A powerful desire came over me to say:  “I knew all about his fits years ago,” but it melted before the memory of a far-away promise.  At this point, too, I became perfectly sure that, although Doe’s sudden self-revelation was an intense and genuine outburst, yet he was sufficiently his lovable self to feel pride in his easy use of technical terms like paroxysm and rigor.

“It frightened me,” continued he.  “It’s only cowardice that’s made me cut with him.  I know my motives are all rotten, but no matter; I was gloriously happy half-an-hour ago, when I had made the resolution.  And now I’m melancholy.  That’s why I’m talking about being a great man.  You must be melancholy to feel great.”

As he said the words, Doe leapt to his feet and unconsciously struck his breast with a fine action.

“And I sometimes know I could be great.  I feel it surging in me.  But I shall only dream it all.  I haven’t the cold, calculating power of Penny, for instance.  He’s the only one of us who’ll set the Thames on fire.  At present, Rupert, I’ve but one goal; and that is to win the Horace Prize before I leave.  If I can do that, I’ll believe again in my power to make something of my life.”

Sec.2

I fear I’m a very ignoble character, for this conversation, instead of filling me with pain at Doe’s deviations, only gave me a selfish elation in the thought that I had utterly routed my shadowy rival, Freedham, and won back my brilliant twin, who could talk thus familiarly about mysticism.  And now there only remained the very concrete Fillet to be driven in disorder from the field.

CHAPTER IX

WATERLOO OPENS

Sec.1

And here begins the record of my Waterloo with Fillet.

One June morning of the following year all we Bramhallites were assembled in the Preparation Room for our weekly issue of “Bank” or pocket-money; we were awaiting the arrival of Fillet, our house-master, with his jingling cash-box.  Soon he would enter and, having elaborately enthroned himself at his desk, proceed to ask each of us how much “Bank” he required, and to deliberate, when the sum was proposed, whether the boy’s account would stand so large a draft.  The boy would argue with glowing force that it would stand that and more; and Fillet would put the opposing case with irritating contumacy.

This morning he was late; the corridors nowhere echoed the rattle of his cash-box.  So it occurred to me to entertain the crowd with a little imitation of Fillet.  Seating myself at his desk, I frowned at a nervous junior, and addressed him thus: 

“N-now, my boy, how much b-b-bank do you want?  Shilling?  B-b-bank won’t stand it.  T-take sixpence.  Sixpence not enough?  Take ninepence and run away.”