The Go-Between Read Online Free PDF Page B

rivalry; it was to
us what Eton is to Harrow. “Played Lambton House At Home. Match
drawn 1-1.” “Played Lambton House Away. Match drawn 3-3.” Then:
“Last and Ultimate and Final Replay. Lambton House VANQUISHED 2-1 !
! ! ! McClintock scored both goals! ! ! !”
      After that no more entries for a time. Vanquished!
That was the word for which I was made to suffer. My attitude to
the diary was twofold and contradictory: I was intensely proud of
it and wanted everybody to see it and what I had written in it, and
at the same time I had an instinct for secrecy and wanted nobody to
see it. I spent hours balancing the pros and cons of either course.
I thought of the applause that would greet the diary as it was
wonderingly passed from hand to hand. I thought of the enhancement
to my prestige, the opportunities to swank of which I should avail
myself discreetly but effectively. And on the other hand there was
the intimate pleasure of brooding over the diary in secret, like a
bird sitting on its eggs, hatching, creating; losing myself in
zodiacal reveries, speculating upon the glorious destiny of the
twentieth century, intoxicated by my almost sensuous premonitions
of what was coming to me. These were joys that depended upon
secrecy; they would vanish if I told them or even betrayed their
source.
      So I tried to get the best of both worlds: I hinted
at the possession of hidden treasure, but I did not say what it
was. And for a time this policy was successful; curiosity was
aroused, questions were asked: “Well, what is it? Tell us.” I
enjoyed parrying these: “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I enjoyed
going about with an “I could if I would” air and a secret smile. I
even encouraged questionnaires of the “animal, vegetable, or
mineral” type, breaking them off when the scent became too hot.
      Perhaps I gave too much away; at any rate, the one
thing I hadn’t guarded against happened. I had no warning of it,
none: it happened at break, in the middle of the morning, and I
suppose I hadn’t looked in my desk that day. Suddenly I was
surrounded by a mob of grinning urchins chanting: “Who said
‘vanquished’? Who said ‘vanquished’?” And in a moment they were all
upon me; I was borne to the ground; various forms of physical
torture were applied, and my nearest tormentor—he was almost as
breathless as I, so many were pressing on him, cried: “Are you
vanquished, Colston, are you vanquished?”
      For the moment I certainly was, and for the whole of
the next week, which seemed an eternity, I was subjected to the
same treatment at least once a day—not always at the same hour, for
the ringleaders chose their opportunity with care. Sometimes, as
the day wore on, I thought I had escaped; then I would see the
nefarious band in conclave; cries of “vanquished” would break out
and the pack would be upon me. As quickly as I could I admitted
myself vanquished, but I was usually sore all over before quarter
was given.
      Strangely enough, though so idealistic about the
future, I was quite realistic about the present: it never occurred
to me to connect my school life with the Golden Age or think that
the twentieth century was letting me down. Nor did I have to
restrain an impulse to write home or sneak to one of the masters. I
had brought it on myself, I knew, by using that pretentious word,
and did not dispute the right of public opinion to punish me. But I
was desperately anxious to prove I was not vanquished; and as I
clearly could not do that by physical force, I must resort to
guile. Rather to my surprise, the diary had been returned to me.
Apart from having the word “vanquished” scrawled all over it, it
was uninjured. I attributed its restitution to magnanimity; I think
now that it was probably due to prudential considerations, to a
fear that I should report its disappearance as a theft. To report a
theft was not against our code, it was not sneaking, as telling
about my physical sufferings