Young Phillip Maddison by Henry Williamson Page B

into the world, I hardly dare think! Come on now, old chap, tell us all about it!”
    Sensible of Father’s rough sympathy, Phillip felt more hopeless. He was ashamed, too. And what was the letter in Mother’s hand? Was it a summons, already?
    â€œTell your parents, dear, if anything is wrong,” said Hetty.
    Ah, it was a summons. He would kill himself. It was the end of his life. He gulped, and said the first thing that came into hishead—one, indeed, of many worries. “I can’t learn my Latin, Father.”
    â€œWhy ever did you not say so at first?” said Richard, indulgently. “If that is all that is troubling you, I can assure you that it is the normal worry of every small boy when first he goes to school. Why, do you know, I could not make much headway with my Latin, when I was a boy at a private school. Just do your best, and stick it out, that’s my advice to you. Things will come easier later on.”
    â€œYes,” said Hetty, smiling. “Everything is difficult at first. ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try try again’.”
    Phillip tried to look suitably grateful for this advice.
    Encouraged by the look on his son’s face, Richard went on, in some relief that at last the boy seemed to want to listen to him.
    â€œEverything has to be learnt, you know, old chap. Just like riding a bicycle, or a horse. Suddenly you acquire balance, and then you wonder how you could ever have found it difficult.” He pulled out his watch. “Now Hetty, do you feel like a game of chess, old girl?”
    Hetty laughed, remembering when he had objected to her asking him, once, if he felt like a boiled eggfor his tea. Dickie feeling like a boiled egg!She laughed and laughed. The tears in her eyes had been of tenderness—how kind of the little girls to send Phillip a Valentine!
    â€œWhat is tickling you now?” asked Richard. “’Pon my soul, you are a pair, you two! First the waterworks, then nothing can stop you laughing. Come on, tell a fellow the joke.”
    The envelope lay on the cloth. Phillip got up and looked at it. He recognised the hand-writing.
    â€œWhy, it’s for me!”
    He opened it. He saw at once it was a joke—the girls, of course. Mavis’ doing, obviously. There was a Cupid, in an Eton suit, looking over the shoulder of a fat man in a large black hat and black cloak, obviously Mr. Pye, who was kneeling to slip an envelope through a letter-box. Then he read the verse underneath.
    I stand and sigh
    The bluebell’s blue
    I’ve got my eye
    On who knows who?
    Was this meant to be Polly’s hint to him, just because once, long ago, they had been childish sweethearts? Obviously Mavis had written the poem. He put it in his pocket.
    Mother and Father were staring at the chess-board. Phillip opened History of the Borough, which was by an Old Boy of his school, Mr. Graham, and turned the pages to find something of interest. He found an old-fashioned picture of the High Street, trees beside the muddy high road, a wooden Roe Buck Inn set back behind a long wooden horse-trough, and a coach standing in front, a man holding the horse’s head. The date was 1810. There was another picture on the opposite page, of the Old Roebuck in 1830, and Plough Green in front of it, and the brook on the other side of the road. There was a chestnut tree near the inn, and the book said it had, according to local tradition, been planted in 1683, and was the parent tree of those in Bushey Park.
    The stream which ran through the village, passed the “Roebuck”, and joined the Randisbourne at the bridge, which at this spot yielded many a good fish to the angler.
    Why that was just near where the Obelisk was now! He passed over the bridge twice every day, going to and coming from school, but he had never seen any fish, except stickle-backs. Sometimes he had seen boys with glass jars paddling among the old pails, rags and