Ralph laughs heartily. "I'll try to remember that, you sweet little infant;
only you must humour me." The older boy went on: "I would certainly like to
have some nice little friend to come and lecture me on my behaviour, and
try to make me good."

Arthur does not know whether to be vexed or pleased; but after a searching
look into Ralph's dark eyes he decides to be the latter, and sighs
contentedly: "Well, yes, I'm going to make you happier, you poor dismal
piece of goods - if I can."

Laughing together, the boys arrive at the Deanery gate. Ralph, with a burst
of his former emotion, draws Arthur to him and holds him passionately; then
he releases him with, "God bless you, Art," turns and walks away.

The evening's service increases the softened feeling the conversation has
put into his heart; so, instead of listening, Ralph thinks it all over
again, and glances to where Arthur sits, with his head resting against the
carving that divides their seat from the Canons' stalls - apparently sound
asleep! The small boy makes a beautiful picture as he slumbers there, with
the lamplight playing on his fair hair and closed eye-lids. Ralph can
plainly see that, young as he is, the 'peace that passeth understanding' is
written on his lips, and he envies the boy his happiness.

"Happiness, happiness," sighs Ralph, letting himself drift away as if on an
out-going tide. He is walking along the beach near his family home; the sea
is calm, the air warm, the cry of the gulls half-hearted. He is walking
along the beach, seeking happiness, but where, oh where, is happiness to be
found. In the distance a boy is running towards him; the shimmering air
makes it difficult to see; the boy, fair in limb and form, is angelic; no,
not angelic, but an angel! He runs as if the soles of his feet barely touch
the golden sand; golden hair streams behind him. The boy is naked, as
innocently naked as the cherubim who peek down from the vault of the
cathedral. Ah, the cherubim, members of the second order of angels, whose
distinctive gift is knowledge. What knowledge does this cherub bring to
him? The knowledge of happiness! The boy angel is closer now; and wonder of
wonders, it is Arthur; running arms outstretched towards the boy to whom he
has promised... happiness. And Ralph sees that the boy is erect! In his joy
and delight, the little angel is fully erect, his boyhood bouncing prettily
against his slightly convex tummy. Oh, what joy, what transports of
delight. Closer, closer comes the boy, bring Ralph - happiness! No, not
happiness, but 'a penis'!

"...on England's green and pleasant land!"

The thundering close of 'Jerusalem' jerks Ralph awake. For a moment he
knows not where he is, but as he sights Arthur again, something of the
boy's peace that passes understanding enters his soul.

Monday passes uneventfully. Of course the principal topic for conversation
is the coming festival. Freddy is out of school at various times practising
his solos, and when by this means he misses German and Latin he is
reconciled to his lot. He feels, too, a very great man in his own mind,
though no one looking at him could discover a hint of pride on his open,
merry face. Twice he has been complimented by the choir master on his
solos, and Freddy can live happily on those for an entire month. Of course
Freddy still has problems reaching some of those higher notes; but he is
unconcerned, for he is yet to encounter a problem, be it ever so big or
complicated, that he hasn't bee able to run away from.

Tuesday comes as Tuesdays do, to find the cathedral in a state of
muddle. Chairs have been placed in every conceivable spot; the choir-seats
are extended to meet the wants of the numerous choristers, and men are
flying hither and thither, all busy. There are plenty of lookers-on too;
for such a festival happens rarely in Sandhaven. Arthur is wild with
excitement and delight; his cheeks are lamps. He loves the old cathedral
and everything in it, and about it, even its shadows; and he longs for the
evening to come.

Of course it comes at last, and, as Frederick has said, half of Sandhaven
is here; even a full moon has turned out, and the frost is deep and crisp
and even. Sandhaven has come to hear the music; though music is as
essentially useless as their own lives, Sandhaven wants to hear how much or
how little it will be like the performances in London.

Ralph gets there early, and establishes himself in his uncle's place. That
good gentleman thinks it a precious waste of time going so soon, so he has
bid Ralph keep their places. He has done so for some time, looking
anxiously for Uncle Barkitt to appear, and also for another. Suddenly two
people are put next him, filling up the places. Ralph calls the verger, and
whispers his uncle is coming; the poor man is bewildered. He has in his
hands the newcomers' tickets, which entitle them to a seat in that very
spot. What is he to do?

Ralph turns and looks round; a hot blush mounts to his face; he is not sure
why. It is only a boy, a young man, perhaps a year or so older than
himself, but he feels almost faint. He gets up, and with his usual courtesy
asks the stranger to take his seat, saying he will find himself another
quite easily, though in the madding crowd this will be easier said than
accomplished. The young man waves Ralph down, saying, "We won't hear of
it. We'll crush together somehow," and pressing the boy into a corner,
makes sure there is enough room for the late-comer. The cathedral is soon
filled; all is warm and cosy; Ralph feels a hot thigh pressed against his
soon. He tries to think of other things, only to see once again his beloved
Arthur running naked along the beach. Ah, sweet are the uses of adversity.

Nothing can spoil the waiting time. The quiet bustle of the congregation;
the brilliant lights and heavy shadows that mingle in the lofty roof; the
organ being played at intervals; and, accompanying all, the clanging and
clashing of the bells. Words come to his mind, words he read only that
morning -

		"Through the balmy air of night,
		 How they ring out their delight!
		 Oh, from out the sounding cells
		 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
		 How it tells of the rapture that impels
		 To the swinging and the ringing of the bells,
		 The bells! The bells! 'Those bloody bells!'"

It must be admitted, dear Reader, that the final phrase was inserted by
Uncle Barkitt, who, having what has become called a migraine headache, was
in no fit state to appreciate the morning bells with his buttered bread and
coffee.

The memory causes Ralph a little giggle; that brings a smile not only to
his face, but to that of his companion; for let us risk calling Charles
Dale a companion of Ralph Dale, even if they are yet to be formally
introduced.

The organ ceases, and amid the shuffling silence, out comes a long stream
of choristers, pair after matched pair, big, small and indifferent. Ralph,
feverishly excited, waits for Freddy to make his appearance. Freddy
appears, trips, rises, and then, turning red in the face with suppressed
merriment, finishes the journey, holding out beside him about a yard of the
hem of his cassock, which he has trodden on and torn. Ralph feels inclined
to laugh at first, but serious thoughts overcome him as the service
commences; for there is little Arthur, cassocked and surpliced to the
nines, bearing the Book of Common Prayer before the Dean, who, once seated,
accepts the boy's bow, the proffered volume, and signals that with his son
he is well pleased. A beaming Arthur takes his place on the foot stool
before his father, and the service sets sail.

Frederick does his part grandly. He is hardly heard at first, but he grows
accustomed to the sound of his voice, and sings bravely out to the
satisfaction of all present.

One chorus proves too much for Ralph - the sweet music, and sweeter words,
of "Happy and blest are they who have endured; for though the body die, the
soul shall live forever." How vividly the angel faces of his mother and his
brother come before him, and he again pictures them, not in the corrupt and
worm-meat they have become, but as mother-eternal, and sweet brother, who,
as his wise little friend has instructed him, now serve on high.

Still, tears trickle down his cheeks; and he makes no move as a warm hand
takes his own, enfolds it, squeezes gently, and holds. Charlie, too, has
brought his troubles into church - his hard life, his dull days, his lost
studies. But as he hears the gorgeous music swell around him, and sees the
tears glisten on Ralph's young cheeks, he cannot help taking a hand in
need, to hold it in his own needy hand. The boys turn and smile at each
other for a moment; then return their attention to the choir, where Freddy
has embarked upon his do-or-die solo; and it looks as if Freddy will
survive and triumph. Charlie looks earnestly as his brother as he stand
there singing with all his might, and he wonders he has not felt more
loving to the merry-hearted boy. For Freddy is his charge - his scared
charge. Now the grandeur of the task rises before him, eclipsing all the
drudgery; Charlie determines henceforth to devote his whole life to the
three left to his care; and, after, but only after they have ceased to need
his care, he will let other love come into his life.

He squeezes the hand he holds, and is a little startled to find the squeeze
returned. He looks at the dark-eyed boy sitting next to him; his gaze is
met with an equally frank gaze. "Isn't the soloist wonderful?" Ralph
whispers to his confidant; "Isn't he just wonderful?"

Charlie starts from his reverie to find the solo has ceased; 'Lead kindly
light', signals the end of the service, together with the voice of the
officiating clergymen sending the good people of Sandhaven into that glad,
good night. Charlie bends his head low, to receive the blessing from heaven
he earnestly implores on his new resolves; then, finding the boy he
comforted gone, waits to take his younger brother home.



CHAPTER VII

BETTER ANGELS

"What did you think of it, Charlie?" inquires Freddy eagerly as soon as
they are outside the cathedral. "Didn't it go splendidly?"

"Well, perhaps you shouldn't be the one to say so," laughs the elder
brother pleasantly; "but I'll gratify your pride, and say it's gone far
better than I ever expected; and, Frederick, I'm quite proud of you; and I
am glad I came." He says the last words so gravely that the boy looks at
him a little surprised.

"Didn't you think you would like it?" Surely you didn't wish you were
stewing over the what's-for-supper instead? Which did you like best?"

Without hesitation, Charlie says, "The solo. 'Be thou faithful.'"

"Oh, that! that's nothing." Then he names one or two of the finer
choruses. "Didn't you like those?"

"Oh, yes! but not like the other. I've never heard anything like it." Then
he adds a little differently, "and I was proud of my brother; I think he
sang ever so sweetly."

"Shut up!" says Freddy quickly, for he knows that even the king upon his
throne is seated on his own arse; "I shall hear enough about that; don't
you take on."

"Well, it's something to be proud of, I should say. I wish I were able to
sing like that."

"Oh, it's nothing," says Freddy carelessly; and indeed he seems quite
unmoved by his own success. "Anyhow, I'm jolly glad it's over. There'll be
no practising for a time - not such jolly hard work for me. I'm quite worn
out; don't I look thin?" He pauses, then adds, "I say, I wonder where Ralph
Barkitt was?"

"Where did you expect him to be?"

"Why, in his uncle's seat; he got there early, I know; I saw him. One
moment he was there, the next he was gone - poof! like magic!"

"Ah!" says Charlie; "not gone, merely squashed."

"Squashed!" exclaims Freddy; "How so? Squashed."

"Squashed into the corner, by me," explains the brother. "You see, there
was some mix-up about the seating, so Ralph - that is his name, isn't it? -
was kind enough to squash into the corner so that I might have a seat. It
must have been young Barkitt. A splendid-looking fellow; dark eyes."

"That's him," says Freddy confidently; "it's just like Ralph. I'm glad you
like the looks of him. Don't you think it is as I said?"

"What?"

"Why, that he has something on his mind - some secret."

"I couldn't see his face clearly; it is dark in that corner. But if he does
have something weighing on his mind, you must try to cheer him up, as you
seem to like him well enough."

"H'm, I do like him, lots, but he's so queer; you can't get inside him even
a bit; he turns you off so coolly. Once I tried to make him tell me
something about his home, and he looked quite savage for a minute; then he
turned as scarlet as a poppy, and said something quite different. Yet I do
like him; can't help it. Fancy him living with that old bear Barkitt;
rather like me living with Aunt Sarah. But I say, brother, let me introduce
you to Ralph. Perhaps you can cheer him up; get inside him, just a little
bit, so to speak."

Home is reached and the conversation ended; but Charlie takes his resolves
and his comfort into the house with him, and his face looks brighter and
braver than it has done for many a day; and, if the truth be told, his
thoughts wander back to the dark-eyed boy who'd pressed so closely in the
confines of the cathedral.  The smell of the boy lingers still; not unmixed
with the mustiness of candles, dust, cobwebs, and antiquity; and it is a
heady aroma that causes a familiar stirring between his legs.

Meanwhile Freddy dreams on about a seafaring life after school. He could
never, would never!, settle down in a dull, dreary office all day; it was
too much to expect. He'd read a wonderful novel - Coral Island something or
other - and it had confirmed his passion for a life at sea. He was young,
so very young, but already he could see himself scampering up the rigging,
calling "Land ho!" and joining in a sea shanty with his fellow salty
dogs. Yes! the seafaring life is for Freddy; and how wonderful if Ralph
Barkitt were with him!

Next morning, meeting up in the empty gym, Freddy surprises Ralph by
asking: "Well, Barkitt, what do you think of my brother?"

"Your brother?" replies Ralph, somewhat mystified.

"Yes, my brother. At the festival. In the cathedral. In your pew."

"Your brother?" repeats Ralph, blushing profusely as he recalls the warmth
thigh pressed against his own. "Was that your brother I...?"

"Indeed it was. He was going to speak to you, only you bolted so
quickly. And you've been listening to him playing the organ of an
evening. I sometimes go to blow for him, but I haven't for some time,
because of the practising, don't you know?"

"Well, if you're so mightily inquisitive, I was listening to the music. If
you must know, I enjoy it immensely. I can hear it from my window; and the
best of it is, no one knows I come."

"Not your uncle?"

"He's fast asleep, I hope. Stephen, our man, leaves the door ajar for me to
slip out, and slip back in later, of course."

Freddy is amazed at Ralph's perseverance, and shows his astonishment with,
"Well, I never, you cheeky blighter. Spying on our Charlie," and with a
laugh he throws himself onto the older boy, bearing him down to the thick
gym mats.

Without warning, Freddy lifts one leg and traps Ralph beneath him; Ralph
lets forth a gasp as the boy straddles his thighs, just below private
area. He could throw Freddy off, but somehow is reluctant to lose this
intimacy. He feels himself harden and lengthen below his friend; his face
is ablaze because the younger boy must feel it, too. The boy drops his head
until it is just below Ralph's chin; he can smell the lavender pomade in
the boy's hair. Freddy growls, grabs Ralph's arms and extends them above
his head. "Spy on my brother, would you?" he murmurs.

Freddy pushes against him, legs on legs, belly on belly, growing part on
growing part; Ralph realises the boy, too, is aroused. Freddy's hair is
against Ralph's lips; he opens his mouth to protest, and finds the boy's
lips against his own. He is unsure what to do, then takes the boy's lips
between his teeth and nips gently. Freddy answers by pushing his tongue
deep in his friend's mouth; the response is reciprocal, and tongues,
slippery and sloppy with spit and saliva duel for mastery; breath so
intermingled that neither boy can tell which is his.

The younger boy twists his hips, and grinds his cock into the boy below,
who answers by pressing his own hardness into the boy above. Freddy swivels
his hips, causing his erect penis to scrape backwards and forwards across
Ralph's. The whole world becomes the swivelling hips, the hot pressed
flesh, the tongues, the lips, the single breath till... Freddy's entire
body jerks above Ralph's, and Ralph hears the "Oh, oh, oh!" of sweet
release.

Freddy rolls away, and Ralph feels the terrible absence of the boy's legs,
stomach, chest, neck, and hot peppery kisses, leaving Freddy's tremors to
become his own.

"I did it! I've shot my load!" exults Freddy. "Have you?" he asks, somewhat
glassy eyed.

"Have I what?" whispers Ralph.

"Have you shot your load?" the younger boy asks.

"No," is the single-syllabled answer.

"Well, I have," announces Freddy, flicking open three buttons, and pulling
out his half-swollen cock. "Damn it," he sighs, "I've got some of the gloop
in my..." With no trace of shame or bashfulness, he hooks a large glob of
sperm with his forefinger, and licks it away. "There, that'll save a bit of
the mess. Now let's see you, please, Ralphy. If you haven't shot, I'll help
you; that's what bumchums are for."

Whether Ralph would have afforded himself of the younger boy's assistance
is moot; for at that moment, excited voices are heard near the entrance;
and in a flash our young heroes are on their feet, their clothing organised
in a trice, which is to say, in a single tug.

"I say, Barkitt, won't you give us a lesson in the high jump?"

Young Arthur Jolly comes leaping forward, pursued by half a dozen juniors,
eager to see the new great man in action.

"Not at the moment, Arthur," demurs Ralph; "Freddy and I have some further
business in hand, but soon, I promise."

"Ah, well, a boy cannot have everything he wants, just when he wants it,"
laughs Arthur, who, with his friends, sets to raising the high jump.

As the boys leave the gym, Freddy turns to Ralph: "I say, Ralphy, come and
listen to Charlie; he's in the organ-loft, and he's ever so keen to see you
again. Don't be a donkey, cone along." Freddy pulls his 'bumchum' through
the dark building, and they both laugh at the remembrance of another recent
trip to the organ-loft. Ralph has regained his self-possession, but it
flees when they arrive in a dimly-lit corner, face to face with Charlie
Dale, who, seated before the organ, extends a hand in cordial welcome.

"I hope you don't mind coming," Charlie begins; "I made Frederick bring you
up here that I might thank you for your kindness on Tuesday night. I felt
sorry to squash you into such a tight corner."

"Oh, I didn't mind!" says Ralph awkwardly. "I didn't know you were Freddy's
brother."

"And I didn't know you were the one Fred talks so much about," he laughs,
then pauses. "I say, where is that young rascal? Freddy!"

A voice responds from on high: "Never mind me; I'm just adventuring." It
seems Frederick Dale is up in the belfry again.

"Yes, you are the one Freddy talks so much about; I should have recognised
those dark eyes," he laughs, though rather bashfully. "It seems you come to
hear me play. I had no idea I was pleasuring anyone but myself. I simply
love to sit here of an evening, and play on my organ."

"And a very fine organ it is, too," confirms Ralph; "but if I have been the
intruder, do forgive me. I do so love music."

"Forgiveness needs to be neither asked nor given," says Charlie, then adds,
"I can get a little lonely up here of an evening; I would be grateful if
you could come and blow for me sometime."

"May I blow for you now?" asks Ralph. "Alas, I don't play, but I do so love
music. Will you play for me?"

In answer, Charlie begins to play, and Ralph stands still, in the height of
enjoyment. Charlie's soul is in his fingers, as they run the length of the
organ, and Ralph is transported, as he watches the changing expression of
the older boy's face. Here is someone who has not only found but what he
wants, but also knows how to enjoy it. How brave and faithful he looks as
his fingers move over the keys. He plays it through, putting heart and soul
into it; for, as he glances at the younger boy's face, he catches a glimpse
of the shadow Freddy referred to; and he feel sorry that, so new is their
acquaintance, he cannot reach out and touch Ralph's cheek, his neck, his
throat, or wherever he could be best comforted. So when he finishes, he
says: "I'm glad you liked that last hymn; I think it is certainly the best
in the hymnal. But don't look so solemn over it."

Ralph raises his eyes a moment, colours, then laughs; then, shrugging his
shoulders, says in his natural tone, "I loved it. I love your playing. But
now I must go."

"But you will come again?" asks Charlie, a note of urgency in his voice. I
shall be pleased to see you at any time, with or without my batty brother;
and in turn I shall come and see you at Mr. Barkitt's."

"At Mr. Barkitt's?" gasps Ralph.

"Why, yes," says Charlie; "don't you know that I am a friend, I may say a
dear friend of Mr. Barkitt's; why, when I was Freddy's age, I did many jobs
for Mr. Barkitt, around the house, the garden, and such. I may be so bold
as to say I am welcome at the Corner House any time."

A bright 'hurrah' escapes Ralph's lips, who then solemnly adds: "I will be
delighted and not a little grateful if I can come and hear you again..."

"Call me Charles, or Charlie if you will; but not Charlie! that is a
product of Freddy's uncouthness." Charlie is smiling, but the point is well
taken.

"...if I can come and hear you play again, Charlie. And perhaps you can
come for tea; I must say I get a little lonely at the Corner House
sometimes, and the company of someone closer to my own years would be most
welcome."

"Then we shall make it so," says Charles Dale, rising; "Now, best you are
off; we don't wish to upset Uncle Barkitt when our friendship has so newly
begun And in my heart of heart I know our friendship will double our joy
and erase our grief. Let's hob nob as much as we can!"

"Thanks awfully," says Ralph eagerly; "I will." Then he grasps the other
boy's hand, calls good-bye into the belfry, releases the warm, dry hand,
turns, and heads for home; and for the first time the Corner House feels
almost like home. As for his intimacy with Freddy Dale, he resolved not to
stuff his head up with something he didn't understand. Love might have its
will; but lust will have its way; so with men, so with boys.

The meeting with the eldest of the Dale brothers is the beginning of a firm
friendship, and Charlie likes to think he would now be able to do somebody
some good in the world. There seemed to be something in Ralph that
Frederick lacked - backbone, he calls it, though that's not quite it; but
he was not far wrong. Freddy is all very well as long as things go smoothly
and easily; but he would be sadly worsted in a battle of conscience, while
Ralph is learning right things in the hard school of life. Certainly he
hadn't been able to make much of an advance upon his brother. He controls
the sharp words that spring to his lips, and he has been more patient than
ever over Fred's failings; but his brother does not seem to notice. He gets
into scrapes at school and out of them, as an eel slips through slippery
fingers; and he seems so doggedly happy. He fails to recognise what Freddy
instinctively knows: people are as happy as they make up their minds to be;
and young Dale made up his mind a long time ago.



CHAPTER VIII

FALLING OUT

Many an evening do those two spend together in the organ-loft, and Ralph
soon feels quite at ease in Charlie's presence, and is much more
lively. Still he never mentions the thoughts so near his heart; and though
he is becoming more reconciled to life with his uncle, and feels quite at
home at school, yet the shadow still crosses his face, like a small cloud
across the sun. But when that smile of his lights up his whole face, and
when he laughs, it is a treat for all to hear and see him.

January slips into February, and the boys are working hard in schools for
the coming examinations' out of school some are constantly seen in the
gymnasium practising for sports. Let us glance in the changing rooms for a
moment: boys' bodies lit by gaslamps on the concrete walls, the scent of
armpits, discarded boots, plimsolls, and disinfectant; voices rise and
fall; shirts are pulled over heads, shorts and undergarments jerked off
with a single pull; naked bottoms disappear beneath the showering spray;
while two of the younger lads, wretched creatures, compete in a pissing
contest. Oh, let us not longer here, dear Reader' for who in his right mind
would choose to linger amongst so much naked white, pink, and brown flesh?

Of course Rayford and Barkitt are in the gymnasium most often than others,
for they are considered the greatest rivals' the only thing that Rayford is
certain to beat Ralph in is the long jump. Ralph is all hinges and springs,
the boys say; conventional wisdom opines Ralph ought to be an
acrobat. Ralph himself says nothing, but he is determined to beat Rayford
both in the exams and the sports. The two boys have never made friends,
though they are always civil to each other, studiously civil at times; but
Ralph has learnt a lesson once, and is careful about his tongue.

One day three or four of the Fourth Form - the one that always got into
scrapes - were found in a forbidden part of Sandhaven; it is enough to say
this was in the harbour area. They had been seen, and they had been peached
on! Who had seen them and told of them was a mystery; but it had reached
the ears of the Doctor, and the four culprits were severely punished; that
they were able to show the stripes on their bare arses for several days
after was hardly sufficient compensation.

Days passed, and apparently the offenders had forgotten about the
humiliation; but Gillett, the ringleader overheard Arthur Jolly talking to
Ralph Barkitt, and as he passed he caught the words: "...just got up to
'The Smack' when I saw..."

"Oh, the young saint!" thought Gillett, "so you peached on us, did you, you
young hypocrite? Well, you shall hear of it," and off he ran to call Bruce,
Whitney and Coleridge, his bum-chums and fellow-culprits, and told them all
he knew and all he didn't know, and, of course, aroused them to a fever
pitch of excitement and indignation. They waylaid the boy after gym, and
bundled back into the changing room of which we have enjoyed a brief
glimpse.

"Where were you on Saturday, Jolly?" barks Gillett.

"Here, of course."

"No, in the afternoon."

"Oh, let's see. Yes, I do believe I went down to the harbour."

"Oh, did you? And did you go on your tod?"

"Yes. What's that to you?"

"Why, you young sinner; it's you who peached on us. You went down Squeeze
Gut Alley, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I didn't split on you," says Arthur, now rather frightened, and
he looks round for aid, of which there is none." For a moment he raises his
eyes to the hills from whence aid might come, but as the changing rooms
have no windows, aid is not likely from that direction.

"Then tells us why you were there?" demands Bruce; "give us something we
can believe, you little deceiver."

Arthur turns red. What can he say?

"Come, now, out with it," says Gillett, shaking him roughly by the
arm. "You saw us, didn't you, coming out of 'The Smack'? You saw us, and
you peached on us."

Arthur turns crimson, but it may not be from guilt; Arthur knows why boys
sometimes go to 'The Smack', and he knows why it is forbidden.

"I can't say more than I have done," he protests. "I did see you four chaps
coming out of 'The Smack'; but you didn't see me."

"Worse luck," groans Bruce. "Little sneak hid himself, I bet; then went and
told. Dear little tell-tale," and he shakes his finger insolently in
Arthur's face. It wasn't your arse that got caned, you little blackguard."

"But it will now," hisses Gillett; who adds, "hold his arms, chaps. Let's
give him a taste of the Doctor's medicine."

Two boys seize Arthur's arms; Gillett drops to his knees, scrabbles, and,
with one swift tug, has the younger boy's trousers and underpants at his
ankles. "Now get him over the horse; let's paddle his arse."

In one fell swoop Arthur is dragged over to the gym horse and draped him
across its leathery back; unable to budge an inch, his head hangs on one
side, his small, shapely bottom raised high on the other. He can see
little, but he hears Gillett whistle: "I say, that's a frightfully pretty
bottom; be a shame to mark that." Then his body jerks as he feels a
frightful sting in his tail; someone has belted his bum with a skipping
rope. He closes his, grits his teeth, and whispers, "Not my will, but
Thine."

There is a pause, a mumbling, then his head is raised. He opens his eyes;
they open wider by themselves. Right before them is Gillett; he isn't quite
sure if it's Gillett; but he knows it's one of the boys; and he knows it's
a boy, because inches in front of his nose is a... a prick! and it's
stiffly erect. It's a stiffy, a hard-on, and erection; and it's being
rubbed against his lips.

"Now, little sainted one," says Gillett with bated breadth; "you've made us
very unhappy; but if you can make us very happy, all shall be forgiven; and
you will go home with your bum, that pretty little bum in the same
condition it arrived. But if not..."

Arthur feels the cheeks of his buttocks being parted; he feels something
thick, hot, moist, and fleshy split the crack; then something blunt press
against his backdoor. He gulps, parts his rosy red lips, and opens his
mouth wide. He catches himself murmuring, "For what we are about to
receive..." but realises how blasphemous that would be, and contents
himself with licking his lips, conjuring up some saliva, and doing the best
he can. A stiff, a very stiff prick slides into his mouth, touches the back
of his throat, retreats a little, and allows Arthur to begin a more than
satisfactory sucking motion. The small boy knows he should feel miserable,
but since nobody cares when you're miserable, he is determined to be happy.

Curly hairs tickle Arthur's nose, and he would sneeze if he were not so
preoccupied by the rod of the hot, hard flesh in his mouth - "Spare the
rod, and spoil the child," he thinks for a moment - then returns his
attention to the stiffy that touches the back of his throat, the warm hair
pressed against nose and lips, the hands that hold either side of his head,
as the thrusting continues. He loses sense of time and place; all is
sensation, until a thickening, a swelling, a hardening of the hose in his
mouth signals... spurt, spurt, spurt - gobbets of cream strike the back of
his throat, and he gulps to swallow them down.

"My turn..."

"No, my turn..."

Arthur hears the whispered squabble, and then is shocked to find two heads
struggling for a place in his mouth; he opens as wide as he can, and two
columns of stiff flesh slide into his mouth; he gags a little, but by
stretching his jaws wide he is able to accommodate the intruders that - it
must be said, even if vulgarly begin to fuck his mouth in harmony. If he
were able to, Arthur might giggle and protest that accommodating two pricks
is too much of a good thing; but he doubts these boys would recognise
Rosalind's words in 'As You Like It'; and he, too, remains undecided about
the eternal question: "Can one desire too much of a good thing?"

But the boy is distracted when he finds hot, hard pressure against the
little rosebud of his backdoor. Surely not? This is an epiphany not even
the Dean's young son anticipated. For a moment, he tries to close his back
passage against the intruder, but then, with sigh - not a simple act when
one's mouth and throat are fully occupied - he relaxes, and lets the
penetrator... well, penetrate, at least a fatal half inch. Soon the gates
of his innocence will be stormed, and - Gillett, Bruce, Whitney or
Coleridge will have his wicked way. Oh, how curious an epiphany!

"I say, stop that, you bounders! Go to the Devil, all of you!" Freddy's
voice rings across the gymnasium. All is scramble and flurry. Then Arthur
feels a hand on his shoulder: "I say, Jolly. Get off that horse. Cover your
arse; and the rest of you, too."

"Drat it!" mutters Arthur to himself; "it's Freddy Dale." But needs must;
he pulls himself together, and listens to the words of his saviour.

Freddy, with flashing eyes and clenched fists, stands at his side. It's too
much for young Dale to stand quietly by and see the boy so ill-treated.

"What business have you to interfere, Dale!" storms Gillett, unpleased and
unrelieved. "Just fuck off!" And he gives Freddy a good kick. This is too
much for the indignant rescuer, and he lets fly with all his might at
Gillett. A jolly fight is now certain, and the boys fly at each other with
a will.

Young Arthur is dreadfully distressed at this change of circumstances, and
he tries with all his might to persuade the combatants to separate. "Don't
fight; please, don't. Oh, I'm awfully sorry to have caused this bother! Do
leave off, I beg you!" But his entreaties are unheard or unheeded, and it
is not until Gillett, the slightly bigger boy, is knocked over, and has to
retire - accompanied by his chums - with a bleeding nose, that Freddy, hot
and excited, falls back, looking triumphantly around him. Gillett is taller
and perhaps stronger than Dale, but the latter's will and determination
carry him through. He too is rather knocked about, and he rejoins the
liberated Arthur, holding his handkerchief over his cut knuckles, and
muttering, "Some people are alive only because it is illegal to kill them."

Freddy laughs: "There, now, young 'un. Don't say I don't befriend
you. Gillett would still be up your arse if I hadn't got him off you. And
do wipe your chin; there's a good egg. If you get caught lile that, you'll
catch merry Hell."

"Oh, I don't believe in Hell," quips Arthur; "though my father makes a good
living out of the idea of Hell."

"I'm very sorry," says Arthur, half sadly, half sorrowfully. "I'd far
rather have stayed there all night than that you should have got hurt. It's
awfully good for you to stick up for me." So saying, the younger boy takes
the older's hand, and gently licks the grazed knuckles. "And remember,
Frederick, that God sees everything, and deals with everything in His own
good time. As for us, we should turn the other cheek; there's nothing makes
an enemy madder than that."

"Well, I saw what happened to you when you showed them the other cheek,"
grins Freddy. "Besides, in treating you that way they might have killed
you!"

"Oh, never worry about me," laughs the boy; "Sex is a beautiful thing
between two boys; but between half a dozen, it's fantastic. nd at least I
would have died happy; or at least as happy as it's possible to be when
dying." Arthur blushes, and releases Freddy's hand, but his smile says more
than words can tell.

"I must run," says Arthur, holding the seat of his pants; "I don't know,
but I feel may be in for a bout of the skitters, and I'd rather not be
caught short." He turns and flees from the gymnasium, but as he goes he
calls over his shoulder: "Just call me when you need me! Call me and I will
come."

On the way home whom should Freddy encounter but Ralph Barkitt, who, seeing
his friend's face so unwontedly grave, asks: "What on earth is the matter,
Dale? I've never seen you so glum before. Another row?"

"Did you ever see me look particularly blue over a row? I rather enjoy
them; they're sort of safety valves, and let off surplus steam, you
know... but I do hate bullying."

"Bullying, eh? Go on; do tell. I'm really awfully curious."

"It was young Jolly. He got caught by Gillett and his chums, who heard him
tell you some rigmarole, and they tried to make him own up to having
peached on them being in the pub on Saturday; but the little chap denied
everything, and they were taking it out on him, when I turned up. I do wish
he'd had a go at Gillett himself; I know Arthur would have taken a licking,
but then it would all be over. Take your licks, and get on with life;
that's my philosophy. Anyway, I pitched into Gillett on the young fry's
behalf, but he hardly thanked me. He twaddled on a bit about God, but I
don't believe God cares what we boys are up to. He's got plenty to do,
saving the Empire and such, without troubling Himself with our affairs."

Ralph looks shocked, and says hastily: "Well, you may speak for God, but I
certainly shan't; it's all a bit of a mystery to me. But one thing's
certain; Arthur didn't peach."

"Be that as it may," mutters Freddy; "but I still say he should have put up
a bit of a fight." But despite Freddy's seeming indifference to matters
divine, the first good seeds, that afterwards took root, had been sown in
his heart, and it only wants the influence of the Son of Righteousness, and
the dews of heaven, to make them abundantly fruitful.

The scene in the gymnasium does not end with the fight, for one of the
masters intercepts Gillett and his chums, and seeing Gillett's bloody nose,
demands sternly the cause of the brouhaha, and little by little, by means
of what is said and what isn't, he draws some of the story, but by no means
all, from the reluctant and rather frightened foursome. The master, tall
and stick-like, hovers over the boys, gown swept over his shoulders, like
some refugee from the belfry.

The master's face assumes a darker look, as he explains: "Now I will tell
you who it was who saw you. Jolly and someone else were walking down the
alley, and young Jolly saw a poor man - Mike, I believe, he called him -
coming towards the public house named The Smack, just as you were leaving
it. Mike is a protégé of the Dean; father and son are trying, if possible,
to reclaim the wretched man from drunkenness and wild excess; and young
Jolly was on his way to take some dainty food to Mike's sick child. Jolly
continued his way to Mike's home; and his companion it was who informed the
doctor of your trespass."

"Ah, ha!" exclaims Gillett; "I knew we'd been peached on; perhaps not by
Arthur, but certainly by some villain!" His companions shake their heads in
vigorous agreement.

"The companion, who peached on you," said the master sonorously, "was none
other than... myself! Yes, it was I, you young scamps, who was the
unwilling eye-witness of your disgraceful way of spending a
half-holiday. If you scallywags will demean yourselves to such an extent,
by mixing with such company as you did, and patronizing such places, what
hope is there for you, for the country, for the Empire?! Nor will I ask an
explanation of your purpose in visiting such an insalubrious part of our
dear Sandhaven; as all I'm likely to receive is some improbable fiction, if
not bare-arsed mendacity."

So saying, and, more in sorrow than in anger, the master turns and leaves
the blinking boys standing silently where they have been listening to his
rebuke. It is just what they need; and it does them far more good than an
hour's sermon from the Dean, or even from the Doctor himself. Here was
little Jolly, whom they'd been bullying and abusing, braver and better than
they all; and hardly caring to make any remarks about the sudden and
unexpected turn of events, they link arms, and take Harbour Road, which
will lead them to the fug-filled alleys, which will take them to The Smack,
where they can exchange notes at leisure; for as Gillett says, "I do need a
bit of relief after our little adventure," and is met with Bruce's smacking
of the lips, and a cheerful: "So say all of us!"


CHAPTER IX

RALPH REVEALED

It really is a wonder that Mr. Barkitt never grumbles about Ralph's evening
excursions; but the days slip by, and Ralph is rarely absent from Charlie's
side when he is at the organ. Sometimes he blows for him, but not often, so
generally Freddy does the work; and Ralph has nothing to do but enjoy the
company of the Dale brothers.

One evening, as the wind whistles drearily in the eaves of the cathedral,
and Freddy toils just as drearily over his German, the older pair make
their way to the lamp-lit corner; and Charlie senses that something more
than usual is troubling Ralph, and he tells him so. Ralph hesitates; for he
has that within which passes show; should he confide in his friend? Then he
murmurs: "Well, I have been bothered lately."

Charlie sees the dull pain on the dark-eyed face, and he lays his strong,
warm hand on the other's: "I do wish you could let me help you. Ever since
we have become friends, I've seen the shadow over you." His voice is so
kind and gentle that Ralph's reserve is conquered. He lays his hand on
Charlie's, holds it in his lap, and whispers: "May I tell you? May I tell
you how I feel? You don't surely care to hear it?" Side by side, the boys
sit on the old oak bench, aware of the warm pressure each exerts on the
other's hip.

At last!

Charlie bears down gently into the warmth of Ralph's lap, holds it there,
and feels Ralph stir. The elder Dale knows he may be making a mistake, but
takes consolation in knowing his younger brother would have made the same
mistake - only earlier. "Oh, but I do, Ralph, I surely do. Tell me anything
you like. Never forget: there has never yet been a philosopher who could
endure the toothache patiently; and your pain is a toothache to me. And I
promise to tell no other; for I know how to keep promises."

Ralph smiles ruefully; for he knows that a promise is like a virginal
hymen; it is there to be broken; but he exclaims eagerly, "Oh, I know I can
trust you - with anything, with everything." His excitement transmits
itself through the thin flannel of his grey trousers. "Listen patiently
then, Charlie, and you shall hear what no one in the world knows except a
few folks at Dover. His friends listens, while idly thumb-stroking the
confessor to a tidy length.

"You know my father and Uncle Barkitt are brothers. My father is younger
than my uncle, and my uncle is awfully fond of my father, would do anything
for him; but my father displeased my uncle by marrying my mother, who was a
native of Italy. My uncle, for reasons obscure to me, always thought the
match utterly unsuitable, though my mother was beautiful and good, and -
oh, as near an angel as anyone can be, and yet still be of this earth.

"My father is different; proud, stubborn, and impetuous." Ralph
blushes. "Don't think I'm finding faults in him on purpose; but I must tell
you all. He was very wild in his salad days, and uncle spent nearly all his
fortune on him; but my father loved my mother; he idolized her. I was the
eldest child, and when I was four my brother was born - my dear, dear
little Harold. Oh, Charles, if you could have but seen him, and known him,
and held him in your arms! Artie Cartwright reminds me of him; but you've
no idea what he was to me, what we were to each other." Ralph's voice
quivers; he gives a tiny moan; and shifts Charlie's hand away, just a
little, lest he spill himself prematurely.

"Mother taught us boys everything that was true and beautiful, and Harold
was just like her. Lying abed with Harold was just like... But let me
confess it; Harold was her favourite. I don't mean mummy snubbed me; it
wasn't in her to do that; but Harold was the one to be petted and loved
most. No longer did mummy spend so many happy hours bathing me, making sure
my parts, all my parts were bright and clean, and polished like ivory.

"Father never liked me. I've never been able o find a place in his
heart. It's terribly hard." The word 'hard' brings Ralph to a pause; he
looks down at his lap, and sighs, "Yes, terribly hard.

"I didn't mind Harold being liked more than me; he was so sweet and gentle
and bright and willing, and I... I was always being horribly wicked, and
getting into scrapes of one sort or another. I didn't do it for the
purpose; only I was awfully headstrong, and often did things that were
better left alone; and though I always felt better after my mother's
correction - her hand so firm yet gentle on me - I couldn't bear to give
her trouble. Yet so often did I hoist myself with my own petard. When
father used to blow me up, by which I mean a bare-bottomed spanking, I felt
perfectly made, assumed an antic disposition, and did further wrong out of
spite.

"Oh!" the boy exclaims passionately, "if I'd only known! Do you think very
badly of me?" His dark eyes meets Charlie's half fearfully; but Charlie
only leans forward and kisses him lightly on the lips; then his fingers
lightly pop open a co-operative button or two.

"Last October - this very day four months ago - I got into a row over my
school lessons. I'd been feeling awfully queer, my head fit to burst, and I
got a detention. When I got home, father lectured me for about an hour,
claiming my offences were rank, and smelled to heaven; but I felt ill and
reckless, and didn't care what he said, till he told me I was an undutiful
son, a thing of darkness! and that I neither loved him, nor my mother or my
brother. Oh, how little he knew; for I had loved them more passionately
than... I stormed out, not caring what I did, or where I went; stormed out
of the house, though he had expressly told me not to. 'A plague on your
house!' thought I; and out I went, to take the air. I was glad to find
Harold outside; he was such a generous little chap, so willing to give what
he had; and always ready to take my part and cheer me up, when he heard
father storming at me; and on this occasion, he was nearly crying out of
sympathy. He caught hold of my hand, and drew me along, saying - and I
shan't ever forget it - 'Come along, Ralphy; let's go down to the beach, to
our beach hut...' The beach hut being our little hideaway amongst the
sandy, silvery dunes.

"Come, do come and look at the sea; it's so glorious this afternoon; it
will do you good. Never mind that stupid old school. I'll tell papa you're
ill, and he'll forgive you, my lovely Ralphy."

"'My lovely Ralphy'," echoes Charlie sliding his fingers inside the boy's
trousers, to touch the hot, hard flesh beneath the cotton thin.

"I ought not to have gone; I knew I was forbidden to go out; but I felt so
glad to be loved by that dear, innocent little chap, who comforted me so,
just like... Our house was close to the cliffs at Dover, and that day was
fine, windy but fine. The wind was blowing, and I knew there would be a
fine sea and a jolly sight; and I knew little Harold and I would shelter in
the hut, and he would comfort me so. Oh, I see his ruby red lips even now,
smiling up at me." Ralph's voice trembles; his legs tremble; his bottom
jerks.

"We went close to the edge; we'd done that so often before; it was such a
jolly adventure. But Harold was so small, so light; and who would have
thought a violent gust of wind could... would... hurl him into the vasty
deep? Oh, you must guess the rest."

He is sobbing now, and Charlie's eyes, too, are filled with tears.

Ralph lowers his eyes; he sees himself, exposed and erect, throbbing
between Charlie's fingers.

"Shall I continue?" he asks.

"Yes, yes, continue," murmurs Charlie. "And shall I?" He takes the moment's
silence as assent, and bends his shoulders.

"I rushed like mad down the cliff, and when I got there... I tried, oh,
Charlie, how I tried; but I might as well have tried to breathe life into a
stone; he was dead, quite dead, my darling little Harold; and through my
fault! I carried him up the winding path in my arms; his dear little body
as warm as it had been, when it pulsed with life. I laid him on the grass
at the top of the cliff; I kissed him, madly, deeply, trying to breathe
life back into his sweet little soul, his lovely little body. I kissed him
here, there, and everywhere; but no sign, no spark of life. What to do I
didn't know. I shouted for help till I was hoarse. Nobody heard; nobody
came. I carried him home in my arms; he wasn't heavy, but he was my
brother."

Ralph adjust his bottom, opens his legs wider.

"Oh, the time that followed. Truly Hell is murky! No one would speak to
me. Father forbade me to see mother. He said it was my doing; that I'd gone
out against his command, and had persuaded Harold, too. 'If you hadn't been
so wilful, my son would be alive,' he told me, time and time again. It was
true; but oh, it was the most unkindest cut of all; he might have had mercy
and been kinder!"

Charlie wishes to be kinder; he opens his mouth wide, and draws Ralph deep
inside.

"Shall I go on?" he asks.

Charlie mumbles something that is surely, "Go on."

"Mother was dreadfully ill, but I wasn't permitted to see her, nor to ask
forgiveness. No one took any notice of me during the days that followed. I
went to the funeral, saw the last of my darling brother, laid forever in
his narrow cell, to sleep amongst the rude forefathers of our hamlet; and
then I was sent back to school. I don't remember what happened for those
next two months; so much of it is vague; I was out of my mind, I think. A
boys' boarding house is nowhere to be out of your mind; you must keep your
wits about you, else you will become... But I know I begged my father to
let me see my mother; but he always refused, saying it was I who'd killed
her too. Then I knew she would not get better, and it was only the hope of
seeing her that kept me from running away." Ralph strokes Charlie's hair,
as the boy's head bobs in his lap; the slurping, sucking sounds are like
the sea on the shingle at Dover.

"At last on Christmas Eve I was permitted to see my mother. That night I
was fetched home by the family doctor, who told me she would not live
through the night. Then I was like a great baby, and cried awfully; but he
said I must be very calm and quiet, that I mustn't upset her last hours on
this earth. I went to her room quite quietly; I never thought I could."

The boy is overcome with remembrance of that night; listen, you can hear it
in his breathless words! feel it in his heaving chest! anticipate it in his
shuddering loins.

"'Come,'" she whispered.

"'I am coming, I am coming,' I whispered in return.

"I think she knew me. She could not speak much, but her eyes said, 'Come!'
I went to her bed and kissed her, and whispered, 'Forgive me, mummy, love
me;' and I know she smiled at me... That is all I saw of her. I was sent
away again, and before Christmas morning she was dead."

The boy is wracked with emotion; he hardly knows what she is doing; for he
pushes Charlie's head hard into his lap, as he bounces his bottom beneath
him.

"Oh, oh, oh," he gasps, as he spurts his very soul into the throat of his
dear, dear friend.

Moments pass. Charlie raises his head, dries his eyes, licks away love's
liquid, and makes an effort to speak.

"Ralph, Ralph, my lovely Ralph! You mustn't fret too much. I am quite sure
your dear mother forgave you, and God has forgiven you to. You are really
sorry; that much is clear. Oh, Ralph, don't you remember what we heard -
'Happy and blessed are they in Heaven'? They do not cherish ill-feeling, if
they ever did; and your father will be won round some day; and, above all,
God is guiding every one with a good hand. Who knows - perhaps this trial
was sent to teach you something. Here, let me wipe you with this hankie,
and tuck you away. And remember: nothing is either good or bad, but
thinking makes it so."

"Oh, Charlie, you are so good to me, but I have learnt several
things. First, that I can never be as good as I want to be; and then that I
must not love anyone like I loved them, like mummy and little Harry. They
were idols to me; God does not wish us to worship idols, and that's why
they were taken from me."

The last lesson is good, though not altogether," smiles Charlie, sniffing
at the hankie and its treasure. "God never means us to put anyone before
Him in our hearts; but we may love them dearly, in out own special way. And
the other lesson - will you be angry with me?"

"No, no; you are too kind," murmurs Ralph. No one has spoken to him to
tenderly since his mother died that Christmas evening."

"You see, Ralph, God took your loved ones from you, to chasten you; to make
you more like Himself - out of pure love for you. Never forget that God
gave His only begotten Son to the cross, so that the Son might love His
father more. You loved God, didn't you, before the trouble came?"

Ralph nods.

"Will you not try more than ever to follow Him; looking more at Him, less
into the world, and above all, less into yourself so morbidly? One ought to
constantly examine oneself; but we must look outside us as well; and we
must find someone, some vessel, into whom we can pour our love, until we
are joined with the Father in heaven, and give our love only to Him. Oh,
Ralph, Ralph, let me be the vessel into which your pour yourself!"

Ralph's face is hidden, but he is quiet and seems to be listening
intently. When Charlie's earnest words have ceased, he looks up, and says
humbly: "Then you think God has forgiven me, after all? You think there is
some chance for me to see them again? To be with them, as one, again?"

"Oh, yes, yes, Ralph; let us take the steps to forgiveness. I don't want to
seem dictatorial; but don't you think you might write and ask your father's
forgiveness? have you forgiven him for having kept you from your mother,
and for sending you away?"

The boy hesitates, then says slowly: "I have tried to forgive, Charlie; and
if I look into my heart, here, now, I find I have forgiven him. For he has
sent me here to Sandhaven; and here I have found some kind of peace."

"Then you must write and tell him so; and, by-and-by, he will take you back
again." Charlie rises from the organ. "Now, Ralph, it is time for us to be
gone."

Ralph moves, but only to throw his arms round his good angel, and hold him
tightly against him. He smothers the boy's neck with kisses; his lips slip
to the boy's mouth, and they kiss hotly, passionately. Ralph feels the
other boy's hardness hot against him, and feels his own cock harden,
lengthen and return the pressure. He steps back, half ashamed of his
effusion, but swept by hot arousal. Charlie smiles at him, and whispers:
"There will be time, dear Ralph; all the time in the world."

They descend the stairs, turn the lamps down, and go out together into the
night air. As they part, Ralph says gratefully: "You can never understand
how you've helped me. I see now how absolutely wrong I was; the world is
indeed a beautiful place; it shall all be different now."

Before Charlie can answer, the boy turns and is gone.


CHAPTER X

POLLY DODDLE

That evening, shedding his load with Charlie, works wonders for
Ralph. Everyone notices the change in him. Though studious and retiring as
ever, his dark eyes shine with new light. He is ready with kind words and
actions for everyone; even Rayford seems to be less of a trouble. Freddy
and Arthur are most struck; and Arthur comes to watch him in the gym, and
stays to enjoy his saviour's friendly smiles.

"Why, Ralph, have you had good news? You seem as jolly as a sand-boy."

"Yes; I've had some good news, little one," he says, smiling into the
childish eyes."

"What is it? Do tell! Is your father coming over to see you? Why doesn't he
ever come?"

"No, that's not it. What is it makes you so jolly always, Arthur?"

"Oh, I don't know!" he boy replies gaily. "I like everybody, and everybody
likes me; that must be one reason. Perhaps I was born under a lucky star;
for fortune always seems to send a little more than I can spend."

"Splendid," laughs Ralph; "I wish I could say the same."

"Don't you like everybody?"

"Yes, pretty well; at any rate, I like you, youngster."

"I know that," says the younger boy saucily; "you needn't tell me that
again; but I'll jolly well like it if you do."

Ralph pulls off his gym shirt, and turns serious for a moment.

"But you can't like everyone, Arthur. Remember what those bullies tried to
do to you. You must hate them for that."

"Hate them? Oh, no, Ralph; I don't hate them. That was just a
misunderstanding; and, anyway, they were just being boys."

"Just being boys!" expostulates Ralph. "There were three of them; and they
were having their wicked way with you."

Arthur steps closer to Ralph. He looks up at him with his most cherubic
smile. He runs the back of his palm against Ralph's thin blue shorts; up
and down, up and down, he gently scratches, affording young Barkitt one of
nature's sweetest gratifications. The older boy is too taken aback to move;
and he feels himself stiffen and lengthen against the gentle strokes. He
gasps, "That's very naughty, Arthur; very naughty indeed," but becomes
still more breathless as the small boy grasps the shaft between fingers and
thumbs, and squeezes along its length.

"Naughty? Do you think so?" whispers Arthur. "Things are naughty when you
set out to hurt people; when you do things they don't want. Am I hurting
you, Ralph? Am I doing something you don't want?" He drops to his knees,
and edges down Ralph's shorts and underpants; the boy's springs free; hot,
hard, and stiff.

>From below, as if from a great distance, Ralph hears the boy's voice: "Oh,
I say, it's a beauty, a real beauty. May I, Ralph? May I?" The standing boy
feels the foreskin rolled back from the throbbing head of his penis; feels
little fingers and thumb circle the column; then gasps as the head is
covered with tiny wet kisses. He feels other little fingers run through his
thick, dark pubic hair, then reach to squeeze his balls rhythmically. Ah,
if music be the food of love, squeeze on! The head below bobs to suck in
half of Ralph's erection.

No, no, not here, not now.

Reluctantly Ralph reaches down and edges Arthur from his erection; takes
his shoulders, and raises him gently up then. The small boy's eyes are
glazed; his mouth open; his ruby lips already bruised purple. Ralph lowers
his own head, and engages the boy in a long, lingering, open-mouthed, wet
kiss. Then still holding Arthur's shoulders, he steps back and looks into
his eyes.

"Oh, you are a wonderful boy," he says; "but not here, not now. Freddy Dale
expects me, and I am already late. He has some adventure in mind, but,
whatever it may, it cannot equal our adventure."

"Oh, Ralphy, I am so glad and happy to see you less miserable. I cannot
tell you how miserable it made me to see you so. You won't be miserable
again, will you?"

"I'll try not. But you see, little one, it's a vast deal harder for me than
for you. But I'll try; but all that's beautiful and holy, I will try." He
looks at the innocent face looking back at him. Then he gives a little
sigh, but it is not an impatient one. His cross is becoming lighter now;
and he has made up his mind to fight harder than ever."

Arthur watches Ralph as he dresses, and, twitching his bottom, resolves;
"Only for you, dearest one; only for you."

Together the boys leave the gym, the older boy's arm draped over the
shoulder of the younger. They pause outside the Close, squeeze hands, and,
though parting is sweet sorrow, agree to meet anon, Arthur whispering,
"Yes, you that way, me this way."

Down at the harbour Ralph finds Frederick Dale, waiting for him
impatiently; for Freddy has captured his friend for a little trip in an old
fisherman-friend's boat, Polly. She is somewhat of a clumsy craft for two
boys to take a trip in, but that does not matter; they gleefully set off on
a rather choppy sea, but with a blue sky above them, and fleecy white
clouds along the horizon. "Yes, a good row is just what we need," grins
Freddy; "though I've no idea why I thought of it."

Together the boys seek out skipper Sam and find him seated on the
worm-eaten hull of an upturned rowboat, not far from the shack he shares
with Saul Saul, the fisherboy, a shack not unknown his neighbours and the
local constabulary. The old man of the sea is chewing on an end of brown
kelp, prime source of iodine and potash, humming a salty shanty, and
dreaming of what he and Saul will do when the moon sinks lazily behind the
old cemetery on the hill, where two of his were lying, both of whom were
dead.

"Don't ye be goin' far, you sirs," says Sam a little uneasily; "it be a
right warm afternoon now, but it's going to blow when the tide turns. If'n
I didn't know you was good sailors and swimmers, both on ye, I wouldn't
trust ye. Don't have me lookin' for ye in Davy Jones's locker."

The boys, being boys, laugh at the old salt's fears, and soon forget about
tides and wind in the delight of dancing and tumbling over the frothy
gun-metal waves that slap against the side of their boat with a pleasant
noise, then part to let them slide deep into a slate-grey valley for a
moment.

With an hour gone, they rest their oars and lie back to gaze at the watery
sun.

"I say, Ralph, what kept you?"

"Sorry for being late. I was in the gym. Stopped to chat with young Arthur
Jolly, and, well, one thing led the other..." Ralph pauses, and blushes
when he recalls what 'the other' was.

Freddy grins. "I trust you weren't having your wicked way with young
Jolly. I heard how you rode to his rescue the other day. You weren't doing
a different kind of riding by any chance, were you?" Ralph's next pause is
fatal. "Oh, ho, so you were. Not that I blame you. Young Arthur is a mighty
attractive kid, if a little priggish for my tastes. Here, steady the boat a
moment, while I do the business."

The young Dale stands up somewhat rockily in the boat, undoes his trousers,
and pushes both trousers and underpants to his knees. "Sorry 'bout this,
old chap, but I ain't aiming to spray all over myself. And look - all that
talk about young Arthur has got me half hard. Wonder if I can manage a
piss?"

Freddy takes his swollen member in hand, and points it towards the horizon,
presenting the family sceptre and jewels to Ralph's fascinated eyes. His
friend is not small in any department, and the thick wings of dirty golden
hair at the base of his tummy are particularly attractive. He watches
Freddy's piss arc out over the briny, and wonders which is saltier. The boy
gives the unsheathed head a few final shakes, hauls up his garments, and
somewhat unsteadily regains his seat.

"Your turn," he smiles at Ralph.

"But I don't need..." begins Ralph; but he is interrupted by a laugh from
Freddy; "I don't want to watch you taking a piss. I just want to see what
you're made of. Did you never play 'show me yours, and I'll show you mine?'
when you were younger?" Ralph recalls sunny days on the Dover cliffs with
Harry, and blushes again.

"Oh, ho," laughs Freddy. "Come on then; let's compare... and let's have
fun. Why do you think God gave us those bits down there?"

Ralph, whose prick is as hard as a stalk of rhubarb, says: "I say, what
time does the tide turn?"

"Somewhere about five, I think," says Fred.

"Time we turned then. Where are we? Isn't that Hurstley Point? Good
gracious! Precious good job we've got the tide with us. Look there, Fred."
He points to the clouds, once a white bank, now grown dark, and spreading
all over the sky. "We're in for it, I would guess. Look sharp; this is a
moody old tub to get along."

Freddy doesn't like the look of the clouds, which, only an hour ago, had
been no bigger than a boy's hand, but he only laughs: "Don't get in a funk,
Ralph. A fine sailor you'd make. Why, it's nothing. But best not take
chances." The boys take their oars and begin to ply, feeling the wind
stiffening into a steady blow. The sun is going down, and has cast the
shadow of Hurstley Downs over the water, whose emerald hue changes steadily
into a leaden grey.

"Is that water under you?" Ralph asks presently.

"Just splashes," says Freddy; but the little pool at his feet slowly
increases.

"It isn't splashes," says Ralph suddenly. "This old tub must be as leaky as
you."

Fred cannot doubt the truth any longer. He looks grave. "I wish we were
getting along quicker, old boy."

"Who's funky now?" laughs Ralph good-naturedly, but, seeing Fred is in
earnest, he adds encouragingly: "Cheer up; all will be well. I've been out
in heaver seas than this. Look, we've made the lighthouse. Shall we pull in
yet?"

"No, we must go a little further out. The tide has driven us so far in, we
shall be on the Sirens Men in a jiffy." The Sirens are a cluster of rocks
that terminate a sunken ridge, extending from Hurstley Point, especially
dangerous to the ignorant or unwary. Fred knows them well.

"Say when to turn," says Ralph; "the sooner the better." He is quite grave,
and not inclined to talk much, for the sea is every minute increasing in
violence. His arms are aching. He looks towards Sandhaven, hardly visible
now in the gloaming, except the dim outline of the cathedral, and on or two
lights about the quay. And, o, how far off that red light at the end of the
pier looks to their anxious eyes.

The boys pull as for dear life, till Fred says with a jerky tone: "We'll
turn now. We shall just run in to the beach against the quay, I hope."

The thoughts that have been crowding into Frederick Dale's mind are not
very comfortable ones. He is, as Sam said, a good sailor, and has never
been frightened at sea before. True, he has never been out in such a boat
with no one stronger than himself during such a gale; for gale it has now
become. But he thinks of his various doings; how ungovernable he has been
lately; how he has put off those questions regarding himself that his own
heart tells him are so momentous. He is angry with himself for thinking of
them when he needs all his nerve for the task before him; but he cannot
push away the thought, "What if I should go to the bottom? How will it go
with me?"

The thought drains the colour from his face, and he bites his lips in
anguish. Why is he not more like Ralph? Why does Ralph's face grow more
steady and calm as the gale grows heavier? "Oh, I wish I were made of
sterner," he sighs, even as he strives mightily to emulate his hero. But at
last he can bear the suspense no longer; he turns his head round so as to
be heard by his companion, and says hoarsely, "Ralph, do speak. Are you
scared?"

"Of course I am scared," calls Ralph; "but that must not stop me from
rowing my best. A few days ago I wouldn't have minded going down, but now I
don't want to. I have found a life in Sandhaven; I have found friends; and
among those friends I have found you, Freddy Dale. So, yes, I am scared;
but not of the storm; but of losing my friends, of losing you. Now hush and
save your energies for rowing."

Much-heartened, Freddy calls, "I shall row on my own for a bit, Ralph. You
take this can, and bale out what water you can."

Ralph works in silence. The water is gaining on them, and he discovers it
comes from somewhere in the stern. There is an oppressive silence in the
little boat in spite of the noise and raging of the waves and wind, and the
measured creak of Freddy's oars. Then a voice is heard above the roar, and
it is Freddy's voice, and he is singing, "Blow the man down." At first
Ralph thinks to hush him, then bursts into laughter and joins in. Thinking
too precisely on the situation will avail them naught; if they are to go
down, they will go down together, and they will go down singing. No,
perhaps not singing; for the best time to shut up is when one is treading
deep water.

"Shut up, Freddy!"

For a moment the boy thinks his friend is being rude, unkind, cruel; but
then he too hears a voice over the water. Both boys, hope renewed, answer
in long frantic calls. Their ears are not deceived; their shout is
answered, and in a moment the 'phut phut phut' of an engine is upon them.

A little more - oh, terrible suspense, while Fred clings trembling to
Ralph, who seems the much stronger of the two! - and then old Sam's voice
is heard cheerily through the spray and wind, and before two minutes are
passed, both boys scramble into the little tugboat. Not any too soon; for
before the Polly can be secured, she rapidly fills, and before they leave
the spot, she founders.

Ralph can hardly speak from exhaustion and emotion; and Freddy, in the
delirious joy of finding them safe, bursts into passionate tears, and as he
sobs on Ralph's shoulder he whispers: "Truly I wouldn't have minded - going
down, I mean - as long as I went down with you." Then he gathers himself
together, and turns to Sam: "However did you find us? How did you know we
wanted you?"

"Well, young sir, I watched ye go out, and I watched the wind choppin'
about, and then my mate Jack come down to mend up the Polly. 'Mend the
Polly?' says I. 'Yes,' says he; she be havin' a small leak in her stern.'
'Good God!' says I; 'the young master have took her out. We must be
a-following 'em, and see they are safe.' We've been lying about waiting for
ye. I knew Master Freddy knows the way across the Sirens, so both of us, we
wasn't far wrong. And then I heard that voice; I'd know it anywheres."

Freddy throws himself in Sam's arms; and covers his whiskery cheeks with
kisses, though his whole frame shakes with a convulsive shudder.

"Now, now, lad," says Sam; "ye be a-soakin' me. Get the both of you below,
and out of those wet things, or you'll catch your death. I'll take this wee
boat into harbour; in this swell it'll take about half an hour, so get
down, get blankets round you, and get yourselves warmed."

No sooner said than the boys scrambled below, and haul themselves out of
their wet garments. They wrap themselves in blankets, then stand facing
each other, teeth chattering through their laughter. Then Freddy's laughter
dies into a steady gaze. He steps forward, drops his own blanket, and steps
inside Ralph's blanket. "Surely this is the best way to keep warm," he
murmurs in the boy's ear, as he presses his nakedness against the other.

In a moment, the boy drops to his knees and presses his hot lips against
the sceptre of his desire.


CHAPTER XI

TRUE COLOURS

As the little tug boat rolls into harbour, Ralph can hardly speak; he is
much more exhausted then Fred, now they are out of danger, gives short
shrift to his fears and misery. But Ralph is really knocked up, partly by
exhaustion, partly by anxiety, and partly be exhilaration. Though he had
felt ready to die if need be, he'd prayed earnestly that me might live, at
least until his father has forgiven him. Now, as he stands on the quay by
Fred's side, and hears his hearty thanks, he tries to join in; but only a
sort of sob comes out, and he holds out a hand takes the rough, calloused
hand of Sam, their rescuer.

As the boys turn homewards, Sam rubs his hand over his whiskered face, and
says to the breeze: "Bless 'em! it would have been awful if it'd been five
minutes later. There's work for 'em both to do in this world yet; I can see
it in their faces. And as for my Polly - well, well..." He goes no
further. Though she was but a clumsy boat, she was Sam's only worldly
possession, and now she is gone; and feels much as if he's lost one of his
hands.

The two boys walk silently through the narrow streets, Fred half-supporting
Ralph's trembling limbs; for he sees how shaken he is. But the walk home
does them both good, and as they stop at Fred's home, he says: "Come on in,
Ralph; have some hot tea and muffins; you'll have missed yours."

Ralph knows his uncle will never have kept it for him; but, wet and tired
as he is, he does not feel able to see even Charlie; so he shakes his head,
and imprisoning Fred's hand in his own, says earnestly: "Fred, dear friend,
thank you for being with me today; you promised me an adventure, and an
adventure we had. And for the other..."

Slightly abashed, Fred interrupts: "I say, Ralphy, you are still trembling;
you mustn't stand here any longer; it's damned cold now. So get you home,
and we'll talk over everything tomorrow." Somehow the peril has lost a
great deal of its edge for young Dale, and he turns quickly, and leaves
Ralph alone. If the truth be told, Fred is a maelstrom of emotions; and all
of these are centred on the older boy. He has no word for these feelings,
but, dear reader, if you could whisper in his ear, you would need but one
word, and that word is...

But we must move on. We cannot linger and leave Ralph shivering in the
street. Let's transport him to the Corner House, where he stands cold, wet,
dreadfully tired, and, oh, so hungry! It's a rather timid ring he gives,
for he knows what reception will meet him.

Stevens comes to the door, and concern appears on his face as he notes
Ralph's sorry condition: "Well, Master Ralph! Wherever have you been?"

"Out for a row," says Ralph shortly.

"Why, yes, you're all wet; whatever will the master say?"

"Never mind, Stevens; will you dry these things, if I throw them down
directly?"

Stevens regards the boy attentively, as he flings off most of his apparel,
and heads upstairs to fins some dry, warm clothing. Then, subdued and
weary, he goes down to his uncle.

"H'm! I shall never teach you punctuality, I suppose."

"I'm very sorry, uncle, but..."

"But me no 'buts', sirrah; and don't put your feet on the fender, for
goodness sake."

"I'm so cold," the boy mutters wearily. "Well, I'll tell..."

"Well me no 'wells' either," interrupts Mr. Barkitt. "Do you suppose you
are going to have any tea? If you can't come home in proper time you must
pay the forfeit."

Ralph sighs.

"Sigh me no 'sighs', young man..."

"Uncle, do listen! Dale and I went out - with Sam's full permission - in
his boat this afternoon, and a gale sprang up. Haven't you heard it
blowing? Such an ill wind never did blow anyone any good. We tried hard to
row home - began to try before half-past four - but we couldn't, and the
crazy old thing had a leak, and we nearly went down."

"Nearly what?!"

"Nearly got drowned, uncle."

Something in the boy's tone makes the lawyer listen attentively; and his
entire attention is given to the boy's round unvarnished tale.

"Sam came out in a borrowed tug, and found us just in the nick of time. We
could not bring the Polly home; she foundered minutes after we were
rescued."

"Who is Polly? Has her family been informed of her loss."

"The name of the boat is... was Polly," explains Ralph, scarcely able to
contain a smile; "but, uncle, we were almost drowned. Three minutes more,
and you wouldn't have had your troublesome nephew to keep you waiting any
more."

Mr. Barkitt's hands tremble a little as he feels Ralph's clothes. "But you
are dry," he says.

"I wasn't a few moments ago; I was soaking wet; but I've been upstairs and
changed my clothes; but oh! uncle, I'm so weary, and so hungry."

Then, to his own mortification, and his uncle's astonishment and
consternation, the boy bursts into a storm of tears - tears that will not
be stopped. It is the best thing that can happen to him, for it relieves
his over-wrought feelings; and brings home to his uncle his utter misery.

"Poor boy!" says the man, touched at the sight of such genuine distress;
and he rings the bell almost as loudly as Ralph had once rung it.

"Stevens! Make Master Ralph some hot, sugared milk; and bring in some hot
pie; and the new potatoes; and fresh bread; and baked biscuits and cheese;
and a pot of fresh coffee. Go to! Go to! This child is more sinned against
than sinning."

Ralph looks up gratefully; it is the first time he has felt a gleam of
liking for his bachelor uncle; and he realises in that moment Uncle Barkitt
has a heart; a little frosted perhaps, but still there, still beating.

The boy has an excellent tea, or supper, and feels all the better for it;
and throughout his tea, or supper, his uncle plies him with questions about
the afternoon's adventures; and even seems to whiten at the danger the boys
were in. Stevens, too, is invited for coffee and biscuits; the fire is
stoked high; and the two men and the boy enjoy their first - and hopefully
not their last - jolly get-together round the fireside. Still, Ralph is
heartily glad to retreat early to bed; and even if Charlie had played all
night in the cathedral, he could not have induced the boy to leave his room
once he has gained it.

Frederick Dale feels very differently. While all hope seemed lost, out on
the sea, so cold and wet and dark as it was, with only a thin line between
him and eternity, he had been beside himself with terror; all the horrors
of their situation crowded in on his excited brain, and vainly had he tried
to drown his fears. He recalls how quiet and self-possessed Ralph had been,
and he knows now what he lacks. All the faces of home come vividly before
him, and then he thinks of his dear mother in heaven, and he earnestly
wishes some day - but not too soon - he will join her. But then Sam came to
the rescue; and his feelings found relief in the tears he had shed on
Ralph's shoulder.

Then the boy recalls the minutes he'd spent on his knees, beneath the older
boy's blanket; and once again, in his mind's eyes and on his tongue, he
tastes Ralph; and marvels at how deep in his throat he took the older boy's
hose-pipe of a cock. He feels once again the pressure of his finger-tips
round those firm buttocks, as he pulled the boy in deeper and deeper,
drowning himself in the taste, the smell, the texture. Oh, if only he were
like Ralph; if only he could become Ralph; but he could and he would! He
would join so closely with Ralph that two boys would become one; and their
union would be a symbol of their togetherness, forever.

Now, dry and warm, there is a fresh diversion; for the story of the rescue
has to be told all over into the ears of his father and of Charlie; and
though it has lost many of its horrors - now that he is seated in front of
a blazing fire enjoying a hearty meal- it is enough to make Charles, his
ministering angel, turn pale and his eyes fill, as they rest on the
vivacious Freddy, glowing in the firelight, and laughing - now - at his own
fears. Then the boy gets to his homework, as if nothing has happened.

Charlie Dale cannot rest until he has brought some graver thoughts into his
brother's careless heart. After Freddy is in bed, he comes to him, and,
kneeling down, he puts her arm round his naked shoulder; for the boy has
decided to toughen himself up "for future adventures at sea".

"Oh, Fred, I cannot go to sleep without telling you again how thankful we
are that you are all safe. Weren't you frightened?" Actually, if the room
were more than lamplight, he could see how flushed the boy's face is. With
the solitude and darkness, sober thoughts have returned to him, and made
him rather uncomfortable. But he sits up in bed, pats his brother's hand,
and laughs: "You are a silly goose, Charlie. It wouldn't have mattered to
you if I'd gone down four fathoms five - you'd be rid of me then."

"Oh, hush, dear, hush!" the elder Dale exclaims; "Nothing can be further
from my mind. But will you think it over? What if you had been drowned? We
should have had to mourn in a double way - both corporeal and
metaphysical. Won't you get ready for anything that may happen to you? A
boy is so much more than his body?" Charlie glances down at his brother's
body; his eyes widen as she sees how perky and prominent his nipples
are. How he has grown since he stood in the tub and let his brother wash
every bit of him! Even now, Charlie is tempted to... "Only promise me,
Fredrick Dale, that you will never do anything so silly again."

"Charlie! I do declare it's enough to drive a fellow out of his seven
senses to hear every talk such drivel. There's Ralph Barkitt on the same
tune; and Arthur Jolly preaching sermons out of his saintly face at me
every bloomin' day. A real boy must do silly things now and again;
otherwise nothing intelligent would ever happen."

He is sorry the moment he says it; for Charlie rises to go, and as he
presses a kiss on the boy's cheek, he feels that his are wet. "Just like
me," he thinks; "there I go, blundering like a blinded buffalo, hurting my
brother's feelings, when all he wants to do is help." Boisterously, he
throws his arms round his brother's neck, and pulls him down, whispering:
"All right, old boy; don't take on about it. It'll be all square some day."

"Not some day, dear, now," Charlie whispers. Then, reluctantly, he
disengages himself from the boy's hugs, and leaves him to his thoughts.

Charlie sighs, and slides below the crisp white sheet, and the thick, brown
blanket. He can still taste Ralph at the back of his throat; and gives in
to those pleasures that occupy so many boys of his age, in the comfort and
security of their night-time lairs.

Everything seems as usual next day. The boys' adventure soon gets around,
and Freddy experiences the sensation of being a hero for a day. The boys
crowd round him to hear from his own lips the tale of the adventure, told
in a most graphic way. For his part, Ralph remains pale, silent and
thoughtful, going about his business, never mentioning anything about it
unless asked; and then making as little of it as he can. It is only to
Arthur Cartwright that he reveals something of the desperate situation they
had been in.

His little friend is almost wild with delight at having his companion safe
once more; but he is a shocked to hear Ralph say he'd half wished to join
his treasures in heaven. "No, no," protests Arthur; "there is still so much
to be done. Why, Rayford is not your friend yet; and there's Dale to be won
over to the bright side of life. And Dale is so near to it; I know he is."

"And pray tell how you know that?"

"Because he's so riled when anything is said to him at all in that
direction, and I know it only shows how much he is thinking of it. Haven't
you learned how positively Freddy Dale sticks to a thing when he knows he's
wrong?"

"Wise little imp," laughs Ralph. "Why, Arthur, do you spend your time in
quizzing other people's faults? Pray, what do you think of me?"

Arthur blushes, stands on one toe, and twists away from Ralph.

"Oh, you know, what I think of you, Ralph Dale. I think you are good and
manly and loving; and, oh, just the best thing that could happen to a boy
like me. When we are together, like this, now, on our own, I just feel I
want to be one with you; to give myself to you - utterly. You know what I
mean."

It's Ralph's turn to blush; and he stammers, "But, Arthur, you are so
little; and I should be ever so afraid of hurting you."

"Hurting me? Hurting me?" I am ready for you, Ralph Birkett, more than you
know!"

So saying, Arthur whirls round, whisks his trousers and underpants to his
ankles, and bends to present his bottom to his bigger friend. His bum is
like a split peach; and to Ralph's fascinated horror and delight, the boy
grabs each cheek of his buttocks and pulls them wide apart, to reveal the
puckered rose at the centre.

"There you are! Ready for you, just for you!"

Ralph steps forward, instinctively licking his lips, and pulling at his
trouser buttons; but footsteps are heard outside the gym, so he contents
himself with slapping the sweet little arse, and hissing: "Arthur!
Someone's coming!"

The someone is Freddy, who enters the gymnasium, calling: "Hi, Ralph. Hi,
Arthur. What's up?" The boy is dressed in tight dark-blue running shorts, a
sleeveless vest, lowered socks, and running pumps. Sweat darkens his hair,
and glistens in the curves of his pale-skinned throat.

"Nothing much - yet," grins Arthur, fastening his top trouser button. "I
say, Freddy, what colours will Ralph wear on Sports Day?"

"That's just what I was going to ask," chimes Fred. "Charlie says he'll
work them for you," he adds, addressing Ralph. "What are Rayford's
colours?" he asks the youngest boy.

"Oh, his are an elaboration of red and gold braid, his crest all needlework
up to the nines on a huge red cross, as big as a cheese. Enough to take
your breath away. What are yours, Birkett?" he asks, returning to the
conventional form of address amongst Windsor boys.

"I used to wear a gold star," he explains; "I think I shall keep it if it's
no one else's. Look, Rayford is working on the ropes; let's go and admire
him."

"Aren't you going to have a shot?"

"Don't feel quite up to it today. Can't think why but I feel a little damp
today?" His friends catch the joke, and, laughing, the boys move towards
Rayford - or where he was a moment ago.

"Where is he?" cries Arthur; "Has he flown like the black night bat?"

"What do you want?" cries a voice from the rafters, and all the boys look
up to see whence it comes.

"Hulloa!" hollers Fred; "You, knight of the red cross; we want you."

"All right; coming," is the surprisingly cheerful response; and then for
the first time the boys see Rayford, sitting aside the rafter that runs the
whole length of the ceiling.

"How on earth did he get up there?" says Arthur, in great astonishment. He
soon has his answer; for Rayford curls himself onto the rope that hangs at
his side, and mere seconds later he has skimmed to the ground.

"What do you want?" he asks, standing, and showing off, in his gym shorts,
his splendid athletic body. There is no doubt Rayford is a well-built boy;
and the bulge at the front of his shorts reveal his development is not
limited to torso and shoulders.

"Oh, nothing much," says Fred; "only to ask how you'd like to do it again;
get up there, I mean. Don't say you swarmed up the whole way."

"Looks like it," says Rayford, managing to appear quite nonchalant. But
it's a feat rarely done, and he is not a little elated by his success, and
triumph over Ralph Birkett.

"Well done, sir knight!" cries Fred magnanimously. "I say, Birkett, old
boy, he's done you there. Aren't you going to try and best him?"

"Mmmm...not today," is the cool response.

"You're not going to funk it, are you?" says Arthur.

"I'm not in the habit of funking generally," says Ralph, unconcerned.

"But you're not going to try it?" says Arthur.

"I don't mind," says Ralph; "but I've never been fond of climbing the same
mountain twice?"

Three boys look quizzically at the fourth.

Ralph explains: "If Rayford doesn't mind going up again and looking on the
beam, he'll see my name there."

The boys can't be more taken aback. To describe Rayford's face is
impossible. A moment earlier it was shining with secret exaltation on
account of his triumph over his rival. Now the glow fades, and a look of
resentment, anger, and something like hatred flits across it. Then he
hisses hurriedly, "I don't believe it."

"Go, see for yourself, that's all I say. If you can do it once, you can do
it again;" and Ralph turns away.

This is too much, and Rayford springs to the rope and begins rapidly to
ascend. Halfway is done in no time, but he has taken it too fast, and
begins to tire; still he goes on, till at last his weary muscles refuse to
lift him an inch higher. He has been practising so long today that he is
quite done for, and his hands are very sore; he makes effort after effort
to haul himself up the swaying rope; but at last he slides down, and stands
beside them again.

"It's all very well," he pants; "you saw I did it once, but I'm done for
this afternoon. But, Birkett, I'll never believe you did it unless I see
you do it, now, under our eyes. Did any of you two actually see him do it?"

Freddy and Arthur look at each other; they know if Ralph says he did it, he
did it; but that means nothing to the doubting Thomas who stands before
them, smug-faced once more.

Ralph's cheeks flame. He tears off his jacket, and he makes for the
rope. He very much doubts if he has strength enough to do it, worn-out as
he is; anyhow he'll try, and if he fails, he'll do it tomorrow.

Up he goes, not making such a show as Rayford, but slowly and steadily, and
the boys watch with breathless interest as he rises above them. Onwards and
upwards he goes, and Rayford, though he had honestly doubted him, begins to
fear that once again he will be playing second fiddle.

Yes! that he certainly must; for minutes later Ralph catches the rafter,
and, after seating himself upon it, calls out from his lofty and dangerous
perch, "Now will you believe me, Rayford?" But his rival, having cast one
glance to make sure there is no deception, has disappeared. Not only has
Ralph done it, but the climb has been achieved in less time than he is able
to do it, and all his work has gone for a burton.

Ralph does not stay up very long, for, nimble as he is, the height makes
him giddy and sick, and he is glad to feel his hands and legs once more
around the rope. As he descends, the rope rubs against his privates, and,
as he reaches terra firma, he quickly slides his erection into an upright
position to conceal its arousal from his chums.

"Why, Birkett," exclaims Freddy, forgetting his congratulations when he
sees how pale and dazed his friend looks; "yesterday has taken it out of
you far more than you'll admit. You need to lie down. Come with me; that's
my command. You shall lie on my bed, and Charlie will feed you lemon tea,
until your colour and spirits are quite restored." He turns to Arthur:
"Cartwright, be a good chap. Run to my house. Warn Charlie we are on our
way; and have the bed warmed for Ralph; why, he is all a-shiver and
a-tremble."

The great-hearted Arthur runs as fast as his legs can carry him, but as he
runs, distress overtakes him; for Ralph is not going the right way to win
over Rayford. "There is still so much to be done," he sighs.



CHAPTER XII

RIVALS NO MORE

Ralph does not look any less wretched the next day; he does not seem to
have recovered in the least from the experiences of Wednesday afternoon. He
is not dismal, only rather subdued and pale. He hardly ever enters the
gymnasium, and secretly he is angry with himself for having shown such want
of control when Rayford challenged him. He knows his conduct has not
lessened the dislike between them; in his heart he knows one should always
be most kind to unkind people; they have most need of it. The boy wishes
that he could get up to his accustomed strength and have a good session;
for Easter is drawing near, and the great day is to be immediately after
the holidays.

The splendid gymnasium furnishes ample opportunity for great shows of
skill, and a considerable number of spectators can be accommodated in and
under the galleries that run round three sides of the building. The roof is
lofty and pointed, and it is from the centre beam that the wonderful rope
is suspended. All round, on the wooden-laid floor, are the various poles,
bars, ladders, &c., necessary for every kind of display; and still there is
ample room for running, jumping, and drilling, though Sergeant-Major Frith
in fine weather prefers the courtyard for the latter purpose. So do the
boys; for outside the iron gate gathers a small crowd, usually men, to
watch them as they practise their drills in vests and shorts.

The sports day creates quite a sensation in Sandhaven. Of course the boys
have a holiday, and all their friends are admitted first to the gymnasium,
and afterwards to a feast of cucumber sandwiches and sugary doughnuts in
the big schoolroom. Afterwards, the yearly prizes are given out, and the
proceedings terminate with a short entertainment, in which most boys take
part. Those who cannot sing recite or read; and the affair is capped with a
lusty rendition of the school song.

Luckily, Ralph is distracted preparing the tournament scene in Richard
II. He is a fair reciter; and he puts his heart and soul into the
work. Freddy has to sing, and of course, he has to practise, which gives
him considerable annoyance. Nevertheless, he finds himself singing better
than ever before, but struggles manfully to conceal his astonishment.

Already everyone is talking about the great day. Those people not fortunate
enough to be admitted content themselves by hearing from their neighbours
all about everything; and on the day they will loiter about the school,
partly to see the boys, looking so grand and strong in their flannels, with
their colours pinned proudly on their chests, and partly to see the bishop
and other ecclesiastical dignitaries, who always make a point of being
present for the gymnastic displays. Flags are to wave over the pretty,
irregular buildings, and an awning, in case of inclement weather, is, for
the sake of the ladies, strung across the front gates.

Rayford will not speak to Ralph now. He knows he has lost his chance of
winning the bet, at least, of the prizes in sports, and he cannot get over
his disappointment. The holidays - only short ones - pass; Easter and its
festivities come and go, and the boys reassemble for school. But things do
not look very cheering for Ralph. Two days before 'the day', as it gets to
be called, he saunters into the gymnasium, "to have a shot at the
horizontal bar," he tells Fred, who, being engaged with two hundred lines
in the detention room, cannot come and admire; so he sends his friend off
with a half-merry, half-disconsolate, "Go on, Ralphy; I'll be there
soon. Don't do all your crowning tricks till I'm there to watch and
applaud."

Ralph does not want any spectators; he feels dull and listless, and is only
going to get his joints into working order for the day after tomorrow. He
works mechanically first at one exercise and then another, his thoughts
running circles in his mind, and, too often for his liking, coming back to
little Arthur bent over the horse, bottom in the air, mouth working
enthusiastically on two... He pushes the images away, and concentrates on
his work.

Meanwhile Freddy, with a practised hand, soon fills up his paper of lines,
not being very particular to put every word in every line. He knows that
Mr. Murphy will never dream of reading them through; so it is not too long
before he enters the gym with a merry whoop. He stands till and looks for
Ralph, who is nowhere to be seen. He glances up at the rafters to see if he
is there; then, failing to discover a glimpse of him, calls out:

"Barkitt, come out and show yourself. You needn't think I'm going to play
hide-and-seek, 'cause I'm not. I shall perform the feats myself," he adds,
turning to divest himself of his jacket.

His heart skips several beats.

There, lying on the ground under the horizontal bar is Ralph - still and
deadly pale.

With a frightened cry, he springs to the boy's side, and taking his hand,
calls out: "Ralph, Ralph, are you hurt? Can you speak? Oh, Ralph, speak to
me!"

But answer to the boy's agonised words there is none; he tries to lift
Ralph's head; there is the faintest of moans.

"Oh, Ralph, you are not dead!"

Freddy gently lays his friend's head on the unforgiving floor, springs to
his feet, and rushes for help. The first person he meets is Rayford, who is
bound for the gym to practise.

"I say, Rayford," exclaims Freddy; "Barkitt's been and done for himself in
there. Do come and help."

He might see a momentary gleam pass over Rayford's handsome features, but
it is immediately quenched, for the boy is no without feeling.

"What's happened?"

"I'm not sure," says Freddy; "I don't know. I found him lying like a deader
under the bar, and I can't move him."

Rayford hurries to see, and as he looks at the white face of his rival, he
feels something like re4morse. "I say, Dale; he's not dead is he?" Both
boys stoop over the fallen boy.

"No, I don't think so. He groaned a little when I tried to move him. Do you
think he's much hurt?"

"Can't say, old boy." Rayford takes of his school blazer, and drapes it
over Ralph. "You stay here; I'll go and find help."

Freddy's thoughts are very sober as he studies Ralph's inanimate face, and
he longs for the dark, grave eyes to open and look up at him. All at once
he realises just how dear his friend is to him, and gently he lays his head
on the boy's chest, and whispers words from his own heart to Ralph's.

Help soon arrives in the shape of two or three of the masters; they
tenderly lift the boy the injured child, and bear him away. Ralph is
carried to the Corner House, and most of the boys depart to their own homes
without learning of the accident. But words soon gets round, and they
collect for afternoon school talking in hushed voices, trying to work out
what really happened. All that anyone knows is that Barkitt has been badly
hurt in the gymnasium, where Dale found him. Freddy, for once, is
thoroughly sobered, and forgets to play pranks in his lessons. He looks up
anxiously at the patch of blue in the school windows, and, at afternoon
service, struggles to keep the tremble from his voice as he sings. Ralph is
no stranger now, as he had once been, in the cathedral. Everyone knows him,
from Dean down to Potts the verger; and everyone joins in the prayer for
those who are in 'anyways afflicted in mind, body, or estate.' Even Freddy,
for the first time in his life, perhaps, prays with utmost sincerity, and
offers his most prized possession to God in exchange for His mercy to
Ralph.

Freddy's voice is atremble, and, try as he might, he cannot help letting
two or three tears trickle from his eyes. Then he feels a small hand take
his, and he lets himself be led away, blind to the destination.

He finds himself in a pretty room, high in the Deanery, where he is gently
pushed back onto to the bed. He lets the scent of unknown flowers fill him,
and he feels small fingers caress his forehead.

"Hush, hush, all will be well. Ralph is in good hands, and all will be
well."

Freddy opens his eyes. He is stretched full length on a small bed. At his
side sits its regular occupant: young Arthur Jolly, whose cool fingers
continue to stroke his brow and cheek. His eyes run round the room. There
is a skylight above his head admitting a shaft of afternoon sun; another
window, curtained in pink, looks on to the cathedral spire; there is a
framed painting of a handsome, bearded young man beckoning a small child to
him; there is a small wardrobe and set of drawers; on the drawers stands a
large jug and bowl; at the side of the bed a small table hosts a Bible
bound in red leather. He looks up into Arthur's face; there is something
beautiful about the boy; he is by no means girlish, but, with those big
eyes, freckles, turned-up nose, long lashes, he is undeniably beautiful.

With a groan, Freddy pulls the boy down to the bed; he kisses the boy full
on the lips; the kiss is returned, and Freddy feels a little, hot tongue
push at his lips. He opens them, and admits the welcome intruder. The
younger boy squirms across him, until he is stretched the length of the
older boy. Within moments, he can feel Freddy's essential self thicken,
harden, lengthen, and push against his thin flannels. He slips his small
hand between their bodies, and squeezes Freddy's erection.

Then with remarkable agility, Arthur releases the older's boy's hot,
throbbing prick; wriggles out of his own trousers and underpants, pushed to
his ankles, and places Freddy's between his thighs, so that he squeeze the
hard column in gentle rhythms. Freddy groans, and seizing the small boy's
hair, pulls his head down until their mouths are joined in the sloppy
exchange of saliva. Arthur shifts his position until, like a small jockey,
he is perched over the head of Freddy's cock, ready to bear down, and begin
the ride of his sweet, young life.

"But Ralph, what of Ralph?" I hear you protest, so let us leave Arthur and
Freddy for now to their own private Derby, and check on young Barkitt's
progress.

When Ralph's eyes open to the world, he finds himself on his own bed, but
in a different room, a larger one, with three windows, one of which
overlooks the playground. where, even as he lies there, he can see the tall
chimneys and clock tower of the school. A fire is burning cheerily, and
everything looks a deal more comfortable and homely than he has ever seen a
room look in the Corner House. By his bed is a chair with his uncle's Bible
on it, and Uncle Barkitt himself is standing talking quietly to the doctor
at the door. They turn at the sound of the faint movement, and Mr. Barkitt
comes quite nimbly to his side.

"What has happened?" whispers Ralph; "Why am I here?"

"You have hurt yourself, nephew; lie still; be calm."

It is hardly necessary to tell the boy that, for he couldn't move if he
tries. He looks at the tent of bed-clothes that are raised above his broken
leg, and then says: "I remember; I fell off the bar." Ralph blushes at the
memory of his clumsiness.

"Don't talk, my boy," says the doctor's kind, cheerful voice; "we'll have
you mended by-and-by. For the moment I want you to sip this; it will bring
you sweet sleep and even sweeter dreams."

Ralph sips from the glass at his lips. Thoughts jostle in his mind, but as
he falls asleep he hears his uncle say: "He will be well cared for. We have
moved him into this room next to Stevens; and his every need will be
attended to. I hadn't realised how much the boy has come to mean to me."

"Poor chap," says the doctor; "he'll need all the patience he has; but with
good nursing he'll be himself in a few weeks. Keep his spirits up, and
don't let him exert himself too much. I will be back in the morning." Then
Ralph knows he is hurt. He knows what the burning ache in his back means;
no sports this year; and presently a tear trickles its way down his cheek."
But, as he falls asleep, the beautiful bells ring into the quiet air for
service, and they ring just a little peace into his heart.

As promised by the doctor, it is a night of sweet dreams for Ralph, though
at one time he finds himself awake, or perhaps dreaming he is awake; and he
is disturbed by moans and groans that seem to come from the walls around
him. In time he realises the moans come through the wall to his left; he
presses his ear against the wall: "Yes, that's it, just there; all the way
in, man; deeper, deeper."

Is that Stevens' room? Did his uncle say Stevens' room was next to him?
Ralph's head is full of fluffy clouds; and it is hard to make sense of what
he hears. That isn't Stevens' voice, so who can it be?"

"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"

Yes, he's got it; he knows what it means; he knows what's happening.

But again the purple mist rolls in, and with a sigh Ralph surrenders to the
depths of dreamless sleep.



CHAPTER XIII

A SPORTING CHANCE

The day after the accident is a terribly long one for the sufferer. He is
now allowed to see anyone, lest he should become excited. All he can do is
to lie still and listen to the chiming of the bells, and the shouts of the
boys in the playground. His uncle is really very good; but in Ralph's
unhappy frame of mind he can hardly bear to see anyone. The boy wonders why
God has let it happen; why he has been so harshly treated; and why it could
not have happened to someone else. He does not even remember to be thankful
that his injuries are no worse.

Oh, dear reader, be not too hard on the child; for he is merely voicing the
questions that all but saints ask in times of misfortune; and there but for
Fortune, go you and I.

Outside the Corner House things go on more or less as usual. The boys soon
recover their spirits, now they are assured that their comrade is not dead
or dying. Boys are boys, and, in the midst of their own health, and
lessons, and play, they soon forget their stricken companion. However,
three of them do not.

Arthur is in a terrible state. He knows more of Ralph than do any of the
others; for this small boy has a wonderful faculty for reading other
people's hearts, and he sees a great deal that even Frederick Dale -
Ralph's bumchum - is ignorant of. He remembers their quiet talks under the
shade of the cathedral, or on the seashore; and Arthur knows these
rest-enforced days will be a hard trial for his friend. And each time he
sits upon the toilet to do what he must, the boy is reminded of the passion
that swept him into Freddy's arms, and onto Freddy's throbbing stiffy. It
is not guilt that disturbs the child so, but the knowledge that he can no
longer give Ralph the prize which, in his heart, he had promised him.

Freddy, too, feels sadly alone; he begins to understand how much he looks
up to and admires the quiet, strange boy with the big grey eyes. He longs
to be able to see him; but he is told by Stevens that "peace and quiet is
what Ralph needs now" and that he won't be let in for some time. So Freddy
is bereft of his companion, as well as his peace of mind.

The third who cannot forget the accident is Rayford, who, in his mind's
eyes, recalls the poetry in Ralph's gymnastic displays. The erstwhile rival
is strangely moody and silent, and, to everybody's surprise, he shuns the
gymnasium; but they come to the mistaken conclusion that Rayford no longer
feels the need of practising, now his rival is off his path, so they leave
him alone. To his credit, he goes himself to inquire after Ralph; and
Arthur, who was observing with secret joy, would be overjoyed to have heard
the exchange:

"May I ask how he is today?"

"If you mean Master Ralph, he's no worse than he should be."

"Will you give him these grapes?"

"From whom shall I say they've come?"

"Oh, no one in particular; just a well-wisher. I hope he'll like them. And
perhaps he'll like this magazine; it's gymnastics; boys - American, I
think. Anyway, it's for him."

Away the boy bolts, but, next day, having heard how much Ralph enjoyed the
gifts, returns with the dainty present of another bunch; and an illustrated
book showing 'Athletes of Ancient Greece'. The fact is that Rayford isn't
such a bad fellow after all, though his good points have been blunted by an
inordinate love of self. He had been quite willing to make friends with the
new-comer, but when Ralph had so easily and gracefully beaten him on their
very first encounter, feelings of bitter jealousy welled in his heart. Then
he'd begun to spy out every little fault in his school-fellow. But then,
when he had stood beside the senseless form of his fallen rival, all his
better feelings triumphed, and he grieved at the way he'd been unkind to
Ralph. Only now could Rayford admit to himself that Barkitt was an
uncommonly beautiful boy, and that, when they'd stood naked in the showers,
jealousy was not the only feeling which overwhelmed him.

The sports-day comes before anyone is allowed to visit Ralph. It is a
glorious day, regular 'sports weather'. and Sandhaven is as gay as it can
be. Most of the boys are excited; for now Ralph Barkitt is out of it there
is more chance for their small stars to shine. A splendid sight they look,
in their tight shorts and vests - at least the company thinks so as they
alight from their carriages and stream into the hall. Doctor 'Turnstile',
in his best robes and hood, is striding about hither and thither, trying to
divide his attention between his clerical friends and the ladies,
especially the mothers of the handsomest boys.

Freddy performs several feats not listed in the programme, vaulting over
forms and desks, to reach his father and elder brother. On his way he
suddenly stops and listens to what seems to be a private conversation:

"Not going in? You're out of your mind!"

"No, I shan't enter. I've already withdrawn my name. Don't bother so!"

Then the speakers separate, and Freddy goes his way rather more soberly;
for the voices are those of Rayford and Gillett, and it is the former who
has declined to "go in."

"What for?" wonders Fred; "surely not the sports. Goodness gracious!"

It is the sports though, for when the first performance comes off Rayford
is nowhere to be seen. Freddy is bemused, but soon forgets it in the
excitement of the hour. Windsor's gymnastic sports take the place of the
ordinary sports in most schools. The only great difference is that there
are very few track and field events; but the whole affair is managed much
the same as other sports-days are: one performance follows the other, each
followed by the applause of the spectators.

The gentlemen present gaze fondly on the boys, and try to remember the time
when they were boys, and how they triumphed, failed, or otherwise spent the
day; and as Dean Jolly finds himself next to his young friend Frederick
Dale, he says cheerily:

"Perhaps today reminds you of my gymnastic sports?"

"Yours, sir?" says Freddy, totally in the dark.

"Yes, on the belfry stairs."

For answer Freddy goes into such fits of laughter that the Dean is obliged
to join in. "And you laughed at me then, you naughty boy." Dean Jolly
lowers his voice: "I can still remember your weight upon me at the bottom
of the stairs. Sometimes I lie in bed and think about it; it make me glow
to recall it." There is a pause, then: "By-the-by, I hear young Barkitt is
on the mend. Wasn't he Rayford's rival?"

"Yes, indeed, sir; and we can't think why Rayford won't go in, now he is
certain to win."

"Can't you?" says the Dean, looking from Freddy's merry face to the solemn,
half-sullen face of the subject of their conversation. "From which bar did
Barkitt fall?"

"That one, sir; the one that Gillett is showing off on. You should have
seen Ralph at the bar; Rayford, too; they were both pretty spectacular."

Then they fall silent and watch Gillett.

Rayford indeed gas come back to watch the gymnastics; but he has covered up
his flaming colours with an overcoat, and is unremarked by most of the
spectators.

Of course the boys have besieged him with questions as to the meaning of
his extraordinary decision; but he has brushed them away, and they have
left imagining that something has put him into one of his dark moods.

At length the sports are over, and the guests depart to the dejeuner,
escorted by brothers and sons in high glee as far as the door. Then the
juveniles retire to a more substantial spread, and in the evening they all
gather again in the school hall for the concert. It is a grand success;
everyone plays his part well, especially Dale and Rayford - the latter
seemingly over his sulks, the boys say, and is almost himself. Rayford is a
born orator, and in the silence that prevails, he comes forward to recite
one of Shakespeare's sonnets, his voice changing like light and shade to
reflect the Bard's moods - now quiet, now fiery, now impassioned - to the
delight of everyone. When he has finished he quickly escapes from the
applause, heartily wishing that Ralph were there to follow with his
'Hereford and Mowbray," and hides himself till the rest of the festivities
are over, laurels awarded, and the guests gone.

Then Rayford steps into the light, takes away the prizes that belong to
him, and goes home, thoroughly mystifying both masters and boys.

The sad hours are long for poor Ralph, who lies listening, and sometimes
fancying he can catch the sound of cheers and clapping issuing from the
hall as sports-day progresses. "That will be Rayford doing what I might
have done," he sighs, though, to his credit, he bears no ill-will towards
his one-time rival.

Ralph longs to be well and among his companions once more; he nibbles a
morsel of dinner, and some of the mysterious grapes, and wishes he were
helping at the sports and concert, till, finally, tears fill his eyes, and
he presses his face into the lavender-scented pillow.

The afternoon passes, then slides into dusk. Ralph lies abed moping and
fretting himself into a very miserable state of mind. There is another
cause for his misery; a month has elapsed since he wrote a letter to his
father; a letter brimming over with remorse, and earnestly begging for
forgiveness; but no answer has come, and Ralph is near murmuring against
God. He lies thinking sad thoughts in the dark till the tears wet those
long dark eyelashes and stain the ivory of his cheeks.

All at once the door softly opens, and a voice without whispers: "May I
come in, Ralph?"

"Who is it?" asks Ralph, hastily brushing the tear-drops away.

"It is I - Charlie," says the eldest Dale, entering. "Why, you're all alone
on the dark. Your uncle said I might come up to see how you are. Can I find
a light?"

"Bring the lamp in from outside, if you don't mind," says Ralph, in a glad
voice. Here was his good angel come to cheer him.

Charlie lets a little light on the subject, then comes to his side, and the
boy sees how tenderly sympathetic his face looks.

"I'm so glad to be able to see you at last," says Charlie, taking hand. "I
have missed you so," he confesses, raising Ralph's fingers to his lips, and
kissing them lightly. "How are you tonight?"

"Oh, just the same," says Ralph, flushing a little; for he knows Charlie's
quick eyes have detected his tearful face. "Must admit it's dreadfully hard
lying here all day, knowing what's going on outside."

"Does it pain much?"

"Yes, awfully at times, especially my leg; but I don't mind that so
much. It's just the lying here, hour after hour. And I sometimes get little
shooting pains in my stomach. The doctor says they're nothing to worry
about, but..."

"Perhaps I can help," whispers Charlie, sliding his hand under the blanket
until it rests on Ralph's tummy. He finds that the bottoms of the boy's
pyjamas are open, and spread apart, so that his cool hand rests on the warm
skin of his belly. He makes little circles with his fingers. "Are you in
any pain now?" he asks.

"No, not now," whispers Ralph; "but..."

Charlie understands the unspoken request, and continues to stroke the
tender skin; his welcome ministrations seem to soothe the patient. "I
wanted to come and see you before, but they wouldn't let me. Even now I've
had to be especially sweet to your uncle. They say that rest is what you
need."

"Drat it!" sparks Ralph; "I have enough rest just lying here. Company is
what I really need. Now do tell me all about the sports. How many prizes
did Rayford next?"

For the next half hour, Charlie recounts the events of the day. His
descriptions are so detailed and lively that Ralph has no difficulty in
picturing all of it. "Oh, I have missed so much!" he exclaims.

"You must try and be patient, darling. Try and be brave."

"Oh, Charlie, you must think me an awful coward to grumble so; but it's
awfully hard lines."

"No, no, not at all," laughs the older boy; "but you must be more than
brave - you must be a hero."

It's Ralph's turn to laugh.

"Some hero! Lying in bed, drinking beef tea, and nibbling on
grapes. There's nothing heroic about me."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Some bits of you are quite heroic."

Ralph smiles and sighs as he feels Charlie's hand a fingers close round his
erection. He pushes his hips up from the bed, quite unabashed by a contact
that seems entirely natural to both boys.

"I say, someone has sent me such heaps of grapes. I can't think who it
is. It's one of the chaps; and from Stevens' description, it's most like
Rayford; but of course it mustn't him."

"Why not?" asks Charlie, squeezing gently.

"He'd never bring his rival grapes; poison more likely."

"Don't be so uncharitable, Ralph Barkitt. If Rayford were ill, would you
take poison to him, or grapes?"

Ralph laughs again, this time a little shame-faced; his cheeks are doubly
flushed. "It's just that Rayford's so different."

"How do you know? Can't you give him credit for having as much heart as
you?" Seeing the boy's frown, Charlie changes the subject. "Have you heard
from Dover yet?"

"No," says Ralph; his voice betraying his concern. "It's donkeyish of me, I
know, but I do want a letter so badly. I do so want someone to love me."

"Darling, we all love; and your father loves you. It's just that his love
is under a cloud just now. I promise you a letter will arrive soon."

Ralph's face brightens; for his trust in Charlie is secure.

"I say, Charlie," he whispers; "it's going to get a little messy down
there, if you..."

Charlie's laughter tinkles through the bedroom.

"Well, we can't have messy sheets, can we?" he says, stripping back blanket
and sheet to expose the boy's raging hard on. He pauses to gaze at Ralph's
hard on, which is standing thick and long in its nest of dark brown
hair. Then he lowers his lips to kiss the engorged head.

"Not too quickly, please," whispers the semi-naked boy.

"Lift," commands Charlie.

Ralph raises his hips and bottom from the bed. Charlie tugs his pyjamas
down to his ankles; then urges the boy's legs apart. He slides his fingers
between the boy's buttocks until he is touching his most intimate place. It
is hot and moist.

"Yes, yes," the younger boy whispers, laying his head back on the pillow.

A finger presses gently at the tiny brown eye; after a few moments it gives
way to the insistent pressure, and the finger slides in, to the first
knuckle, to its full length. It enters and withdraws, enters and withdraws,
until it establishes a rhythm that brings little moans of pleasure from the
prostrate boy. In time, it is joined by a second finger, and together they
work the boy's anus until the sphincter muscle surrenders, and they make
full penetration, sawing in and out of the boy's rectum. Musky smells
mingle with those from the lavender pillow.

Ralph is in bliss; he does not believe it can get more heavenly than this;
but it does.

He feels Charlie's hot, wet mouth slide over his erection, until his lips
are pressed into the dark, thick pubic hair at the base of his eager shaft.

No Paradise can last forever; but for the moment both boys are ecstatic in
the Paradise they share.



CHAPTER XIV

LIKE SON, LIKE FATHER

Ralph's old home at Dover looks sadly in want of a dainty hand to set
things in order. Everything has been left to the servants, and they, in
their master's absence, have let things drift. So 'tis a dreary welcome
Ralph's father receives when early one morning just as the sun is rising
the packet brings him over from Calais, having been absent from England for
three weeks. Dust lies thick on everything, and the fire in the hearth,
though lit, is smoking horribly.

William Barkitt sighs bitterly as he enters the house; it almost seems
abandoned. No happy voices ring through the passages to greet him; no
loving wife is glad of his return; no children's arms are thrown around him
in wild delight. He throws himself into his leather armchair and waits for
his breakfast.

"Any other letters, Adam?" he asks, as the coal-black houseboy carries in
the breakfast tray.

"No, sir; only this 'ere telegraph what came last week."

"Telegram! Telegram!" starts William Barkitt. "Why did you not send it on?"
he asks abruptly, ripping it open as he would the houseboy's blouse.

"You never said nuthing about telegrams, sir," replies the sleepy-eyed boy;
"I sent on the letters as you instructed, but you never said nuthing about
no telegrams." He lets his fingers slide across his shiny black cheeks in a
gesture of...

"No, not now," says Mr. Barkitt impatiently. "Go. You may go. Go."

"Then I shall goes upstairs and makes your bed," whispers the boy; "you are
surely in need of a good lie down you are surely in need of comfort."

When alone, WB reads the words again: "Your son has met with a bad
accident. Will you come and see him?"

"My son," he murmurs dreamily. "Yes, poor little Harry met with an
accident; a bad accident to be sure; for he is dead." Then glancing at the
sender, he sees that his brother sent the enigmatic telegram.

"Ralph, it is!" he exclaims to the breakfast room. "Ralph, my elder son,
has met with an accident, has he? Well, serves him right for all his
behaviour. I cannot go, will not go. Besides, this message is a week old;
the boy may be..."

There he stops, and shudders. For instead of the word 'better' comes
another - 'dead'.

The stricken man throws himself back into his armchair, and covers his
eyes, as the image of his handsome, sorrow-eyed boy arises vividly before
him. Ralph is his son; he is the boy's father; where is his affection? The
child may possibly be very ill, at death's door, unloved, friendless, left
to the tender mercies of his uncle. William remembers a letter which came a
week before he set out for Bordeaux, and which, in his unforgiving anger,
he threw aside unopened.

It is the first he has received from the boy; he rises and seeks on his
table, strewn with papers, for the missing epistle. He finds it, breaks the
seal, and feels a stab in the heart as he thinks the hand that wrote these
words may write no more. Then he reads...

...and his heart nearly bursts with pity, and the love that springs again
to life. He sees, as if in pictures before him, how deeply the boy has
taken his troubles to heart; he reads between the lines of passionate
appeal a loneliness, a sorrow as serious and solemn as his own. He sees
happier days when Ralph and Harry his sons skipped happily up the garden
path, to launch themselves into his welcoming arms. His sons, his boys, his
treasures! Now his son is ill, and there is neither father nor mother there
to comfort him. Oh this cannot be!  This must not stand!

The poor man bows his head in sorrow and remorse; and long he sits thinking
of how the mother would have treated her repentant boy, of how Harry would
have clung to him.

At last, though he has only just returned from one long, tiring journey, he
quickly makes preparations for another - to Sandhaven.

"I am leaving immediately," he tells the senior servant. "Master Ralph is
ill. I shall bring him back, if he is able to be moved. Have everything
ready. I will send a telegram. Keep you a watchful eye for it."

But travel as quickly as he can, he does not reach Sandhaven till the
chimes are sounding nine o'clock. He drives almost madly to the Corner
House - it is years since he visited it - and his agitated ring is what
Ralph and Charlie hear.

Charlie makes his way downstairs, and is met in the hall by a tall,
fine-looking man, who she immediately puts down as Ralph's father. The boy
takes his leave unobserved; for poor Uncle Barkitt is shedding tears of
delight at seeing his well-beloved brother.

"Oh, William, I'm so glad you've come! Why did you not come before? Did you
not receive my telegram?"

"I returned from Bordeaux only this morning, and found that Adam had not
thought it necessary to forward your message. Why did you not write?"

"I thought you still wished to have nothing to do with him, poor boy?"

"How is he? What's up? What's amiss? What's the matter with him?"

"Poor child, matter enough. But promise me you will be kind to him,
William."

"Tut, tut. Tell what is the matter?"

"He had an accident while practising in the school gym, on those horrible
bars. It appears he had a giddy turn, let go, and fell. His right leg is
broken - but that's doing all right. But I'm afraid... I'm afraid his back
is injured"

"Good heavens!" exclaims the poor father. "For life?"

"No, thank God," says his sister solemnly; "only it means he must lie more
or less still for a few weeks. He hasn't been himself since he nearly
drowned" - the father groans; how nearly he had lost his son! - "and I've
been thinking, William, that we have misjudged him. Ralph is a quiet,
sensible, studious lad; he never gives me any trouble; he is good at his
lessons; and he is very attentive at church on Sundays. I have found no
fault in him, only that he is rather strange at times. He will never
mention his mother ---"

"I know, I know, poor boy!" interjects his father. "He has had as much
trouble as I have; and I have been too hard on him. God forgive me!"

"That's right, William. Now will you go and see him. I will show you the
way."

"No; let me go alone," is the reply.

"Well then, up the first flight, and it's the door on your right at the
top. Take care not to excite him."

Ralph hears heavy steps mount the stairs, almost as if someone were
mounting on their hands and knees. He pulls the blanket over his lower
parts, and lies in an attitude of intense listening; and, in answer to the
gentle knock at the door, wonderingly says, "Come in."

Oh, little does he suspect who is coming! When the well-known figure stands
in the doorway, Ralph gives a little cry of welcome, but does not attempt
to move. He knows the agony abrupt movement may cause him; besides, he does
not know how far he may betray his feelings. But the first words are enough
to allay all fears and cause joy to spring to his heart.

"Oh, my Ralph, my poor boy, my Ralph!"

Ralph, heedless of pain, stretches out his arms then, winding them round
his father's neck, sobs: "Father, you've come at last to forgive me!" He
buries his head on the shoulder that should have been there long before,
and sobs his heart out.

"No, no, my boy," whispers his father huskily; "it is you who must
forgive." He releases Ralph and gazes into those large, expressive
eyes. "Oh, why did I not see it before?!"

There follows confessions on both sides, too sacred to be written here; but
we know enough of man and boy to guess how that first half-hour is spent
between them. At last father and son lie together; William stretched
carefully along side Ralph; side to side, face to face.


"My boy, you shall not be lonely any more; you are my eldest son, my first
born, your mother's child. Try and love me. I don't deserve it, but ---"

Another embrace cuts short the apology that Ralph can't bear to hear again;
then, the last barrier broken down, and the reconciliation complete, they
begin to talk of other things: of Ralph's new homes, his companions, the
Polly, his accident, cabbages and kings; till finally Uncle Barkitt comes
upon the scene, and something in Ralph's radiant face compels him to stoop
down and kiss the white-cheeked boy, saying at the same time in his
ordinary brusque tone: "No more chatter, nephew Ralph, brother
William. Supper time is upon us." Then he softens and adds, "But Steven
will serve supper to you both here, in this room."

Of course William Barkitt sees it is impossible to take Ralph home, and
decides to remain at Sandhaven for the present, for the sake of seeing more
of his son. Ralph, tired after the excitement, lies awake half the night,
half in joy, half in mild pain, for his father loves him once more; and the
chimes at midnight seem so sweet and joyous, now the thing has longed and
prayed for has come to pass.

Very early next morning comes Freddy, jubilant at having a holiday
unexpectedly given to the boys in honour of an old scholar. who has just
led a British army to a splendid victory in foreign lands. Freddy, as ever,
is vague about the details - "Oh, some fuzzy wuzzies somewhere out there in
the good old British Empire" is the extent of his information. He
approaches the bed with a curious mixture of nervousness and gladness,
remarking: "I'm afraid to sit too class. Shouldn't you be under a glass
case, or something like that?"

"I am," laughs Ralph; "at my leg is, under a wicker one. I won't break if
you touch me."

"Oh, in that case," grins Fred, his hand sliding under the sheet to rest on
Ralph's crotch, "I'll just check your on the mend." As the boys chat, Fred
gently squeezes the tube of flesh between his friend's legs until it
thickens and elongates into a small hosepipe. He slips his fingers inside
the older boy's pyjamas and caresses his balls. "There, that should help,"
he adds; "though it must be precious dull to lie here all day with only
yourself play with."

"Mighty dull," sighs Ralph; "but much the better for having you here." The
cool, slim fingers playing the length of his erection remind him of what he
has been missing. "But, I say, Freddy. Be a good chap and let Charlie know
my father is, from Dover. And please tell him that all is well. He will
understand my meaning."

Freddy is a mumble; for he has slid back blanket and sheet, and slid
Ralph's stiffy into his mouth and throat until his lips are pressed into
thick, dark pubic hair. He raises his head and says, "I say, Ralph, you do
smell lovely down here. Do you use lavender water? It's sort of musky, but
it's good enough to eat, or at least to kiss. He lowers his face again and
licks eagerly until the hair is sopping wet.

"Did you hear what I just said?" sighs Ralph.

"Yes, yes," replies the younger boy; "I'll be sure to tell Charlie. Now
lift your bum up a bit if you can; I want to go exploring."

Let's leave the boys for a moment and go down to the harbour; for, early as
the hour is, Freddy has already been there this morning. He has been down
to see Sam's new boat. It arrived yesterday, and was christened Polly
again. All this Freddy will explain to Ralph, later. He will also explain
that there's fever down at the harbour, down the Boardwalk and Sam's Alley;
and that the little cripple boy has died from the fever.

"I'm not funky of fever," says Fred; "but Charlie would be furious at my
going if he knew, but I'm all right. At least I'm taking the right
medicine," he grins, wiping his lips. "I say, Ralphie, you do taste yummy."

"Little Arthur Jolly must be miserable," comments Ralph; "he really loved
the little cripple."

"No, no, not at all," exclaims Fred; "that's just another of your pious
thinking. When I told Arthur, I thought he was going to whimper; but he
gave only a deafening smile, that's what Charlie calls a grin, and said,
'Happy little chap; it's all over for him now, and everything is joy.' He's
such a young caution is Arthur.

For a moment Freddy contemplates the middle finger of his right hand, then,
with a shrug, pops it into his mouth and sucks it like a lollipop.

"So all is joy now. It couldn't have been joy with no mother and a drunken
father who... But, Fred, don't be a donkey, and run into the lion's mouth."

"Poor lion, I'd choke him," laughs Fred; "speaking of which, Ralphie; may I
try choking you with this?"

The boy has extracted his growing from his underpants and trousers. His
stiffy looks so hard that it must hurt; and the engorged head is slimy and
purple.

"Yes, but take it easy," says Ralph, cradling his head is his hands on the
pillow.

Carefully, cautiously, Freddy climbs on board, straddles Ralph's chest, and
takes aim.

"Here we go," he sighs.

Later in the morning, when father and son are together, the message comes
that Rayford would like to visit.

"Do you mind leaving bus alone for a bit?" asks Ralph; and Mr. Barkitt, who
has heard all about everything, knows why and leaves him alone.

The visitor comes shyly in, and seems at a loss for words as he approaches
the bedside. He sees that Ralph is very flushed, and he feels a little
frightened of speaking.

"Are you better, Barkitt...Ralph? he asks abruptly.

"On the mend, thanks; come and sit down; edge of the bed; mind my leg. It's
awfully decent of you to come and seem me. I wanted to ask ----" and here
it is Ralph's turn to look abashed. "I wanted to... I thought, yes, now I'm
ill, we must - I hoped - did you give up the sports for any reason?"

The words are confused, and the question comes out with a jerk. But Rayford
appreciates the question, and a dark flush overtakes his face.

"Well, I was so sorry you'd been hurt. Sorry I'd driven you so hard. I
thought, now I have no rival, no one to spur me on, it wasn't fair of me to
take the chance from the others. I was, I am so awfully sorry you were
hurt. It was only when you weren't there I realised how much... how much I
missed you."

"Did you? Do you?" says Ralph gratefully, not daring to meet Rayford's
eyes. "It's a rum do, but I've missed you too. Sometimes I lie here and
remember you climbing the ropes. You're awfully... good, you know." He
pauses, raises his head, looks at his erstwhile rival, then, "I've been
stupid for so long. I'd no right to cut you out."

"Yes, you had!" exclaims Rayford eagerly; "and when the accident happened,
I felt I'd done it."

"Of, fiddlesticks!" smiles Ralph, glad the confession is over. "Let's make
it all up. Let's be rivals - and friends!"

The two grasp each other's hands, and Ralph, looking straight into
Rayford's eyes, says: "Did you bring me those grapes?"

"What a fellow you are," blushes Rayford. "I hope you liked them; you shall
have some more. Would you like some more?"

Ralph squeezes Rayford's hands.

"Yes, yes; I'd like lots more - from you."



CHAPTER XV

FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

"Frederick, you don't go down to the Boardwalk, I trust, do you?" asks
Charles Dale that very evening.

Freddy evades the question, muttering, "I do - occasionally."

"Well, on no account must you go down now; the fever is so very bad there."

"All right," says Freddy carelessly, thinking it is not necessary to
frighten his elder brother by saying he has been there so lately.

Charlie stands there, fiddling with his favourite velvet necktie. He is
actually going out to spend the evening, and he is trying to make himself
look as well as possible.

"How handsome you look," says Will as he glances over Charlie's attire;
quite captivating." He does not notice how the warm blood rushes to his
brother's face for an instant. Nor is he fully aware of the sudden rush of
blood into the length between his own legs. "Don't tell me you are going to
visit our dear Ralph - again?"

Charlie's blush is the only reply.

As for Ralph, though he is hardly growing better, he is certainly no
worse. Times passes uneventfully, but the boy is unconcerned. Experience
and intuition have taught him that nothing may happen again and again, but
then everything happens at once. Ralph does miss Freddy, who, getting into
as many scrapes as usual, has found scarcely any time to visit his invalid
friend; and his infrequent visits are less than successful since there
seems a lack of his usual free manner; some restraint; something
hidden. Ralph wonders if Fred does not feel well, or if there is another
more serious illness, and illness of the heart that troubles him. He has
wondered aloud if his young friend has done something he regrets; only to
meet with a cheerful smile and, "I say, old boy, I never regret
anything. If what happens is good, that's wonderful; if 'tis bad, why then
I call it an experience!"

One day, nearly a week after his last visit, the two boys are sitting
together on Ralph's bed, when Fred suddenly says, "Young Jolly wasn't at
school this morning."

Ralph looks alarmed. "He's got that fever, depend on it. Poor little
blighter! He has spent a great deal too much time down at the Boardwalk."

"What a molly you are," laughs Freddy, though a little uneasily. "Are you
afraid of catching it?"

"No chance of me catching it," sighs Ralph; "I haven't been out of this bed
for weeks. But I do fear for the little fellow. And I do so like Arthur. He
tries always to be kind and nice to people; and if you do that, somebody
will always speak up for you."

A grave, half-sad look comes into Freddy's bright eyes, and Ralph, turning
his head to meet the boy's gaze, says: "Freddy, there's something wrong
about you. Don't you feel well?""

"No; I'm all right," says Fred, dropping his eyes, though he
flushes. "Don't keep bothering, you silly old maid." He gives his friend's
semi-erect member a friendly tweak. "Freddy, I can't help bothering when I
see you like this. There is something the matter. Won't you tell me what it
is?" But there is no answer, for the younger boy has dropped his head and
taken in his friend's hardening cock. Ralph sighs and leans back against
the pillow, one hand brushing the golden hair of the boy who is pleasuring
him so.

It is not until the following evening that Ralph learns the truth, and it
is not from Freddy's swollen lips.

"Little Arthur's got the fever. I thought I'd come and tell you; and young
Dale went home this afternoon with a bad headache and sore throat. They
suspect the fever has sneaked into school." Rayford says very gravely, and
Ralph is sore dismayed.

"I was afraid that's what was up with poor little Art; but Will, I'm more
sorry for him."

"Why ever?" asks Rayford in surprise.

"I don't know. Arthur seems to be able to bear up so much better than
frolicsome old Fred. Too much illness may be something that Freddy cannot
bear. I know that is why I see so little of him here. I an understand
it. Even to be near illness renders Freddy incapable of joy. How will he
bear it, I wonder?"

"They say young Jolly's in for it badly; he's been spending so much time
down at the Boardwalk, in the very thickest of it. Of course that's where
he's caught it." Rayford ran a half-bitten juicy grape along the invalid's
lips; they opened to him, and he slipped it in.

Ralph feels very sad for his much-loved companions, but he cannot help
contrasting the two cases - quiet, patient, little Arthur; and tiresome,
impetuous, glorious Freddy. He wonders how the younger Dale broke the news
to the elder.

That afternoon Freddy had gone home feel very poorly; he could no longer
disguise the fact, so he went straight to Charles and told him. The latter
looked at his flushed face and heavy eyes with a great dread creeping over
his heart.

"Sore throat. Oh, Fred, is it...?"

"I feel sure it's the fever, Charlie. I'm awfully sorry. Jolly has got it."

Charlie took his brother as far away as possible from the youngest Dale,
and sent for the doctor. Their worse suspicions were confirmed.

Freddy is in for it; and now begins the long dreary period of nursing. Day
by day the fever grows upon him, making more and more unmanageable. He
suffers badly, but Charles never leaves him. The youngest brother is sent
away, while the eldest devotes himself with untiring energy to his
charge. It is his one constitutional walk every day to the Corner House,
just to tell through the garden gate how her patient is, and hear news of
Ralph. Then to the Deanery to hear how the other victim fares.

Arthur has it in its worst form, and hope of his recover recedes. But
through it all he is his own gentle, happy little self; even in his
delirium saying things that make his watchers cry half-grateful,
half-bitter tears. So pass the long dreary days, and at last the crisis
comes. The fever leaves the boy, but everyone sees that the child cannot
rally from the great exhaustion. His heart-broken father watches
incessantly, hardly daring to hope that his only begotten son will live
from hour to hour.

So it is to be.

The child is made meet for his Father's home, earth no longer a home for
him.

One afternoon, the child sighs languidly: "Father, what time is it?"

"Nearly four, darling."

"I would like to hear the bells once more, dearest father. I'm so happy,
I'm so glad. Will you take my messages now?"

The sobbing father bows his head.

"Tell Ralph," the child whispers, halting between every few words, "I wish
I could have seen him again; but give him something of mine to remember me
by. Tell him I love him very much, and we shall meet again. He always calls
me his 'little one'; tell him I am now one of God's little ones." Then,
after a pause, "He has got the work to do now, not me; but I shall watch
for him.

"Tell Fred how happy I am, and ask him to remember what he was thinking of
a little while ago. He's not happy, father; but if he can love our Lord, he
will be happy"

The child's eyes, which seem even more beautiful because his fever-wasted
face is so thin and pale and pure, rest on his father's face. "Tell Rayford
I am not a coward. I wish he thought better of me, perhaps he will when I
am gone. Oh, father dearest, don't cry; look up, look up, oh, see the
light, see the light!"

The boy-child raises himself a few inches from the bed and stretches out
his arms towards the light that was calling him home. He ceases speaking;
he lies back, eyes closed, lips smiling - a little angel going into his
native air. Then, the afternoon bells sounding crisp and clear, he sighs
and dies.

Happy little Arthur! Who can grieve for you now that you have gone to
receive the crown you little dreamed was so soon to be yours?

At much the same moment, Freddy leaves off babbling nonsense, and opens his
eyes rationally instead of glaring about him. He smiles weakly at
Charlie. He is of course very weak; but the disease has not been so
virulent with him as with Arthur, and his strong constitution has stood him
in favour. Now the crisis has passed, and they know he will recover. Their
thankful hearts are saddened by the news of Arthur's death, and the
sickening, though not with fever, of the littlest Dale away from
homer. Charles has a hard struggle; he wants to nurse the child himself;
but it is impossible to leave Fred, and she knows the child is in good
hands. So it is a very pale and worn face that Freddy opens his eyes to
see, almost as pale as his own.

"Have I been ill?" Charles. He gives a funny little laugh at the weak sound
of his voice.

"Yes, beloved, but you're on the mend now; you will soon be hale and hearty
again."

"How long have I been ill?"

"A week; but don't talk now. Conserve your strength."

"It won't hurt me to talk a little, Charles; I want to. How's everybody?!

Charlie hardly knows what to say, whether to hide the truth or not.

"Ralph, too, is on the mend. I've been every day to hear how he is through
the window; he is very anxious for you."

"Silly old thing!" murmurs Freddy, closing his eyes. He does not appear to
want further information, so Charles slips into silence, and contents
himself with providing some nourishment. Freddy lies there gathering his
scattered senses, collecting his thoughts, and though he lies perfectly
still, apart from a small tent beneath the quilt, Charles sees that his
mind is busy. At least he speaks again:

"Arthur Jolly was ill when I was last out and about. What news of Arthur?
How is he? Is he better?"

"Yes, better now, my dear," Charles says quietly.

"That's topping. Was he as bad as me?"

"Worse, much worse; don't talk Freddy; lie still."

"Yes, I shall. When will Arthur be up and about again?"

Charles takes his brother's hand in his, and looks anxiously into his pale
face. Should he tell him? Will it do him harm? It's no use hiding the truth
from him; truth will out.

"Freddy," he begins; "Arthur was worse than you, much worse; but he is
better now; better in the only way he could be. Do you understand?"

"He's dead!" cries Freddy; "That's what you mean by 'better', isn't it? Oh,
do tell me, I need to know!"

"Yes, my dear; young Arthur died earlier this afternoon; but I am told he
was not afraid. They say he looked happy, serene, content with himself and
his God." Charlie's voice trembles; for he, like everyone else, loved the
bright, winning, fearless boy. Freddy turns his head to the wall, and
cries.

As the days wear on, another sentiment finds a place in Frederick Dale's
heart - love and gratitude to his brother, who so untiringly nurses him;
always the same to him in all his moods - when he feels ill and weak, when
he is cranky and impatient, restless or cross; Charles doe not change -
always gentle and tender. Even when the younger Dale finds his feet, his
spirits are restored, and flashes of his bumptious self return, the older
Dale is endlessly patient. And patience is rewarded when the news arrives
that the youngest Dale is restored to health, soon to be home.

The only point of difference between the elder Dales is Freddy's insistence
that he visit and spend time with Ralph; "for Ralph is part of Arthur,
don't you know? And by being with Ralph, the three of us can be together
again."


After three days, Charles relents.

"Ralphie, old boy, this is prime. I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"No, no, just be careful when you're going down."

"Never fear," laughs Freddy; "I'm going to take my time over this. But you
must eat more. You'll have nothing left if you go on at this rate." The boy
adjusts himself as he strokes his friend's thin face. "Oooof! At least you
haven't lost anything down here; in fact, I think you've grown some."

"I shall soon pick up again," grins Ralph; "but I never was, and never wish
to be, such a dumpling as you."

"I don't think it's wise to insult me while I'm sitting on you like this,"
laughs Freddy; "you can at least wait till I'm sitting on your face. I say,
don't touch my prick for a moment, or you'll have a couple of squirts of
cream before tea." Freddy lowers himself again; he impales himself on
Ralph's thick cock until dark pubic hair tickles his bottom.

"Are you going back to school, Fred?"

Freddy lowers his chest and rests it on his arms, already folded across
Ralph's chest. He flicks out his tongue to lick the older boy's lips. "Yes,
for the term, I suppose. Then I hope to get a berth on a steamer or
something. I must, I will, be a sailor and sail the seven seas."

"Hold hard, Freddy. I suppose you'll have to be a sailor one day, if you're
so determined. Very likely my pater can help you; he's got something to do
with the ------ Line. Shall I ask him?"

Freddy's bright eyes dance. He squeezes his sphincters and makes Ralph
gasp. "Oh, do ask him! That's splendid. You are a brick, Ralphie." In his
excitement, he begins to ride gently; Ralph's cock is withdrawn to the head
before plunging again into the musky deep.

"I'm sorry I didn't visit more often, Ralph. Were you awfully lonely?"

"Sometimes. Rayford has been awfully good. And Charles of course."

"Rayford! Why, I thought you couldn't stand each other. Now you're
practically - "; here he gives another squeeze; "-bumchums."

"Once upon a time; but we've both drawn in our horns, and forgotten all
that. Rayford's a capital fellow."

"Anyone else been to see you?" There is a pause; and both boys remember.

"Poor little chap. Did he send you a message, Ralph? He did me. Here it
is." He pulls out from a shirt pocket - a shirt being his only garment - a
little paper, soiled now, and frayed at the edges from being constantly
carried out and read. He gives it to Ralph; he reads it in silence, and
gives it back, then keeps his eyes fixed on the boy. "And have you, Freddy,
at last?"

"I've tried to; I'm trying to; but it's awfully hard. I'm not right yet."

"Fred, may I speak to you, openly? I'll tell you what Arthur said to me. He
said I had work to do. Let me do it."

Then follows a long earnest talk; no secrets between the boys, no
reserve. Fred says all that is in his heart, and on his mind; and Ralph
leads him gently and carefully over his doubts and fears and questionings,
till at last Freddy, with shining face, says: "Ralph, what should I have
done without you and Arthur? I see it all as clear as daylight now. I'll
try my best; and I shall be good, oh, I shall, I shall!"

Ralph smiles up, and asks, "I say, Freddy, do you think little Arthur is
looking down on us right now?"

"Oh, I believe he is. No, I know he is. If only he could be with us in the
flesh as well as in the spirit."

Animated, Freddy begins to ride his friend fiercely, rising and falling,
rising and falling, sometimes gasping as something is touched deep
within... until Ralph, flinging his head back, bites tongue, then whispers,
"He is here, he is here, he is come!" Then, raising himself on his elbows,
he leans forward to take Freddy between his lips, into his mouth, into his
very throat, and from the boy sucks the essence of life itself!

After tea, Freddy meanders his way home; but he finds his way to a corner
of the churchyard, to a grave, strewn with blossom, and, kneeling at its
foot, surrenders the frail white rose he has been carrying, to lay it
before the heart-shaped headstone. Then he reads the inscription:

									Arthur
Jolly
									  Aged
12

Then the date, and the words - 'Of such is the kingdom of heaven'

Freddy gazes at the words, and recalls that long last conversation, and all
the beautiful and innocent things Arthur said; and he renews his vows, so
lately and earnestly made before Ralph, that he will follow Arthur - the
boy who will never grow old.


CHAPTER XVI

FAREWELL BUT NOT GOOD-BYE

Charles Dale sees it is no good trying to unbend Freddy's mind; it is quite
made up; he will be a sailor, come hell or high water. If they don't let
him go off properly, he declares he'll run away. He is sorry after he says
that, for Charles turns pale at the idea. But Freddy has done with such
tricks now, and he tries hard to curb his impatience, and wait till
Mr. Barkitt finds a suitable berth for him. But everyone can see the boy's
restlessness. He spends all his spare time in the company of
fishermen. There is no danger of catching anything foul from the Boardwalk,
for the authorities have woken up after the dreadful fever devastated the
place; and the task of demolishing the worst places is already going on.

Freddy's dream day and night is of being a sailor, and everything else
slips into the background. He returns to school rather against his will;
but once there, among his companions, he enters more heartily into the work
and play of school-life. To Geography lessons he pays special attention;
for, as he comments to the master, "without geography sailor boy is
nowhere. At play, Freddy ignores those few boys who jeer at the change in
the him, but Freddy passes them by, completely ignoring any pert and
provoking speeches, much to the boys' indignation. He also wakes up to the
fact that Rayford, as Ralph has said, is not such a bad fellow, and
handsome to boot; he courts the boy's friendship.

So Freddy gets out of the old muddy ruts, and starts again on a clear
course, everything bidding fair for the future. Ah, but don't imagine that
he becomes a model pupil all at once. Not a bit of it. His lessons are
terribly shirked sometimes, when the seafaring fit is strongest upon him,
and the detention room is no stranger to his presence; but now neither
cribs nor any unfair means are employed. If Freddy can't do the work
honestly, he doesn't do it at all; and his masters see and respect the boy
accordingly.

In the playground sometimes he flies into terrific passions, when his pride
is hurt, or his honour called into question; but once, after raising his
fist in a pugilistic attitude to a singularly impertinent younger boy, he
turns abruptly away, never heeding the disappointed jeering of his
assailants. And, oh, how vividly the remembrance of that day, when Arthur
had refused to fight, comes to mind! It is difficult to turn the other
cheek, but not impossible when he has the image of Arthur before him.

Ralph, too, steadily improves in health and spirits, and there is much talk
of what he should do when set at liberty again. After much consultation it
is decided that a sea voyage is the best thing possible; and Ralph is eager
to go, if they can arrange a berth for Fred on the same vessel. The latter
is overjoyed with this arrangement; and many are the schemes proposed as,
with the window towards the sea before them, and the breath of summer
coming in, the two boys lie side by side on Ralph's bed. At times Freddy
leans out over the window sill, inhaling the salt breeze, as Ralph, pressed
close behind, delivers the tangible outpourings of his desire and love. So
they talk, and dream, and plan.

At last comes the first of August - a great day for both; for Freddy leaves
school for good and Ralph is allowed to walk unaided down the stairs to the
parlour. Dear reader, it is impossible to describe the feelings the boy
cannot help showing as, on his father's arm, he steps to the bay window to
gaze up at the cathedral spires. What an age it has been since he last saw
the dear old building! The chestnut trees are in full, luxuriant leaf, and
the dry dust lies thick upon the white road before. In his mind's eye Ralph
sees young Arthur come smiling round the corner, a tall gladiolus balanced
on his outstretched palm.

That evening he is allowed to sit out in the garden, listening to Charlie's
music, as the sounds echo melodiously from the cathedral. Charlie plays all
of Ralph's favourite pieces, glad in the knowledge that the boy will hear
and understand their intent. The final piece is a sea shanty that proves
the harbinger of good news. A berth has been found for Freddy on board a
splendid new vessel, bound for the Cape within two weeks. Mr. Barkitt
arrives with the news as the final notes die away. Freddy flushes crimson
with sudden joy, and straightway turns several somersaults on the
green. And even better; for Ralph is to go as a first-class passenger there
and back, before he plunges into study once more.

In Mr. Barkitt, too, there is a sea change. If he has been wild in his
youth, that is over now. His wife, and then his troubles, and, last of all,
his only remaining son, have taught him lessons which, though they have
made his hair turn grey rather early, have brought him to his right mind;
and the busy folk of Sandhaven pronounce him a 'reformed character,
quite'. Freddy, too, has influenced many around him through his simple
philosophy: life is simple; you just keep your eyes open, and get on with
it.

Freddy is in his element; he stands by the seashore, and smells a smell
that he knows, intuitively, is the smell of love. He, and Ralph, spend
hours in the company of Sam and his comrades, in whose honest breasts all
the old boyish enthusiasm for the salt water remain, and the stories and
adventures they recount to the boys are marvellous. It is true that their
lives are but drops in the ocean; but without these drops the ocean would
be less. Ralph listens quietly, but he is no less excited. First come the
walks by the cathedral, then the drives, a source of wild delight to a boy
who has been so long shut in by four walls. Then the slow strolls to the
harbour, and afternoons spent in glorious company.

And at last, two or three days before sailing, he makes his way one Sunday
into the cathedral, to join once more, the last time for a long while, in
the service. He is in goodly company - his father and uncle, and Charles
and Frederick, and a host of friends and well-wishers.

The last service is different to any of the others he has attended. He
looks round the familiar place with eyes that seem to capture everything
afresh - arch, and pillar, and organ; the old carved pulpit; the dusky,
dusty corners; the wrinkled old verger; the calm, sad face of Dean Jolly,
and the row of clergymen beyond him; the young faces in the choir - who
would be there, and how would they be altered when he comes back? And
there, yes, over there, the little corner where he sat with Arthur; and
once more he hears the boy's happy laughter, and knows that all is well,
and that all will be well. The quiet does him good, and he reflects
seriously on his own account. He looks back over the months during which he
has been in Sandhaven, and what has happened. How different he feels; how
much happier; how safe, when he thinks of the approaching journey! He
remembers the storm - his calmness and Freddy's terror; he turns to look at
the bright, shining face of his friend half-reclining in a corner. He
smiles at Freddy, and his smile is returned; the smiles are not untinged
with sadness, for in the best of all possible words, young Arthur would be
going with them, too.

Just then the words of the text ring in their ears: "Who are the confidence
of all the ends of the earth, and of them that are afar off upon the sea."

Two days later they set off for London; it is a trying time for
everyone. The boys try to appear brave and careless, and hide any feelings
of trepidation for the sake of Charles and the others, who, now the time
for parting has come, would have given worlds to delay it. Charles has put
a good many tears away amongst Fred's shirts; the younger brother turns and
gives the older a hug and a kiss; they pass for his thanks, which with a
lump in one's throat saves an awkward performance.

Every one comes up to London with the boys, to make final purchases, see
the Aurora, and be at hand when she steams down the Thames. Freddy looks
splendid in nautical dress; he seems, with his merry handsome face, untidy
hair, and broad shoulders, just the right cut for a sailor lad, and his
folks are rightly proud of him. No less handsome is the tall, slim,
delicate, dark-eyed boy who is to accompany him.

It comes at last, that first farewell that Charles has ever had to say to
his brother. He tries hard to be brave, and only his excessive pallor
reveals how hard is his self-control kept. When Freddy's impetuous embrace,
half tender, half playful, shields him a little from the others, he
whispers: "Freddy, my sweet, comeback as brave and bright as you go. Don't
forget us; we shall always be thinking of you, praying for you. Farewell."
There is no reply, but the boy's full eyes tell that all is well.

Ralph, too, clings to Charlie's hand a minute, trying hard to speak; but
all he can say, with a husky voice, is: "Charlie, our good angel, you'll
never know quite what you've done for me. God bless you."

"Farewell, Ralph. Look after Freddy. Oh, I shall want to see you both home
again soon. It is the miracle I shall pray for."

"Never pray for a miracle," laughs Freddy; "you might get one you weren't
expecting." Then, "Hey, there's the signal for us to be off!"

All is bustle and confusion. At length the gallant vessel, her decks lined
with people waving tearful or cheerful adieus, moves slowly from the
landing-place; and Charles, catching hold of Mr. Barkitt's arm for support,
watches silently until the two faces among the cheering passengers become
less and less apparent. Further and further away they move, pursued by
thoughts and prayers, until only a smoke plume rising into the calm blue
sky indicates they are still in the same world.


CHAPTER XVII

THERE AND BACK AGAIN

Our story deals with Sandhaven rather than the Atlantic or the Cape;
therefore, we cannot dwell on the adventures of Ralph and Freddy that are
too numerous by far to place at the end of a book. True there were no
terrible experiences during the outward voyage, no shipwrecks, no wandering
albatross, no wandering icebergs. There were one or two stiffish gales that
put the passengers into a fright, and the sailors on their mettle; but on
the whole they had a fair passage south.

Freddy quickly fell into his duties, for his heart was in his work; and he
speedily became a favourite amongst both passengers and crew, for whom he
could never do enough. His ambition was in a fair way to be fulfilled; and
his experiences of ship-life far surpassed his expectations, though of
course it was not all play.

There is Ralph to watch over.

A few days wring a wonderful change in the dark-eyed boy. He gets colour
from the wind and the sun; life comes back to his face, and vigour to his
weakened frame. He is soon able to leave off his invalid habits, and forego
his invalid chair entirely. If Freddy is a favourite, Ralph is just as much
of one. Everybody notices him from the first day ion board and pities him
in his awkwardness and will do anything for him. He thoroughly enjoys the
voyage, and when the parting is once over he feels better, and sets to
work, doing his utmost to get well.

They arrive in due time at Cape Town, and Ralph goes at once and makes
himself known to a gentleman of his father's acquaintance, who gives him a
warm welcome and a home as long as the Aurora should stay in port. This is
not long; one short month, during which repairs and improvements are
carried out. Fred is delighted with his first sight of a foreign country -
so far off, yet so English in its appearance, manners and customs. To see
English people, and hear his own language in such a distant land, seems
very peculiar. How marvellous the Empire is! But he craves for the sea
again; his first experience has been so propitious and so rewarding; for
though he will take nothing from the crew for services rendered, he is
happy when passengers slip him a little something for his generosity to
them.

Ralph is thoroughly well again, and much enjoys his visit to
Mr. Markham. They go up country a little way, view the wild life, visits a
few native huts, and view the native boys for whom Mr Wilfrid Blunt might
have penned the line whose 'behinds impel the astonished nightingales to
song'.  They take a little trip in the gentleman's yacht round the cape and
to the other extremity of the bay. And when Freddy has shore leave, many
are the rambles and talks the boys share together - of the old days, the
old school, the old home, of the two fathers, and of Charlie. They go over
and over again all the topics, and never seem to tire of them; though
Freddy cannot help noticing how often Ralph brings the subject back to that
of his elder brother. For Ralph is extremely tender-hearted and worries how
Charles will be coping without their company.

And try not to as he might, Charlie does miss them so. November passes, and
December heralds the end of the year. The trees grow bare, and moan and
sigh in the bitter winds; the sea looks sullen and grey when not fretting
in the breeze. There is great excitement when a small vessel is wrecked on
the black rocks while trying to drive into the harbour; and Charles cannot
help thinking of another ship, driven on some rocks, with those two
precious lives in board.

At last, at Christmas time, news comes. The Aurora has been sighted off
Rocca, so she would soon be home; and Christmas becomes joyous with the
thought that they would all soon be reunited. And before the New Year comes
in Charles and Mr. Barkitt take a joyous journey up to London, and then
impatiently await the slow progress of the Aurora up the Thames.

It is almost dark when the stately vessel enters the docks, and too foggy
for any of the eager eyes of friends to distinguish those who wait on the
slowly-advancing vessel. Charles goes with Mr. Barkitt to meet Ralph, who
has determined not to leave the vessel at Gravesend, as Freddy will not be
able to get off until they have reached the docks. It seems an age before
they can catch a glimpse of anyone they know, though by far the greater
part of the passengers have disembarked at Gravesend.

At last Charles's quick ear catches the sound of a familiar laugh, not
loud, but exceedingly musical, and in another moment Ralph is in their
arms.

What a splendid fellow he looks in all the strength and vigour of renewed
health; grown, it seems, every so much taller, brown and robust, and fairly
bursting out of the pants in which he left England. But there is the same
half-serious, half-merry look in those dark eyes; and Charles finds himself
turning away to blush.

Mr. Barkitt holds his son once more in tight embrace, as if he will never
let him go. His voice trembles as he says: "Here you are, my handsome
boy. Thank God I have you again." Ralph smiles deeply; that is all he seems
able to do in face of such paternal affection. Then turning to Charles, he
grips his hand and cries out: "Well, Charlie, my good angel, here we all
are again!"

It is a queer mixture, serious, then ridiculous; for Ralph isn't going to
show that he is nearly making a baby of himself. At last Ralph secures his
portmanteau, and leaving the rest of his belongings to be sent on, takes
Charlie by the arm, and off they go to the hotel, where all will pass the
night. For it has been agreed that Mr. Barkitt, having some business on
board ship, will wait till Freddy is dismissed and bring him along for
supper.

"How queer everything seems," says Ralph, as they stroll to the
hotel. "Fancy, I've been all that way, and come back again all right. And
I'm as well as can be. I haven't been a bit tired since I landed at the
Cape. I shall go and live there, I think. The climate suits my constitution
and my interests. Of course, it would be even better if I had the company I
desire,"; at which point he squeezes Charlie's hand.

"Ah... and how is my brother?"

"Oh, blooming, and as incorrigible as ever; and of course he's not in the
best of tempers not being able to come off when I did. I wanted to wait for
him, but he wouldn't hear of that. No matter. He sends his love, and will
be with us presently."

In the hotel the conversation turns again to Freddy.

"And how does Freddy seem about what we have hoped for?"

"Hasn't he told you?" exclaims Ralph. "He said he'd written three or four
times."


"Oh, he has. Four postcards to be exact."

"Why, Charles, he got put right before we ever left England. I think it was
the fever and Arthur's death that did it. But, oh, he's splendid now!" He
has been faithful on board the Aurora. I must confess and drinks and
smokes, but only in moderation; and his language can be a bit salty; but
then he is a seaman now. And he can be a little free with... But, oh, he
says 'Our Father' with me every night. Often he has knelt by the side of my
bed and... Why, once I heard him preaching a bit of a sermon to one of the
men, and he looked as earnest over it as you did when you tried it on
me. Why, I have known Freddy locked in a cabin with two or three of the
men, teaching them the errors of their ways, I suppose. And one night of
the most terrific storm we had, when the engines were a bit wonky, he went
round the cabins calming those passengers who were most affrighted. I asked
him if he remembered that gale of last year when we were caught out in the
open, when he was so afraid of going down. And his reply? 'Oh, Ralphie, I'm
never afraid of going down now.' Oh, yes, Charlie, he's all square, and
he'll tell you himself pretty soon, I guess."

Charles does not have long to wait, for presently he sees his younger
brother coming up the street with a companion, looking his own self - free
and happy. He pauses at the entrance to the hotel, shakes hands with his
companion, and then bounds into the hall to greet Charlie. One moment, and
then two strong, freckled arms are thrown round his neck, and laughing eyes
meet smiling eyes.

"Oh, you dear, silly old Charlie! Don't look at me so; you'll make me
blush." He lays his head on his brother's shoulder a moment, to hide
something more than a blush; it is so sweet to be loved as Charlie, and
Ralph, love him. The situation is rescued as all three boys burst into
laughter - laughter which lasts the whole evening long; for it is
impossible to be solemn with Freddy by. How many jokes and tales are told
that send all three into fits! They are sitting at supper - a sumptuous
supper - and as Freddy beheaded a boiled egg, he laughingly asks Ralph: "Do
you remember young Chang's definition of an egg?" Ralph laughs; and Charles
and Mr. Barkitt wait for an explanation.

"Why, one day at breakfast Chang, a Chinese boy who couldn't speak much
English, wanted an egg, but couldn't make anyone understand. At last he
blurted out, "I want a son of a chicken!" Freddy pauses, then adds, "Let's
be thankful he didn't want a puppy!", leaving the company somewhat
mystified.

And such like tales are circulated until Freddy, who must return to ship
that night, takes his leave. But the next day they all set off once more to
visit Sandhaven, ad, as they approach the little town, spirits rise even
higher, though Freddy's stay is to be short; he must sail again in three
weeks.

Mr. Dale is at the station, and with him Uncle Barkitt. Ralph's eyes widen
in surprise. "Why, uncle!" he exclaims, seizing his hand, and giving him a
good, sounding kiss on the cheek. "Who would have thought of seeing you
here? One would think you were glad to see me."

"So I am, so I am, nephew. How tall you've grown! but don't be so
impetuous; you are as bad as ever, I'll wager."

"Then you'd win your wager," laughs Ralph. "Ah! if it isn't old Rayford;
that's jolly of you!" he says, seizing Rayford's hand. "However did you
know we were coming back?"

"I went and asked, of course. Glad to see you back again. My, you do look
well; in full bloom, I'd say."

Every one has a welcome for the voyagers, and Freddy looks round with an
appreciate air. "Sandhaven isn't such a bad place after all. Don't let's
sit here suffocating in this four-wheeler. Send on the baggage, and let's
stroll home on our own pins." And what a joyous walk it is! How strange yet
familiar everything seems - the narrow footpaths, the dirty roads, the
trees in the Close, and at last, the homes of both boys within sight of
each other.

Busy as they are, Freddy finds half an hour to play with little Louis, now
fully restored to health and vitality. Then, Louis abed, he glances at the
clock and says to Charles: "Dear brother, will you go and play us a tune?
I'm dying to hear the old pipes again. But perhaps you are too fatigued?"

"No, no; I should enjoy it; it will be a pleasant end to our day."

"Then I shall bide with Louis, while you and Ralph go play. I can hear the
music from here, and it will bring back such memories. And pause a
moment. Can you smell the fish from the harbour; it's so terrific tonight
it might stop the cathedral clock. Ah, what memories it brings. So, off you
two go; and I shall read Louis a bedtime story."

"But not from 'that' book!" expostulates the elder brother.

"Oh, Charles, don't be a spoil-sport. You know how much little Louis loves
the book; and remember it is subtitled 'a Pleasant Mode of Learning to
Read'. Why, it's a splendid little volume. It certainly taught me to read."

Ralph is much intrigued; and Freddy passes him a small book. It is entitled
'Reading Without Tears', apparently published in 1861. He opens it at
random and reads aloud:

'Wil-li-am climbed up-stairs to the top of the house, and went to the
gun-pow-der clos-et. He fil-led the can-is-ter. It came into his fool-ish
mind, "I will go int-to the nur-se-ry and fright-en my lit-tle bro-thers
and sis-ters." It was his de-light to frigt-en the child-dren. How un-kind!
He found them a-lone with-out a nurse. So he was a-ble to play tricks. He
throws a lit-tle gun-pow-der int-tothe fire. And what hap-pens? The flames
dart out and catch the pow-der in the can-is-ter. It is blown up with a
loud noise. The chil-dren are thrown down, they are in flames. The win-dows
are bro-ken. The house is sha-ken. Mis-ter Mor-ley rush-es up-stairs. What
a sight! All his child-dren ly-ing on the floor burning-ing. The ser-vants
help to quench the flames. They go for a cab to take the chil-dren to the
hos-pit-al. The doc-tor says, "The chil-dren are blind, they will soon
die."'

Ralph snaps the book closed, and cries: "Freddy, this is horrid, horris,
horrid. How can you read this stuff to little Louis? No, you shall not. I
shall take it with us to the cathedral. Do find something else to read to
Louis, something wholesome, something edifying." Freddy laughs
good-humouredly. "All right then. Off you go. Have fun. Louis and I
certainly shall."

So, once more, the couple enter the dark cathedral, and Charles, with Ralph
sitting by his side, plays all their favourite pieces; sometimes joined by
an owl or two who seem to hoot exactly in B flat according to several
pitch-pipes, and as strictly at concert pitch; while the moonlight shadows
very strongly, showing the patterns of the stained-glass windows on the
floors and walls.

At last Charles turns to that well-used 'St Paul'; and after playing
through 'Happy and blest are they', he takes his hands from the keys and
looks into Ralph's dark, fathomless eyes. The boy, much stirred, runs his
fingers along the nape of his friend's neck, feeling the tight curls tickle
his fingers. He pulls the boy towards him and kisses him, on the lips,
lingering as mouths open, and tongues enter the sacred portals. Ralph then
whispers the words that little Arthur taught him: 'faithful unto death',
and shivers to hear the words echo in his own ears - 'yes, my love,
faithful unto death'.

This story is all but done; and we can only take a glance or two at our
boys. They are growing men now, and their lives are mostly spent out of
Sandhaven.

Freddy continues his sea-faring life. He serves his apprenticeship, passes
his examinations, and is now first mate on the vessel that took him for his
first voyage. He does not yet know, though he hopes, that one day he will
be master of the Aurora, with several young apprentice lads serving under
him.

Ralph stays at Windsor school for some time, then goes up to
Cambridge. During the voyage described he makes up his mind to devote his
whole life to his Master's service. The fiery trial he passed through when
so young broke his heart, but God, in His wisdom, has healed it, and given
to him an help-mate in the form of Charles Dale. Together they now do the
Lord's work in the untamed hinterland of the Cape, where Charles, as
choirmaster, has brought many handsome little fellows under his wing.

The Dean devotes his life to the poor folk, especially the young, who still
live in the less-than-salubrious quarter that is the Boardwalk.

Uncle Barkitt is a martyr to rheumatism, caught, he declares, by feeling a
draught through the rails at the back of his chair; but all his curt old
temper has disappeared, and he, with the help of faithful
Stevens. nominally keeps house for his nephew, now that they are best of
friends.

As for Mr. William Barkitt, brother to Uncle Barkitt, and father to Ralph
Barkitt, he has followed his father's footsteps into the Dark Continent;
and we only that one day the world will echo joyously to his famous
greeting: 'Colonel Barkitt, my father, I presume."

And little Arthur?

Who can be sure?

But one cloudless night, when the stars are shyly peeping down on
Sandhaven, look up, listen carefully; and you may hear a tinkle of laughter
that can only come from Heaven.

FINIS