Dominic’s , or perhaps Teddy Lester’s Schooldays . He appeared to have taken up this position for the purpose of subjecting Bobby to closer appraisal.
‘You don’t seem to me to be quite the type,’ Beadon said firmly.
‘The type?’ Bobby was startled.
‘I’m interested in types. You see, I draw them.’
‘Yes, I know. Portland Bill, and the Severn Bore. I was admiring them.’
‘Oh, that’s all rot.’ The self-possessed Beadon was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion by this compliment. ‘A man can’t really do anything with bits of chalk. I want to go and be in a studio in Paris, as a matter of fact. With somebody like Daumier. Do you know Daumier? I don’t mean I don’t realize he’s dead. With just that sort of artist. But my parents say I’m still rather too young.’
‘I suppose it’s a matter of the age in which we live,’ Bobby offered gravely. ‘At the Renaissance, people like Michelangelo were already going great guns at round about your age. Nowadays it’s not thought healthy to be precocious like that.’
‘There you are!’ Beadon was triumphant. ‘You may be a Rugger tough, but you do understand about these things. I knew you were one of us.’
It was when he received this handsome promotion into the intellectual classes that it occurred to Bobby that he might learn something useful from these children. Beadon was bright. Walcot had perhaps the role of Beadon’s follower, but this didn’t mean that he mightn’t be brighter still. They must both be among the oldest generation of boys now at Overcombe, which meant that they had been observing the place for anything up to four years. Much, of course, escapes the observation or understanding of even very acute small boys. A surprising amount does not.
The acuteness of Beadon was already evidenced in the fact that he had detected something odd in Bobby’s having turned up at Overcombe at all. This perfectly appeared in the boy’s considering gaze now. If Bobby started questioning him rashly, he would quickly sense that he was being pumped, and might resent the fact, or turn wary. At an English preparatory school, after all, the sons of the polite classes lead a life in which survival depends upon behaviour closely approximate to that obtaining among primitive tribes in a jungle. Even at moments in which an agreeable indolence has been achieved, a sudden occasion for cunning may lurk round the next tree. But if Messrs Beadon and Walcot were liable to turn reticent under questioning, they might become quite expansive if craftily lured into showing off. And Bobby didn’t feel any scruples about turning crafty. He wasn’t in a situation in which one could afford to be over-nice in such matters.
But he must know what he wanted. Without that, all the skill of a Machiavelli would get him nowhere at all. And it was when he realized what he did want that a sense of scruple threatened to overcome him. He didn’t want – or, rather, he didn’t hope for – information about Bloody Nauze. Nauze’s name wouldn’t linger even as a legend at Overcombe among boys of the Beadon-Walcot generation. He wanted information about Susan Danbury. He wanted to get tabs on her. This was very shocking. Indeed, it was almost unimaginable. He had to take a deep breath even to think of it. But the cold fact was that his divinity (as she might conventionally be called) had walked out on him after pretty well refusing to utter. Something in her position made it impossible for her to confide in him. If he was going to help her – which had become his mission in life – he was thrown on his own resources. He was thrown, indeed, on his wits. There wasn’t even a convenient sea-monster, in fee to Poseidon, whom he could simply take a swipe at and so free his Andromeda from the rock. If there was a vulnerable dragon around, St George as yet lacked a glimpse of so much as its flailing tail. Eventually the role of Perseus or St George might descend upon
‘You don’t seem to me to be quite the type,’ Beadon said firmly.
‘The type?’ Bobby was startled.
‘I’m interested in types. You see, I draw them.’
‘Yes, I know. Portland Bill, and the Severn Bore. I was admiring them.’
‘Oh, that’s all rot.’ The self-possessed Beadon was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion by this compliment. ‘A man can’t really do anything with bits of chalk. I want to go and be in a studio in Paris, as a matter of fact. With somebody like Daumier. Do you know Daumier? I don’t mean I don’t realize he’s dead. With just that sort of artist. But my parents say I’m still rather too young.’
‘I suppose it’s a matter of the age in which we live,’ Bobby offered gravely. ‘At the Renaissance, people like Michelangelo were already going great guns at round about your age. Nowadays it’s not thought healthy to be precocious like that.’
‘There you are!’ Beadon was triumphant. ‘You may be a Rugger tough, but you do understand about these things. I knew you were one of us.’
It was when he received this handsome promotion into the intellectual classes that it occurred to Bobby that he might learn something useful from these children. Beadon was bright. Walcot had perhaps the role of Beadon’s follower, but this didn’t mean that he mightn’t be brighter still. They must both be among the oldest generation of boys now at Overcombe, which meant that they had been observing the place for anything up to four years. Much, of course, escapes the observation or understanding of even very acute small boys. A surprising amount does not.
The acuteness of Beadon was already evidenced in the fact that he had detected something odd in Bobby’s having turned up at Overcombe at all. This perfectly appeared in the boy’s considering gaze now. If Bobby started questioning him rashly, he would quickly sense that he was being pumped, and might resent the fact, or turn wary. At an English preparatory school, after all, the sons of the polite classes lead a life in which survival depends upon behaviour closely approximate to that obtaining among primitive tribes in a jungle. Even at moments in which an agreeable indolence has been achieved, a sudden occasion for cunning may lurk round the next tree. But if Messrs Beadon and Walcot were liable to turn reticent under questioning, they might become quite expansive if craftily lured into showing off. And Bobby didn’t feel any scruples about turning crafty. He wasn’t in a situation in which one could afford to be over-nice in such matters.
But he must know what he wanted. Without that, all the skill of a Machiavelli would get him nowhere at all. And it was when he realized what he did want that a sense of scruple threatened to overcome him. He didn’t want – or, rather, he didn’t hope for – information about Bloody Nauze. Nauze’s name wouldn’t linger even as a legend at Overcombe among boys of the Beadon-Walcot generation. He wanted information about Susan Danbury. He wanted to get tabs on her. This was very shocking. Indeed, it was almost unimaginable. He had to take a deep breath even to think of it. But the cold fact was that his divinity (as she might conventionally be called) had walked out on him after pretty well refusing to utter. Something in her position made it impossible for her to confide in him. If he was going to help her – which had become his mission in life – he was thrown on his own resources. He was thrown, indeed, on his wits. There wasn’t even a convenient sea-monster, in fee to Poseidon, whom he could simply take a swipe at and so free his Andromeda from the rock. If there was a vulnerable dragon around, St George as yet lacked a glimpse of so much as its flailing tail. Eventually the role of Perseus or St George might descend upon
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