1

The country was already in a very disturbed state when Rudolf Whitlow's schooldays drew to an end. He had believed that his facility in passing examinations would lead up through a ladder of scholarships to university distinction, security and authority. In the stabler past he might have made such an ascent and rounded off his career as a formidably malicious, secretly vicious, conservative don, the sort of don who is feared and propitiated during his lifetime and forgotten gladly almost before he is dead.

Father Whitlow wasn't doing at all well in business just then, and he had heard that a son at the university was an expensive responsibility. Neither of Rud's brothers was doing well. Sam didn't like his job. He complained that it gave him no hope whatever of promotion, but he was afraid to quit it because jobs were now so difficult to find, and Alf, after one or two futile starts, became conscientious to a painful pitch and deeply religious. He hung about at home being inconveniently helpful, and on one occasion his mother, going quietly upstairs, was horrified to find him praying on his knees. After a time he got tentative employment in Doctor Carstall's dispensary and brightened up a little. Carstall found him slow but very careful and exact, and spoke well of him in a faintly contemptuous way. And also he increased his pay and said encouraging things to him.

But Rud's white face during his last two terms at school became more and more resentful and lowering.

He resolved to have things out with his once–dreaded father. "I'm going in for these scholarships whether you like it or not, And you'll have to pay the fees."

"I tell you it's no good," said Father Whitlow.

"What else can I do?"

"Edjicated proletariat—and what good's that?" "If I get top—"

"You won't get top."

Rud, regarding his father, looked still capable of knife–throwing.

"Couldn't you do something to help?" intervened his mother. "Write for the papers? Do tutoring?"

"And eat up all my blasted time and energy!"

"Better than nothing," said Father Whitlow.

"Look at my brothers! Look at old Sam stuck in the?? from the very start—for good and all. Look at Alf! Una,' Under–educated. Under–qualified. Making pills in slow time Meek and holy. While young Carstall soars away to be a?? physiologist. What have you done for us? Give me one chance. See? Give me my chance, while there is a chance."

"Look here, Rudie, you've got to be reasonable. How was I to know that business was going from bad to worse? I always meant to give you a chance."

"Meant! What's meant to me?"

"This depression; it's got us. It's got everybody."

"And did you ever do anything to prevent it? Or dodge it? Some of them have dodged it. Got you—of course it got you. Did any of your generation ever think of escaping it? And so—here I am. One of the victims. I won't stand it, Father, I tell you. I'll fight. You let me go for those scholarships. See? You let me go in. Time enough to to tell me I can't do it when I've failed."

"I can't face the expense of it."

"As though you had a choice now. Not a bit of it! You owe it to me. D'you hear? You owe it to me. What did you bring me into the world for? What did you bring me into the world for? To let me down now!"

Tears of indignation shone in his eyes.

Mrs. Whitlow had been watching the disputants. "Rudie dear," she said.

"Did I ask to be born?" said Rudie.

"Rudie!" she said, and put her hand on his.

He snatched his fist away. "Ow!—Rudie! Rudie—rot! It makes me sick."

"Listen, Rudie."

He glared at her.

"Maybe we could manage it. Maybe―"

"What?"

"There's my insurance—"

"Well?"

"It was always meant for you."

"And the others," corrected Father.

"Never mind him," said Rudie. "Tell me."

His mother made a halting explanation. The policy had a surrender value. It might make things possible.

"What about the other boys!" protested Father.

"You give me my chance," said Rudie, "and I'll carry the darned lot of you—I'll be an omnibus camel for the whole darned family. Trust me. But if I can't take up these scholarships, I'm done. I'll blow my brains out. I'll throw myself into the canal. And I'll leave a letter to scald the skin off you."

"I'm sure you'll do yourself justice, Rudie," said his mother gently, "if you have half a chance."

And so he was able to do himself justice, and the large, white, bilious face with the permanent, resentful scowl, frequented the streets of Camford beneath the exiguous tassel a second–hand mortar–board cap, for four hardy and strenuous years.