Paths of Glory

Guy sat down on the end of the bed and waited. He had long ago stopped complaining about his friend’s inability to understand the purpose of a watch. However, it still annoyed many of George’s acquaintances, who regularly reminded him of Winchester’s motto, Manners Maketh Man. Guy was well aware of his friend’s shortcomings, but he also recognized that George had exceptional gifts. The accident of fate that had placed them in the same carriage on their way to prep school had changed his whole life. While others sometimes found George tactless, even arrogant, if he allowed them into his confidence they also discovered kindness, generosity, and humor in equal measure.

Guy picked up the book from George’s pillow. It was a novel by E. M. Forster, a writer he’d never come across before. He had only managed a few pages of it before George strolled in, a towel around his waist, his hair dripping.

“Is it ten o’clock already?” he asked, taking off his towel and using it to rub his hair.

“Ten past,” said Guy.

“Benson suggested I sign up for the dramatic society. It might give us the chance to meet a few girls.”

“I don’t think it’s girls that Benson is interested in.”

George swung around. “You’re not suggesting…”

“Just in case you haven’t noticed,” said Guy to his friend, who was standing naked in front of him, “it isn’t only girls who give you a second look.”

“And which do you prefer?” asked George, giving him a flick of the towel.

“You’re quite safe with me,” Guy assured him. “Now, could you get a move on? Otherwise everyone will have packed up and gone before we even arrive.”

As they crossed the courtyard George set his usual pace, which Guy always found hard to keep up with.

“What clubs are you going to join?” Guy asked, almost running by his side.

“The ones that won’t admit you,” said George with a grin. “Which ought to leave me a wide enough choice.”

Their pace slowed as they joined a teeming horde of undergraduates who were also making their way to the Freshers’ Fair. Long before they reached Parker’s Piece they could hear bands playing, choirs singing, and a thousand exuberant voices all striving to outdo each other.

A large area of the green was occupied by stalls manned by noisy students, all of whom seemed to be hollering like street traders. George and Guy strolled down the first gangway, soaking up the atmosphere. Guy began to show some interest when a man dressed in cricket whites and carrying a bat and ball, which looked somewhat incongruous in autumn, demanded, “Do either of you play cricket by any chance?”

“I opened the batting for Winchester,” said Guy.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” said the man with the bat. “My name’s Dick Young.”

Guy, recognizing the name of a man who had played both cricket and football for England, gave a slight bow.

“What about your friend?” Dick asked.

“You needn’t waste your time on him,” said Guy. “He has his sights on higher things, although he happens to be looking for a man who’s also called Young. I’ll catch up with you later, George,” said Guy.

George nodded and strolled off through the crowd, ignoring a cry of, “Do you sing? We’re looking for a tenor.”

“But a fiver will do,” quipped another voice.

“Do you play chess? We must beat Oxford this year.”

“Do you play a musical instrument?” asked a desperate voice. “Even the cymbals?”

George stopped in his tracks when he saw an awning above a stall at the end of the aisle which announced The Fabian Society, founded 1884. He walked quickly toward a man who was waving a pamphlet and shouting, “Equality for all!”

As George came up to him, the man inquired, “Would you care to join our little band? Or are you one of those hide-bound Tory fellows?”

“Certainly not,” said George. “I have long believed in the doctrines of Quintus Fabius Maximus. ‘If you can win a battle without having to fire a shot in anger, you are the true victor.’”

“Good fellow,” said the young man, pushing a form across the table. “Sign up here, and then you can come to our meeting next week, which will be addressed by Mr. George Bernard Shaw. By the way, my name’s Rupert Brooke,” he added, thrusting out his hand. “I’m the club’s secretary.”

George shook Brooke warmly by the hand before filling in the form and handing it back. Brooke glanced at the signature. “I say, old chap

,” he said, “are the rumors true?”