I had
conceived myself as strutting with a measured dignity before a
background of the other boys--a background that moved and did not
change, like a wind-swept tapestry; but I was quite sure that I would
not be allowed to give myself airs at home. It seemed to me that a
youngest brother's portion of freedom would compare but poorly with
the measure of intellectual liberty that I had secured for myself at
school. My brothers were all very well in their way, but I would be
expected to take my place in the background and do what I was told. I
should miss my sense of being superior to my environment, and my
intensely emotional Sundays would no longer divide time into weeks. The more I thought of it, the more I realised that I did not want to
go home. On the last night of the term, when the dormitory had at length
become quiet, I considered the whole case dispassionately in my bed. The labour of packing my play-box and writing labels for my luggage
had given me a momentary thrill, but for the rest I had moved among
my insurgent comrades with a chilled heart. I knew now that I was
too greedy of life, that I always thought of the pleasant side of
things when they were no longer within my grasp; but at the I same
time my discontent was not wholly unreasonable. I had learnt more
of myself in three months than I had in all my life before, and from
being a nervous, hysterical boy I had arrived at a complete
understanding of my emotions, which I studied with an almost adult
calmness of mind. I knew that in returning to the society of my
healthy, boyish brothers, I was going back to a kind of life for
which I was no longer fitted. I had changed, but I had the sense to
see that it was a change that would not appeal to them, and that in
consequence I would have another and harder battle to fight before I
was allowed to go my own way. I saw further still. I saw that after a month at home I would
not want to come back to school, and that I should have to
endure another period of despondency. I saw that my whole school
life would be punctuated by these violent uprootings, that the
alternation of term-time and holidays would make it impossible
for me to change life into a comfortable habit, and that even to
the end of my school-days it would be necessary for me to
preserve my new-found courage. As I lay thinking in the dark I was proud of the clarity of my
mind, and glad that I had at last outwitted the tears that had made
my childhood so unhappy. I heard, the boys breathing softly around
me--those wonderful boys who could sleep even when they were
excited--and I felt that I was getting the better of them in thinking
while they slept. I remembered the prefect who had told me that we
were there only for a spell, but I did not speculate as to what
would follow afterwards. All that I had to do was to watch myself
ceaselessly, and be able to explain to myself everything that I felt
I and did. In that way I should always be strong I enough to guard
my weaknesses from the eyes of the jealous world in which I moved. The church bells chimed the hour, and I turned over and went to
sleep. On the Brighton Road

Slowly the sun had climbed up the hard white downs, till it broke
with little of the mysterious ritual of dawn upon a sparkling world
of snow. There had been a hard frost during the night, and the birds,
who hopped about here and there with scant tolerance of life, left no
trace of their passage on the silver pavements. In places the
sheltered caverns of the hedges broke the monotony of the whiteness
that had fallen upon the coloured earth, and overhead the sky melted
from orange to deep blue, from deep blue to a blue so pale that it
suggested a thin paper screen rather than illimitable space. Across
the level fields there came a cold, silent wind which blew a fine
dust of snow from the trees, but hardly stirred the crested hedges. Once above the skyline, the sun seemed to climb more quickly, and as
it rose higher it began to give out a heat that blended with the
keenness of the wind. It may have been this strange alternation of heat and cold that
disturbed the tramp in his dreams, for he struggled tor a moment with
the snow that covered him, like a man who finds himself twisted
uncomfortably in the bed-clothes, and then sat up with staring,
questioning eyes. "Lord! I thought I was in bed," he said to himself
as he took in the vacant landscape, "and all the while I was out
here." He stretched his limbs, and, rising carefully to his feet,
shook the snow off his body. As he did so the wind set him shivering,
and he knew that his bed had been warm. "Come, I feel pretty fit," he thought. "I suppose I am lucky to wake
at all in this. Or unlucky--it isn't much of a business to come back
to." He looked up and saw the downs shining against the blue, like
the Alps on a picture-postcard. "That means another forty miles or
so, I suppose," he continued grimly. "Lord knows what I did yesterday. Walked till I was done, and now I'm only about twelve miles from
Brighton. Damn the snow, damn Brighton, damn everything!" The sun
crept higher and higher, and he started walking patiently along the
road with his back turned to the hills. "Am I glad or sorry that it was only sleep that took me, glad or
sorry, glad or sorry?" His thoughts seemed to arrange themselves in a
metrical accompaniment to the steady thud of his footsteps, and he
hardly sought an answer to his question. It was good enough to walk
to. Presently, when three milestones had loitered past, he overtook a
boy who was stooping to light a cigarette. He wore no overcoat, and
looked unspeakably fragile against the snow, "Are you on the road,
guv'nor?" asked the boy huskily as he passed. "I think I am," the tramp said. "Oh! then I'll come a bit of the way with you if you don't walk too
fast. It's bit lonesome walking this time of day." The tramp nodded his head, and the boy started limping along by his
side. "I'm eighteen," he said casually. "I bet you thought I was younger." "Fifteen, I'd have said." "You'd have backed a loser. Eighteen last August, and I've been on
the road six years. I ran away from home five times when I was a
little 'un, and the police took me back each time. Very good to me,
the police was. Now I haven't got a home to run away from." "Nor have I," the tramp said calmly. "Oh, I can see what you are," the boy panted; "you're a gentleman
come down. It's harder for you than for me." The tramp glanced at the
limping, feeble figure and lessened his pace. "I haven't been at it as long as you have," he admitted. "No, I could tell that by the way you walk. You haven't got tired
yet. Perhaps you expect something at the other end?" The tramp reflected for a moment. "I don't know," he said bitterly,
"I'm always expecting things." "You'll grow out of that;" the boy commented. "It's warmer in London,
but it's harder to come by grub. There isn't much in it really."