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At the school which Raffles and I had both attended, Founder’s Day fell toward the latter end of the summer term. At our school, as so many others, this day was commemorated with an Old Boys cricket match, pitting former pupils – some of whom had gone on to be first class cricketers themselves – against present. I was, of course, practically hopping with excitement at the prospect of watching Raffles lead the school’s Eleven against the Old Boys, and had no doubt whatsoever that he would trounce all comers. I was further filled with a sense of vicarious pride in knowing that he would do so not only before all the school and all the teachers and the Old Boys themselves, but also before the townsfolk who were permitted to come up and watch the match, and before any and all of the boys’ people who had taken up the general invitation for families and friends to come down and watch. That Raffles would put on his best show I was certain, and it thrilled me to think of how many people would get to see him at it. He deserved as much fame, glory, and adulation as he could get; as far as I was concerned there hadn’t been a person more deserving in the past century at least!

If I had felt at all sorry that my own people – few as they were even then – were not coming up, that regret was far from strong enough to dampen my spirits. I hadn’t expected them to come, and had only send the invitation so as not to stick out from the other boys by not doing so. And I understood why they declined, for it was a long enough journey from my home to the school, and of course I was no cricketer, and a mere middle fourth lad finishing my first year; and my parents, though kind in their own ways, and by no means physically neglectful, were also simply not that interested in me. My family had not and would never set foot in the school to which they had sent me, during my time there. I had travelled to it alone that first, dismal day, thirteen years old and despairing, and I would leave it equally as alone years later, though in much happier spirits in finally quitting the place than I had in joining. 

I had not asked Raffles whether his people would be coming up to watch, for although we had become much tighter pals in that final summer term, he was always aloof as regarded his personal life – and I was still, after all, his fag, first and foremost. I never wanted to push him too far, or overstep too many marks, lest I do something to harm the burgeoning true friendship between us which I so cherished. Still, even if I wouldn’t voice my curiosity over Raffles’ people, I did little to leash my fanciful imaginings about them, nor squash my hopes that I might, perhaps, maybe, get to meet them on Founder’s Day. For if they did  come, I had no doubt in my mind that Raffles would introduce me to them. 

Still, I don’t want to give off the impression that Raffles and I were quite so thick as thieves back then as we would later become. He was still above all else Arthur Raffles of the Upper Sixth; about to turn eighteen; the popular, clever, artistic, and dashing Captain of the First XI in the summer and of the Second XV in the winter – for his rugby never was quite so strong as his cricket, and he characteristically preferred to lead the Second rather than be led in the First. And I was still, was always and only, the unathletic, unpromising, unremarkable little Harry Manders, at that time fourteen-and-one-third, in the Middle Fourth, and known for little more than my nickname, my unexpectedly vicious pugnacity when backed into a corner (several boys had learned the hard way that simply because a boy is small and quiet, that does not mean he can’t bloody noses, and bite and kick with the best of them), and for my paltry poetical contributions to the mag. Less even than that, in fact, for outside of my own peer group few knew me as anything more than “that baby-faced little fag that trails around carrying Raffles’ bags”. 

I was on as low a rung as Raffles was high, and he, and his peers and cronies with whom the majority of his time was spent, were so far above me as to render me all but invisible to most of them. This would have caused me no small measure of torment, infatuated with Raffles as I was – in friendship or otherwise; the precise nature of my love for him mattered far less to me than the intensity of it – had I not been the only soul in all the school, perhaps even in all the world, to whom he had entrusted certain of his secrets. And thus, whilst the other boys, the older boys, the brighter boys, the sportier boys, the boys with money and popularity and charisma, all enjoyed more of Raffles time and physical presence than I could ever hope for, I flattered myself – if only in secret, if only with wishful thinking, if only to myself – that I knew more of his heart.

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Got my partner to play “Open My Collected Raffles Stories Book To A Random Page And Read A Random Sentence And I Have To Say Which Story It Is From” (you know, that classic party game) and I don’t know whether to be proud or deeply concerned that I got every single one correct.

Even the last one where he took two lines from two different stories and jumbled them up together and had me guess both stories and say which part was from which.

I…. I need to read other books, don’t I? :/

Lmfao.

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@two-nipples-maybe-more tagged me in this (and I am very looking forward to seeing their answers to the asks I sent them…. :D ) and I have had a not-amazing week, and little things like this are always  fun, innit?!

THE RULES: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you and interests you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it!

….Lmao. Some of these are so old I don’t even remember writing them. …Oh God how many!??!?!?!?! Yikes. Yiiiiikes.

Ithaca At Last ch 1-10

Ithaca At Last ch 11-20

Ithaca At Last ch 21-30

Ithaca At Last ch 31-40

Ceilings

Raffles - I just need to get it out of my system I am TIRED

Strawberries and Champagne

A Close Call

A Wife

Raffles Being Late

 A Composite Sketch Of My Hero

Return To School

A Letter From A Young Bunny

Trimalchio of the Eastern Gate ch 7

A Challenge For Watson

Epee De Coeur

Purgatorying

We Need A Little Christmas!

The Usual - Quite Perfectly Fine, Probably

The Usual - Perfectly To Plan

The Usual - A Lot Of Ways To Say I Love You

The Usual - The Usual

The Usual - Epilogue

Anne of the Enterprise - I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends

Tonia’s Steadfast Tritanium Vulcan

99 Truths and a LIe

tribble short

Who shall I tag???? Um… Obviously @unwillingadventurer !! …But I’m trying to think who else I know that is all three out of :being on tumblr; writing fics; who might not mind being bothered…. @thatdanishchick -waves - .@cicaklah @patchworkofstars @the-prince-of-professors (if you want to, of course – I know you aren’t officially here! And I can never remember your alt argh <3) ??? I’m so bad at remembering handles…. gritted.teeth.emoji

Ajhhhhhhh just anyone else who sees this and wants to do it!!!!! Tag me if you do; I’m nosy and wanna see your WIPs :D :D

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