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As time went on, Philip's deformity was
accepted like one boy's red hair and another's unreasonable obesity. But
meanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. He never ran if he could help it,
because he knew it made his limp more noticeable. He stood still as much as he
could, with his badly shaped foot behind the other. Because he could not join
in the games which other boys played, their life remained strange to him; sometimes
they seemed to think that it was his fault if he could not play football, and
he was unable to make them understand. He was left a good deal to himself. He
had been inclined to talkativeness, but gradually he became silent.
The biggest boy in his dormitory, Singer,
took a dislike to him, and Philip, small for his age, had to put up with a good
deal of hard treatment. About half-way through the term there was a game called
Nibs. It was a game for two, played on a table or a form with steel pens. Soon
nothing was seen but boys playing this game, and the more skilful acquired vast
stores of nibs. But in a little while Mr. Watson made up his mind that it was a
form of gambling, and forbade the game. Then he ordered all the nibs in the
boys' possession be handed in. Philip had been very skilful, and it was with a
heavy heart that he gave up his winning; but his fingers itched to play still,
and a few days later, on his way to the football field, he went into a shop and
bought a pennyworth of J pens. He carried them loose in his pocket and enjoyed
feeling them. Presently Singer found out that he had them. Singer had given up
his nibs too, but he had kept back a very large one, called a Jumbo, which was
almost unconquerable, and he could not resist the opportunity of getting Philip's
Js out of him. Though Philip knew that he was at a disadvantage with his small
nibs, he had an adventurous disposition and was willing to take the risk;
besides, he was aware that Singer would not allow him to refuse. He had not
played for a week and sat down to the game now with a thrill of excitement. He
lost two of his small nibs quickly, and Singer was jubilant, but the third time
by some chance the Jumbo slipped round and Philip was able to push his J across
it. He crowed with triumph. At that moment Mr. Watson came in.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
He looked from Singer to Philip, but
neither answered.
"Don't you know that I've forbidden
you to play that game?"
Philip's heart beat fast. He knew what was
coming and was dreadfully frightened, but in his fright there was a certain
exultation. He had never been swished. Of course it would hurt, but it was
something to boast about afterwards.
"Come into my study."
The
headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side. Singer whispered to
Philip:
"We're in for it."
Mr. Watson pointed to Singer.
"Bend over," he said.
Philip, very white, saw the boy quiver at
each stroke, and after the third he heard him cry out. Three more followed.
"That'll do. Get up."
Singer stood up. The tears were streaming
down his face. Philip stepped forward. Mr. Watson looked at him for a moment.
"I'm not going to beat you. You're a
new boy. And I can't hit a cripple. Go away, both of you, and don't be
naughty again."
When they got back into the school-room a
group of boys, were waiting for them. They set upon Singer at once with eager
questions. But he did not answer. He was angry because he had been hurt.
"Don't ask me to play Nibs with you
again,' he said to Philip. 'It's jolly nice for you. You don't risk anything."
"I didn't ask you."
"Didn't you!"
He quickly put out his foot and tripped
Philip up. Philip was always rather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily
to the ground.
"Cripple," said Singer.
For the rest of the term he tormented
Philip cruelly, and, though Philip tried to keep out of his way, the school was
so small that it was impossible; he tried being friendly and jolly with him; he
abased himself, so far as to buy him a knife; but though Singer took the knife
he was not placated. Once or twice, driven beyond endurance, he hit and kicked
the bigger boy, but Singer was so much stronger that Philip was helpless, and he
was always forced after more or less torture to beg his pardon. It was that
which rankled with Philip: he could not bear the humiliation of apologies,
which were wrung from him by pain greater than he could bear. And what made it
worse was that there seemed no end to his wretchedness; Singer was only eleven
and would not go to the upper school till he was thirteen. Philip realized that
he must live two years with a tormentor from whom there was no escape. He was
only happy while he was studying and when he got into bed. And often there
recurred to him then that queer feeling that his life with all its misery was
nothing but a dream, and that he would awake in the morning in his own little
bed in London.
