Good-bye to all that : $b An autobiographyGraves, Robert
History
Good-bye to all that : $b An autobiography
Graves, Robert
Authors, English -- 20th century -- Biography; Graves, Robert, 1895-1985; World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives, British
So it was a matter entirely
between these three sixth-form intellectuals and the three colours of
the First Eleven. And the First Eleven were uncomfortably aware that
Mansfield was the heavy-weight boxing champion of the school, Waller
the runner-up for the middle-weights, and that Taylor was also a person
to be reckoned with (a tough fellow, though not perhaps a boxer—I
forget). While the First Eleven were wondering what on earth to do
their three opponents decided to take the war into the enemy’s country.
The social code of Charterhouse was based on a very strict caste
system; the caste-marks were slight distinctions in dress. A new
boy had no privileges at all; a boy in his second term might wear a
knitted tie instead of a plain one; a boy in his second year might
wear coloured socks; third year gave most of the privileges—turned
down collars, coloured handkerchiefs, a coat with a long roll, and so
on; fourth year, a few more, such as the right to get up raffles; but
very peculiar and unique distinctions were reserved for the bloods.
These included light grey flannel trousers, butterfly collars, coats
slit up the back, and the privilege of walking arm-in-arm. So the next
Sunday Mansfield, Waller and Taylor did the bravest thing that was ever
done at Charterhouse. The school chapel service was at eleven in the
morning, but the custom was for the school to be in its seats by five
minutes to eleven and to sit waiting there. At two minutes to eleven
the bloods used to stalk in; at one and a half minutes to came the
masters; at one minute to came the choir in its surplices; then the
headmaster arrived and the service started. If any boy was accidentally
late and sneaked in between five minutes to and two minutes to the
hour, he was followed by six hundred pairs of eyes; there was nudging
and giggling and he would not hear the last of it for a long time; it
was as though he were pretending to be a blood. On this Sunday, then,
when the bloods had come in with their usual swaggering assurance, an
extraordinary thing happened.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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