He brought the book to the Art bay; Charles read “That since seniority is no indication of literary taste the system of library privileges be revised to provide facilities for those genuinely desirous of using them to advantage.”

“Neatly put, I think,” said Curtis-Dunne.

“You’ll be thought frightfully above yourself, writing this.”

“It is already generally recognized that I am above myself, but I want other signatures.”

Charles hesitated. To gain time he said, “I say, what on earth have you got on your feet? Aren’t those house shoes?”

Curtis-Dunne pointed a toe shod in shabby, soft black leather; a laced shoe without a toecap, in surface like the cover of a well-worn Bible. “Ah, you have observed my labour-saving device. I wear them night and morning. They are a constant perplexity to those in authority. When questioned, as happened two or three times a week during my first term, I say they are a naval pattern which my father, on account of extreme poverty, has asked me to wear out. That embarrasses them. But I am sure you do not share these middle-class prejudices. Dear boy, your name, please, to this subversive manifesto.”

Still Charles hesitated. The suggestion outraged Spierpoint taste in all particulars. Whatever intrigues, blandishments and self-advertisements were employed by the ambitious at Spierpoint were always elaborately disguised. Self-effacement and depreciation were the rule. To put oneself explicitly forward for preferment was literally not done. Moreover, the lead came from a boy who was not only in another house and immeasurably Charles’s inferior, but also a notorious eccentric. A term back Charles would have rejected the proposal with horror, but today and all this term he was aware of a new voice in his inner counsels, a detached, critical Hyde who intruded his presence more and more often on the conventional, intolerant, subhuman, wholly respectable Dr. Jekyll; a voice, as it were, from a more civilized age, as from the chimney corner in mid-Victorian times there used to break sometimes the sardonic laughter of grandmama, relic of Regency, a clear, outrageous, entirely self-assured disturber among the high and muddled thoughts of her whiskered descendants.

“Frank’s all for the suggestion, you know,” said Curtis-Dunne. “He says the initiative must come from us. He can’t go pushing reforms which he’ll be told nobody really wants. He wants a concrete proposal to put before the library committee.”

That silenced Jekyll. Charles signed.

“Now,” said Curtis-Dunne, “there should be little difficulty with the lad Mercer. He said he’d sign if you would.”

By lunchtime there were twenty-three signatories, including the prefect-in-charge.

“We have this day lit a candle,” said Curtis-Dunne.

There was some comment around Charles in Hall about his conduct in the library.

“I know he’s awful,” said Charles, “but he happens to amuse me.”

“They all think he’s barmy in Brent’s.”

“Frank doesn’t. And anyway I call that a recommendation. As a matter of fact, he’s one of the most intelligent men I ever met. If he’d come at the proper time he’d probably be senior to all of us.”

Support came unexpectedly from Wheatley. “I happen to know the Head took him in as a special favour to his father. He’s Sir Samson Curtis-Dunne’s son, the Member for this division. They’ve got a big place near Steyning. I wouldn’t at all mind having a day’s shooting there next Veniam day.”

On Sunday afternoons, for two hours, the House Room was out of bounds to all except the Settle; in their black coats and with straw hats under their arms the school scattered over the countryside in groups, pairs and occasional disconsolate single figures, for “walks.” All human habitations were barred; the choice lay between the open down behind Spierpoint Ring and the single country road to the isolated Norman church of St. Botolph. Tamplin and Charles usually walked together.

“How I hate Sunday afternoons,” said Charles.

“We might get some blackberries.”

But at the door of the house they were stopped by Mr. Graves.

“Hullo, you two,” he said, “would you like to make yourselves useful? My press has arrived. I thought you might help put it together.” He led them into his room, where half-opened crates filled most of the floor. “It was all in one piece when I bought it. All I’ve got to go on is this.” He showed them a woodcut in an old book. “They didn’t change much from Caxton’s day until the steam presses came in. This one is about a hundred years old.”

“Damned sweat,” muttered Tamplin.

“And here, young Ryder, is the ‘movable type’ you deplore so much.”

“What sort of type is it, sir?”

“We’ll have to find out. I bought the whole thing in one lot from a village stationer.”

They took out letters at random, set them, and took an impression by pressing them, inked, on a sheet of writing paper. Mr. Graves had an album of typefaces.

“They all look the same to me,” said Tamplin.

In spite of his prejudice, Charles was interested. “I’ve got it, I think, sir; Baskerville.”

“No. Look at the serifs. How about Caslon Old Style?”

At last it was identified. Then Charles found a box full of ornamental initials, menu headings of decanters and dessert, foxes’ heads and running hounds for sporting announcements, ecclesiastical devices and monograms, crowns, Odd Fellows’ arms, the wood-cut of a prize bull, decorative bands, the splendid jumble of a century of English job-printing.

“I say, sir, what fun. You could do all sorts of things with these.”

“We will, Charles.”

Tamplin looked at the amateurs with disgust. “I say, sir, I’ve just remembered something I must do. Do you mind awfully if I don’t stay?”

“Run along, old Tamplin.” When he had gone, Mr. Graves said, “I’m sorry Tamplin doesn’t like me.”

“Why can he not let things pass?” thought Charles. “Why does he always have to comment on everything?”

“You don’t like me either, Charles. But you like the press.”

“Yes,” said Charles, “I like the press.”

The type was tied up in little bags. They poured it out, each bagful into the tray provided for it in the worn oak tray.

“Now for the press. This looks like the base.”

It took them two hours to rebuild. When at last it was assembled, it looked small, far too small for the number and size of the cases in which it had travelled. The main cast-iron supports terminated in brass Corinthian capitals and the summit was embellished with a brass urn bearing the engraved date 1824. The common labour, the problems and discoveries, of erection had drawn the two together; now they surveyed its completion in common pride. Tamplin was forgotten.

“It’s a lovely thing, sir. Could you print a book on it?”

“It would take time. Thank you very much for your help. And now,” Mr. Graves looked at his watch, “as, through some grave miscarriage of justice, you are not on the Settle, I expect you have no engagement for tea. See what you can find in the locker.”

The mention of the Settle disturbed their intimacy. Mr. Graves repeated the mistake a few minutes later when they had boiled the kettle and were making toast on the gas-ring. “So at this moment Desmond O’Malley is sitting down to his first Settle tea. I hope he’s enjoying it. I don’t think somehow he is enjoying this term very much so far.” Charles said nothing. “Do you know, he came to me two days ago and asked to resign from it? He said that if I didn’t let him he would do something that would make me degrade him. He’s an odd boy, Desmond. It was an odd request.”

“I don’t suppose he’d want me to know about it.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. Do you know why I’m telling you? Do you?”

“No, sir.”

“I think you could make all the difference to him, whether his life is tolerable or not. I gather all you little beasts in the Upper Dormitory have been giving him hell.”