Kathleen: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When Forbes had finished there was general laughter and applause.
The whimsical idea of building a tale around the persons of the
letter was one which his playful mind was competent to develop,
and he had written a deft and amusing introduction. Taking "Joe"
as his subject he had sketched that gentleman's character with a
touch of irony. He had made him a Rhodes Scholar from Indiana
(evoking good-natured protest from Minters) and had carried him
on a vacation to Guilford House, a small hotel in London much
frequented by Rhodes Scholars. There he had made him meet
Kathleen who, with her mother, was staying in London for a few
days. Forbes had a taste for brunettes, and in his description of
the imagined Kathleen he had indulged himself heartily. He found
her to be seventeen, slender, with that strong slimness that only
an English girl achieves; with a straight brown gaze and abundant
dark chestnut hair. She was captain of her school hockey team, it
seemed; she was good at tennis and swimming and geometry; she had
small patience with poetry and sentiment. But within the athletic
and straightforward flapper Forbes thought he saw the fluttering
of deeper womanhood; the maiden soul erecting a barrier of abrupt
common sense about itself to conceal the shy and sensitive
feelings that were beginning to blossom. Such at any rate was
Kenneth Forbes's psycho-analysis, and he developed his chapter
toward a climax where Kathleen and Joe were left walking in
Regent's Park, and the next author would find some difficulty in
knowing how to proceed with the second instalment.

"Well done indeed!" cried Blair, as Forbes laid down his
manuscript and reached for his pipe. There was a general murmur
of assent as the men got up to stretch and talk. Someone punched
the coals into flame, and the bowl of fruit was passed round.

"Who's to write the next chapter?" asked Graham.

"Let Falstaff do it!" cried Blair. "He's the sentimentalist! But
go easy on poor Joe. You know all Rhodes Scholars don't come from
Indiana! Have a heart!"

"Do whatever you like to Joe!" cried Forbes; "But be careful with
Kathleen! She's adorable! I'm going to write a ballade to her and
mail it to her anonymously."

"I wish there was some way of getting hold of her picture," said
Keith.

"Her picture?" said Graham. "Nonsense! Why not see the flapper
herself? I'm going to bike over there on my Rudge, erb round till
I find the street, and then skid like hell right on to her
doorstep. I shall lie there in mute agony until I'm carried
indoors."

"I say, now, that's no fair!" cried Forbes. "I discovered her!
Just because you've got a motor bike you mustn't take an
advantage!"

"Look here," said the Goblin, mildly, speaking from a blue cloud
of Murray's Mixture, "we must all sign a protocol, or a mandamus
or a lagniappe or whatever you law men call it, not to steal a
march. I think we'd all like to meet the real Kathleen. But we
must give a bond to start fair and square, and nobody do anything
that isn't authorized by the whole club."

"Right-O!" cried several voices.

"All right, then," said the Goblin, "fill glasses everyone, and
we'll solemnize the oath. Brother Scorpions, I do you to wit that
we all, jointly and severally, promise not to take any steps
toward making the acquaintance of said Kathleen until so
authorized by the whole society. So help me God!"

They all drank to this, with some chuckles.

"What a lark if we could get Kathleen down for Eights Week!" said
someone.

"Very likely Joe will have her here," said Whitney. "You seem to
forget that he's been rowing this course for some time."

They all scowled.

"I wonder how many members of the 'varsity are called Joe?" Keith
asked.

"About three hundred, I dare say," said Falstaff.

"I tell you what we might do," said Forbes. "When the yarn's
finished we can send it to her, explain just how the whole thing
happened, and ask permission to call. She's got a sense of
humour, I'll swear!"

"Balmy!" retorted Falstaff. "She'd probably be frightfully fed
because you bagged her letter! 'S a hell of a thing to do, crib a
lady's letter!"

"It's a hell of a thing to do to leave it lying around!" cried
Forbes, impenitent. "No quarter for Joebags! Let the punishment
fit the crime."

"Well, you chaps, I've got to sheer off," said Whitney. "It's
nearly eleven and I've got an essay on the stocks. Cheer-o
Priapus, I've had a ripping time."

"'Arf a mo,'" cried Forbes. "Who's to do the next chapter, and
where do we meet next week?"

"Falstaff!" cried several voices.

"Why not do two chapters a week," said Carter. "I'll do one, and
Goblin can do another. Let's meet in my rooms."

This was agreed to, and after much scuffling with greatcoats and
scarves the guests tramped off down the stairs and out into the
rainy quad. Forbes could hear them, a minute later, thundering
with their heels on the huge iron-studded college gate as they
waited for the porter to let them out. The room was foul with
smoke, and he opened a window over the gardens letting in a gush
of chill sweet air and rain. Through the darkness he could hear
many chimes, counting eleven. He looked wearily at the scribbled
notes for his essay on Danton and Robespierre: then shrugged his
shoulders and went to bed.

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