The bell would ring and the dormitory would break into an
uproar, splashing of water, dropping of hair-brushes and shouts of
laughter, for these super-boys could laugh before breakfast. Then we
all trooped downstairs and I forced myself to drink bad coffee in a
room that smelt of herrings. The next bell called us to chapel, and
at intervals during the morning other bells called us from one class
to another. Dinner was the one square meal we had during the day,
and as it was always very good, and there was nothing morbid about
my appetite, I looked forward to it with interest. After dinner we
played football. I liked the game well enough, but the atmosphere of
mud and forlorn grey fields made me shudder, and as I kept goal I
spent my leisure moments in hardening my aeesthetic impressions. I
never see the word football today without recalling the curious
sensation caused by the mud drying on my bare knees. After football
were other classes, classes in which it was sometimes very hard to
keep awake, for the school was old, and the badly ventilated
class-rooms were stuffy after the fresh air. Then the bell summoned
us to evening chapel and tea--a meal which we were allowed to
improve with sardines and eggs and jam, if we had money to buy them
or a hamper from home. After tea we had about two hours to ourselves
and then came preparation, and supper and bed. Everything was
heralded by a bell, and now and again even in the midst of lessons
I would hear the church-bell tolling for a funeral.
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