3 - Shrimpers
Within the hour Chives was standing on Folkenham Station, his eyes transfixed on the scene before him. A huge bellied steam engine was panting at the platform. From under its great iron skirt steam burst in all directions, its wheels and the rails shrouded in white lilac smog. Down the length of the platform, steam rolled out from the gap between the train and the white edged paving slabs before dancing around the high-heeled feet of the women talking through open doors and windows to unseen passengers. Kneeling before the train, a young lad in a burgundy sweater and grey shorts seemed to be scribbling down the engine number in his notebook as bank upon bank of soot-laden smoke billowed out of the main funnel. In the shadow of the carriage a peak-capped porter was loading a fat woman’s trunk onto a low trolley as, on a nearby bench, an old man sat idly in the sunshine reading his paper.
“The golden age of steam, eh?” said Spencer Cartwright over the secretary’s shoulder, jolting Chives from his reverie and causing him to take his eyes off the peeling railway advertisement.
“Yes indeed,” the secretary replied sadly, “long gone, like most other things that made this country great. And for what, progress?” he asked as he turned to look around the deserted platform. The windows and doors to the old waiting room were boarded up with green shuttering that was peeling and rotting at the edges and the nearest thing to an employee was the stainless steel ticket machine cemented into the edge of the platform. Hanging from an old rusting bracket, beneath the once white picket eaves, the station clock was stuck forgetfully at five minutes to twelve.
“And no doubt the train will be running late as usual,” he prophesied to the other half of the greeting party, both of whom were resplendent in their russet club furs, black trousers and white shoes.
“I understand that you have an upcoming entrance interview?” questioned Chives as the two of them stared down the empty, winding track.
“Indeed I do,” replied the Captain, “tomorrow in fact. A Mr. Lionel Woods I think his name is. On paper he sounds a good prospective member, he has a very strong proposer and seconder.”
“That may be so, but I’m afraid he has made a very bad start,” said Chives, “I had to have him in my office this morning for breaking the dress code,” he muttered with the severity of a murder judge.
“I’m sure it was just a mistake,” excused Spencer Cartwright, “perhaps he wasn’t aware of it?”
“Ignorance is no excuse for breaking the rules! I can sense a bad egg when I see one Spencer and my first impressions are seldom wrong. I would have thought that a prospective new member would take even more care given the impending entrance interview. No, we simply cannot tolerate such anarchistic flourishes. Now, perhaps more than ever, we need to show the members and the incoming Earl that the Committee remains rock solid behind everything the old man stood for. We shall have to make an example of him.”
“Such as?” asked the Captain sheepishly.
“Why, turn down his application of course.”
Spencer Cartwright shuffled nervously from one foot to other. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with having to do that, just for breaking the dress code once.”
“You always were a bloody softy,” interrupted Chives, “as usual I suppose I’ll have to do it. Let Brunswick know the time of the interview and I’ll sit in on it and I’ll bring the sword of Damocles with me if it helps. Ah, at last...” he broke off, as the tardy train finally came into view in the distance. Both men stood with their hands behind their backs as the two-carriage train pulled into the station.
Viscount Waffham was the only person to alight from the train. Stepping down on to the platform he clutched a small holdall in his left hand and walked head down towards the exit. After a dozen or so paces he looked up to find the two officials blocking his way.
“Chives!!” he screamed across the short distance between them, his round face immediately flushing scarlet with anger. “Thought you’d ambush me at the station did you? Try and hush this up out of the old man’s earshot?” he ranted. “Well you’ve gone too bloody far this time Chives! You haven’t even taken the time to get Johnnie’s side of the story, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. But oh no! Just like your bosom buddy Muxcombe you go blundering in throw...” he suddenly stopped in mid sentence as he noticed the grievous looks on both men’s faces. “I’m surprised the two of you are looking so glum. You’ve been waiting for some trumped up reason to get rid of him for years. I thought you’d have been cartwheeling down the fairways.”
“Sir,” said Chives as the younger man finally paused for breath, “I am sorry to say that I am the bringer of terrible news. Your grandfather is dead,” he blurted out before the Viscount could interrupt him again.
“D-Dead? B-But how? When? He was as right as rain first thing this morning.” he demanded.
“L-Late this m-morning, Sir,” replied the Captain, “I was playing with him on the seventh. He got a wonderful hole in one, he took a four iron, oh it was a beautiful strike, straight out the centre of the-”
“Yes, yes, that’s enough, Spencer,” nudged Chives. “Sir,” he went on deferentially. “We suspect that it was a heart attack. By all accounts it was very swift, he wouldn’t have felt a thing. Dead before he hit the ground. I hope that brings some comfort.”
The Viscount’s face remained impassive as he watched the train pull out of the station.
“I really am so very sorry Sir,” went on Chives, “I tried to tell you earlier on the phone, I hadn’t planned to tell you like this. It must be awful for you.”
“Awful? For me?” replied the Viscount, as the trace of a thin smile began to snake across his face. “Not half as awful as it must be for you, eh? Good old grandpapa always did have impeccable timing. It puts a whole new perspective on this business with Johnnie, don’t you think?” It was a statement rather than a question and Chives stayed silent. “The trouble for you, is that it is painfully obvious that you have gone and played your hand a tad early,” he was smiling broadly now, “and oh dear Mr. Secretary, Sir, it’s my turn now and it looks as if I’ve just been dealt a royal flush.”
With that he nonchalantly handed his bag to Spencer Cartwright. “I assume you have a car waiting. Shall we away, gentlemen?” he said over his shoulder, leaving the two men in his wake.
The journey back to the hall was made in silence. Spencer Cartwright drove with his white knuckled hands clamped at ten to two, unable to take his wide eyed stare off the road. They swept up the long avenue before curving around the historic lonesome oak that stood guard at the front of the hall and brought the car to a gravel crunching halt in front of the entrance.
Brunswick was standing at the door and rushed to open the passenger door to allow Viscount Waffham to climb out.
“Sir,” he purred, giving a slight bow of his head, “the members and staff would like to welcome you to your ancestral home at this time of great sadness.” With that he stepped back and beckoned with his arm for the Viscount to follow him into the Coral Hall.
Viscount Waffham walked slowly through the dark and gloomy anteroom at the front of the building before stepping into the wondrous spectacle of the Coral Hall. Two columns of men formed an avenue down the length of the floor, stopping at the base of the sweeping staircase that led on up to the pro shop. The plain flagstone floor was flanked on either side by high walls of exquisite pink veined alabaster. Atop these walls stood imposing fluted columns of matching stone that supported the ornate ceiling, their tops carved into intricate scrolls. The vaulted ceiling was a marvel of perspective. Bathed in the golden glow of hidden lighting, it tapered and curved upwards, its coffered stucco sides accentuated by shadow. Around the base of the columns ran an elegant wrought-iron balustrade to form a gallery that looked down onto the heart of the hall. At the point where the staircase began to rise, the end of the magnificent space drew into an apse and swept you up to the door and into the bosom of the ancient pile.
“Sir,” gre
eted the aisle of men as they bowed forwards, keeping their heads in the lowered position as he walked slowly down the line, the sound of their harmonized voices still resonating around the polished walls. He walked up the stairs before stopping halfway and turning to address the men.
“Gentlemen, I thank you. I have barely had time to take in the news and of course my thoughts are dominated with sad thoughts of my dear grandpapa and such fond, fond memories.” He paused to allow the words to rumble into silence. “And yet, seeing you here, brings me back to the here and now and reminds me of my destiny. It also reminds me of my responsibility and prompts me to think of the work ahead. The Orbury has stood resplendent for hundreds of years, unchanged for centuries, a secretive place, unknown and unhindered by the outside world. But not for much longer!” The words echoed and ricocheted off the gleaming surfaces. “I vow to bring it blinking and staggering into the twenty-first century. To throw open its doors and allow the wider public in to enjoy this precious place, this gem.” The Viscount looked along the line of faces craning up at him until resting upon the Club Secretary.
“The era of the One Hundred is over,” he said, unable to suppress a smile, his eyes fixed on Chives. “In seven days time I take on the honoured title of Earl Orbury and will disband the current Committee and form my own. Handpicked, younger men. Or women!” he threw in flippantly, delighting in the shock wave he knew his words would cause.
Chives returned his stare impassively, ensuring his face betrayed no emotion.
“One week gentlemen,” repeated the Viscount, “and the new order begins. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must turn my attention to mourning the memory of my grandfather.”
With that he turned and climbed the rest of the stairs two at a time.
Chives turned to Spencer Cartwright. “I think perhaps it would be fair to say that in response to our earlier question, no, the Viscount has neither heard, nor got any notion of the existence of The Orbury Way. I’m not a vengeful man and I say now that I will take no pleasure in the impending fall out when the penny drops.”
“Not even a soupçon,” goaded the Captain.
Chives stretched up his neck, tightened his tie knot and watched the disappearing back of the heir. “Well,” he admitted, “perhaps a smidgen.”
Hours later Brunswick began to close up the Committee Wing against the ever-deepening gloom of evening. From the west windows of the Library he could just make out a thick blanket of fog that had descended on the lake, already thick enough to obscure the moonlit flag on the tenth green. Checking the window locks he then pulled the thick heavy curtains together, leaving the large room illuminated by patches of soft electric light cast by sporadic lamps and the dancing flames of the fire. The room was filled with popping and cracking as the kindling was consumed by thick hungry tongues of orange that leapt up the chimney as he pushed three armchairs into an arc around the hearth at a time tested distance. Before uncorking them, he blew the dust and cobwebs from the wine bottles and then placed one on each of the three walnut lowboys. With a polish of his handkerchief and a final check against the firelight for fingerprints he placed the crystal goblets alongside the breathing bottles and waiting bowls of hazelnuts.
It was still sometime later before approaching voices neared.
“Good God, what a day,” sighed Chives as they entered. “Oh that man Brunswick is a genius!” he exclaimed as he embraced the warmth of the fire with open arms and spied the wine.
Bill Muir picked up one of the bottles. “Blimey, he’s raided the Chateau Lafite!”
“No doubt in honour of the old man and quite right to,” approved Chives as he slumped tiredly into one of the armchairs. The other two men quickly followed suit.
For a while, the only noise in the room was the occasional crackle from the hearth as they each poured themselves a large glass before swirling the ruby black liquid in the goblets and inhaling the violet aroma.
“His Lordship,” toasted Chives, closing his eyes as he took his first sip.
“Nectar, pure nectar,” muttered Bill.
“Ambrosia nectarum as Minty might say!” exclaimed the Captain, before the three men allowed their memories to blend with the wine.
“What’s troubling you Jim?” asked Bill suddenly, breaking the reverie, “I’ve known you long enough to recognize that worried look on your face. What’s bothering you?”
“It’s the accounts,” confessed the secretary, “I must admit I haven’t had time to go through them in any detail, I just managed a quick once over before the meeting. But we appear to be dreadfully low on funds.”
“How low?” asked the Captain.
“Very. From a rough calculation I’d say we only have enough to get us through one, maybe two weeks. Three weeks at the absolute most.”
“But that can’t be right,” said Bill, “there must be another holding account somewhere. Have you spoken to the bank?”
“No, not yet, and you’re right, I’m sure there’s a perfectly simple explanation. I’ll get on to them first thing in the morning. The meeting went well I thought,” went on the Club Secretary, changing the subject.
“Excellent, you certainly can’t do anymore on that front Jim. Everyone knows what is expected of them and just what they’ve got to do between now and the challenge. You’ve set Bramley’s plan in train to the letter.”
“Indeed,” confirmed Chives, as he dug out the little book and spun it with his fingers, “a work of genius.”
“But will it be worth the effort? Will it turn the Viscount’s head?” asked Spencer Cartwright.
“Oh no,” replied Chives, “his mind is made up, it’s change he wants. Not that he can do anything about it.”
“There’s that hint of a smile again Jim,” mused Bill.
“I’ll take no enjoyment from it, I told Spencer that earlier. The man has been waiting his whole life for this moment. A life that has been in the shadow of the old man, having to be at his beck and call. No doubt he cursed every brick and blade of grass from the inside of his prison cell, plotting revenge on the place. On the One Hundred.”
“But how come he doesn’t know about The Orbury Way. If it is so central to the running of the estate, surely his grandfather would have told him?” asked the Captain.
“I don’t know, but there was no love lost between them,” stated Bill.
“The old man never stopped blaming the Viscount for the death of his only son,” put in Chives.
“The Viscount’s father? What happened?” asked Spencer Cartwright.
Chives turned to Bill and they came to a silent decision. “I think that is a story for another day,” he said eventually. “Suffice to say the old man probably took some enjoyment from keeping the Viscount in the dark about The Orbury Way.”
“Bagsy I’m not the one to tell him!” exclaimed the Captain, crossing the first two fingers on his right hand and thrusting them into the air.
“No, you’re spared that job Spencer,” replied Chives. “So am I for that matter. That’s one for Messrs. Raffles, Pinkerton & Daughter.”
“The family solicitors?”
“The very same, representing the estate since 1715 and the first Earl himself. They’ve overseen the transition of every Earl since its creation. A proud and historic organization just like us. Very fitting. Very fitting indeed.”
There was a pause as the three men turned their attention to the nuts and the sound of cracking shells blended with sporadic popping from the glowing logs.
“That thing you said earlier,” began the Captain, “something about heirs of the body.”
“Heirs male of the body,” corrected Chives, “what of it?”
“What does it mean exactly?”
Bill Muir answered. “It means that when King George I bestowed the Earldom of Orbury on the first Earl he allowed the title to be passed on to only his direct male offspring; heirs male of the body.”
“So only children born to the Earl himself?” questioned Spencer C
artwright awkwardly.
“What’s on your mind?” quizzed Chives.
The Captain shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Come on man, spit it out!”
“Well, I-I’ve heard the r-rumours,” said Spencer Cartwright hesitantly.
“What rumours?” asked Chives.
“You kn-know,” stammered the Captain, “about the Viscount,” he said with a waggle of his hand. “You know, batting for the other side. Being-”
“Queer?” interjected Chives.
“Well, yes. Is it true?”
“I’ve no idea, why?”
“Well because that’s my point. Heirs male of the body, you said it. If the rumours are true then there’s hardly much chance of that is there? What happens then?”
“You know, I’m not sure,” admitted Chives. “Any ideas Bill?”
“Should he die without having an heir then I guess there would be a mad scramble back through the family tree. The Viscount is an only child, as was his father. I’m not sure about the old man but I presume you keep going back until you find a male sibling and then follow their descendants back down in the hope that there is a surviving heir from an unbroken line.”
“So we could end up with someone worse if the Viscount pops his clogs?” said the Captain.
“Blimey,” said Bill, “he’s not even taken over and you’ve got him six foot under. I’m sure he is more than aware of the ramifications of not providing an heir.”
Chives’s forehead was creased into a frown. “He’s got a point though Bill. What if they couldn’t trace any male descendants?”
The Competition Secretary shrugged his shoulders. “In that event I presume that the title would revert back to the Crown.”
“And The Orbury?” pushed Chives.
“I don’t know Jim, back to the Crown as well I guess for them to dole out as they see fit.”
“Which would in turn mean no more Orbury Way! Ergo no protection for the One Hundred. Spencer’s right, we need to give some serious thought to this issue.”
“I don’t think the Viscount will be too happy if we start setting him up on blind dates!” sniggered Spencer Cartwright, the corners of his mouth stained into a joker’s smile by the wine.
“I was thinking more about getting someone to dig around in the past, see if we can’t find ourselves an alternate heir,” said Chives.
“Just in case?” suggested Bill.
“Exactly. Call it a little insurance policy.”
“It can’t do any harm, what did you have in mind?” asked the Competition Secretary.
“Not sure yet,” replied Chives, “I’ll keep it in the back of my mind for the moment. Well gents, I think that is more than enough for one day,” he concluded as he drained the last dregs from his goblet.
“Don’t forget we’re meeting Lionel Woods in the morning,” said the Captain as they rose stiffly from their comfy seats.
“Ah yes of course, I must remember to bring my hatchet. If I recall you don’t quite have the stomach for it, isn’t that right?” teased Chives.
“No, I took on board what you said before. And I-I,” he paused, trying to stand his full height, “I’d like to lead tomorrow’s meeting and do the deed myself.”
“Bravo Spencer!” exclaimed Chives. “Good God, we’ll make a Captain of you yet! Till morning then.”
By the following morning, the fog that had started to descend the previous evening now completely smothered the hall. The mid morning sun tried desperately to pierce the thick blanket but to no avail and its ethereal glow only managed to intensify the eerie scene. There was total silence, no birdsong, no animal calls, no golfers and certainly no thwack of titanium on moulded plastic. Chives stood on the Portico Terrace, a thick overcoat wrapped tightly around him, gazing out on the chilly scene.
“Eerie, isn’t it,” came a voice out of the swirling mist. Chives jumped and turned to find the Viscount lurking a few feet behind him.
“Good God!” he exclaimed, trying to regain his composure. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
“The fog just swallows up the noise,” replied the Viscount spookily, “you could scream blue murder and never be heard.”
Chives suddenly felt uneasy, the fog unnerving him.
“I was hoping to catch you alone,” whispered the Viscount, “and I’m going to try my best to keep emotion out of this but you’ve overstretched the mark with Johnnie. You have no idea of the facts.”
“I think the facts are pretty obvious for all to see,” retorted Chives, “splashed all over the front page! I suppose I should thank God for small mercies that your grandfather never got to hear of it. Lamplighter got what was due.”
“And yet your pal Muxcombe gets away scot-free.”
“He’s innocent in all this, any fool can see that.”
“Perhaps, but any other fool would at least wait until they’d listened to both sides of the story. It takes a special kind of fool to kick a man out without even a token consideration of justice.”
“Justice?” spat Chives. “Society has already dished that out.”
“And he served his time as you well know,” replied the Viscount before dropping his voice to a whisper, “as have others,” he added, holding eye contact with the secretary.
Both men stood their ground; it was Chives who spoke first.
“Justice is one thing,” he muttered, “but the morals of the situation are something else entirely. Fathering a child with a teenager at his age? I’m surprised Muxcombe didn’t reach for the shotgun let alone his fist.”
“And there you go jumping to conclusions again,” replied the Viscount. “But I’m not here to fight out the rights and wrongs of the case. I’m here on serious business, I need to ask for a favour.”
“A favour? From me? What sort of favour?” said Chives.
“Nothing onerous, in fact it is simplicity itself.”
“Go on.”
“I need access to the bank account,” said Viscount Waffham.
“Which I’m afraid is one favour I won’t help with.”
“But you have full control of the account.”
“As will you in a week’s time.”
“I can’t wait a week!” snapped the heir.
“Besides, there is a temporary problem,” went on Chives.
“What kind of problem?”
“A lack of funds. Of course there will be deposits elsewhere but until I speak with the bank we are almost running on empty.”
“So is it won’t help or can’t help?” pushed the Viscount.
“Let me keep to bare facts,” replied Chives stiffly, “as we speak it is can’t help. Currently I don’t have access to any spare funds. But of course once I find the reserves then it will become won’t help.”
“For the sake of our working relationship I’ll just accept the can’t help for the moment. When do you expect to know more about the whereabouts of the reserves?”
“I need to act fast, we can only survive a few weeks, so hopefully no more than a couple of days,” replied the secretary.
“Then I will bring the matter up again on Monday. We’ll deal with the won’t help then,” said Viscount Waffham coldly, turning to leave. “Oh, one more thing,” he remembered, “I understand that I’m left high and dry as a single player against you and Muxcombe in the semi finals of the pairs match play?”
Chives didn’t reply.
“I also note that the deadline is the 24th, this coming Wednesday?”
Again the secretary remained mute, unsure where the heir was going with this.
“I’m sure you’ll understand, but I don’t feel up to playing in the next couple of days and as for Wednesday itself, well, given the circumstances.”
“The circumstances?” asked Chives.
“My grandfather’s funeral. I trust that you won’t mind extending the deadline a little.”
Chives smiled. “By which time of course you assume that you will be able to re-instate Lampligh
ter and play as a pair?”
“Oh,” replied Waffham in mock surprise, “do you know, the idea hadn’t entered my mind,” he said with a grin.
“Well why not,” said Chives still smiling, “extension granted. Now if you’ll excuse me Viscount Waffham, I have plans to be getting on with.” With that he turned and left Viscount Waffham alone on the terrace.
Chives stepped back through the gap and into the pro shop. The entrance onto the terrace was ingenious. Rather than a set of doors that might spoil the elegant feel of the large welcoming room that greeted visitors as they climbed the stairs from the Coral Hall, the wall below the window was hinged. Access to the shaded terrace was gained by first lifting the window and then opening out the wall below.
“Can you make sure you close up behind the Viscount,” instructed Chives to Vic Peters before turning left and striding through the lounge, purposefully avoiding eye contact with the expectant interviewee who was seated in one of the armchairs.
“I see our man is waiting in the Lounge already,” said the Club Secretary as he strode into the Captain’s office. “He’s prompt, I’ll give him that.”
“I told Brunswick we’d ring when we were ready for him,” replied Spencer Cartwright.
“Then ring away,” said Chives as he pulled up a second chair behind the desk. “You still happy to take the lead? You haven’t lost your new found courage in the fog?”
The captain pulled on the bell cord. “Of course not, you were dead right. Now, more than ever we need to show a firm hand on the tiller.”
“Bravo!”
A couple of minutes later and Brunswick gave his signature tap upon the door. “Mr. Lionel Woods,” he announced.
“Thank you Brunswick,” replied the Captain in as gruff a voice as he could muster. Chives meanwhile, kept his head down, with Bramley’s little book open before him.
“Good to meet you Mr. Captain,” said Woods, “and to meet you again Mr. Secretary.”
“I’m sure,” replied Chives, without looking up.
“P-Please take a seat,” said Spencer Cartwright nervously, indicating to the vacant chair. “Now you see Woods, here’s the thing-”
“Sorry, but before we start,” interrupted Woods, “please accept my condolences on the loss of his Lordship. It must have come as quite a shock to everyone at the club.”
“Thank you,” replied the Captain, “indeed it did. In fact I was actually playing with him at the time. He’d just got an incredible hole in one up at the seventh. He struck a wonderful four iro-”
Chives, still looking down, coughed loudly.
“Uh? Oh y-yes,” stumbled Spencer Cartwright, “of course, m-mustn’t get side tracked. Now, see here Woods, it’s those darned socks,” he blurted.
“Socks?”
“Yes s-socks.”
“Grey, socks!” interjected Chives.
“Yes, g-grey socks, i-it’s r-really not on you see and well, there’s only one hundred so I’m sure you understand that it really is nothing personal but we have to ensure that everyone keeps on the straight and narrow so yes, there you have it, very sorry and all that, thank you for being so understanding, perhaps another time, er, in the future, umm...” his words stammered into silence.
“Sorry, I’m not sure I follow,” questioned Woods.
“I think that what the Captain is trying to say,” took over the secretary, finally raising his head and looking at Woods for the first time, “is tha...” Chives stopped in mid sentence, squinting his eyes to focus on the other man.
“I’m sorry Mr. Woods but it just cannot be,” went on the Captain, trying again to take control.
“I say,” said Chives, “is that? Good God, that’s an old Shrimptonian tie!”
“Indeed Mr. Secretary.”
The captain kept bumbling on. “Mr. Woods, I’m afraid it falls to me to tell you that-”
“By Jove! I could recognize it a par five away! I was at Shrimpers fifty-six to sixty-one,” said Chives.
“Sixty-four to sixty-nine,” came back Woods immediately.
“Gentlemen please,” struggled Spencer Cartwright. “Mr. Woods, I’m very sorry but-”
Chives turned to his Captain. “What are you blithering on about man?”
“Mr. W-Woods,” stammered Spencer Cartwright looking from one man to the other, not sure who to address. Finally he turned his attention back to the applicant. “I’m sorry, but we must turn down your application.”
“Turn it down?” snapped Chives. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lionel went to Shrimpton. Ignore him Lionel, you’re in. In fact you’re in luck. We have a place available in the One Hundred right away, consider yourself a fully fledged member.”
“Thank you Mr. Secretary.”
“Jim, please, call me Jim.”
“I take it I get his Lordship’s place?” went on Woods sadly.
“No,” said Chives, “neither his Lordship nor the heir apparent are part of the One Hundred.”
“Then in that case my condolences again,” said Woods.
“I’m sorry?” said Chives.
“Dead men’s shoes, remember?” said the new member.
“Ah yes, but happily for once, no. It wasn’t a death, it was a misdemeanor. I’m sure you’ll get to hear about it in the bar at some stage. More importantly, was that old crow Cobbet still Headmaster?”
“Was he ever. Beware the Tebboc!”
As if on cue both men leapt to their feet and burst into song.
“The Tebboc hears,
The Tebboc sees,
The Tebboc’s hiding in the trees.
The Tebboc snarls,
The Tebboc rants,
The Tebboc’s hiding in your underpants!”
“By God I swear that man had eyes in the back of his head,” said Chives.
“We used to say that he hovered. His feet never made a sound. One minute he was nowhere to be seen, the next he was standing right behind you and you hadn’t heard so much as a pin drop!”
“What house?” asked Chives with excitement.
“Gibbon.”
“Me too!! Did they still rule the river?”
“Unbeaten from fifty-three until I left!” Suddenly both men curled their arms under their armpits and began to hop around the room. “Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!”
The Captain looked on in disbelief as they continued to monkey around his office and dance before him like giggling schoolboys.
“Er, excuse me,” he said quietly, holding up his arm as if the school memories were catching.
“What?” puffed Chives, coming to a halt and leaning on the corner of the desk to catch his breath.
“I don’t want to ruin the party, but I thought there was meant to be a ballot,” said the Captain, “you know, to allocate membership into the One Hundred from the Kits?”
“You really can be an old stick in the mud,” complained Chives. “Lionel went to Shrimpers, and a Gibbon to boot! He’s in, that’s how things work here. It’s not what you know and all that. Now, I think a drink is in order, come to my office Lionel and let’s catch up on the old place.”