Mike by P. G. Wodehouse (readnow .txt) 📕

may look forward to a very pleasant evening.  Shall we be moving?”

Mr. Outwood paid his visit at eleven, as predicted by Jellicoe, beaming vaguely into the darkness over a candle, and disappeared again, closing the door.

“How about that door?” said Mike.  “Shall we leave it open for them?”

“Not so, but far otherwise.  If it’s shut we shall hear them at it when they come.  Subject to your approval, Comrade Jackson, I have evolved the following plan of action.  I always ask myself on these occasions, ‘What would Napoleon have done?’ I think Napoleon would have sat in a chair by his washhand-stand, which is close to the door; he would have posted you by your washhand-stand, and he would have instructed Comrade Jellicoe, directly he heard the door-handle turned, to give his celebrated imitation of a dormitory breathing heavily in its sleep.  He would then——­”

“I tell you what,” said Mike, “how about tying a string at the top of the steps?”

“Yes, Napoleon would have done that, too.  Hats off to Comrade Jackson, the man with the big brain!”

The floor of the dormitory was below the level of the door.  There were three steps leading down to it.  Psmith lit a candle and they examined the ground.  The leg of a wardrobe and the leg of Jellicoe’s bed made it possible for the string to be fastened in a satisfactory manner across the lower step.  Psmith surveyed the result with approval.

“Dashed neat!” he said.  “Practically the sunken road which dished the Cuirassiers at Waterloo.  I seem to see Comrade Spiller coming one of the finest purlers in the world’s history.”

“If they’ve got a candle——­”

“They won’t have.  If they have, stand by with your water-jug and douse it at once; then they’ll charge forward and all will be well.  If they have no candle, fling the water at a venture—­fire into the brown!  Lest we forget, I’ll collar Comrade Jellicoe’s jug now and keep it handy.  A couple of sheets would also not be amiss—­we will enmesh the enemy!”

“Right ho!” said Mike.

“These humane preparations being concluded,” said Psmith, “we will retire to our posts and wait.  Comrade Jellicoe, don’t forget to breathe like an asthmatic sheep when you hear the door opened; they may wait at the top of the steps, listening.”

“You are a chap!” said Jellicoe.

Waiting in the dark for something to happen is always a trying experience, especially if, as on this occasion, silence is essential.  Mike found his thoughts wandering back to the vigil he had kept with Mr. Wain at Wrykyn on the night when Wyatt had come in through the window and found authority sitting on his bed, waiting for him.  Mike was tired after his journey, and he had begun to doze when he was jerked back to wakefulness by the stealthy turning of the door-handle; the faintest rustle from Psmith’s direction followed, and a slight giggle, succeeded by a series of deep breaths, showed that Jellicoe, too, had heard the noise.

There was a creaking sound.

It was pitch-dark in the dormitory, but Mike could follow the invaders’ movements as clearly as if it had been broad daylight.  They had opened the door and were listening.  Jellicoe’s breathing grew more asthmatic; he was flinging himself into his part with the whole-heartedness of the true artist.

The creak was followed by a sound of whispering, then another creak.  The enemy had advanced to the top step....  Another creak....  The vanguard had reached the second step....  In another moment——­

CRASH!

And at that point the proceedings may be said to have formally opened.

A struggling mass bumped against Mike’s shins as he rose from his chair; he emptied his jug on to this mass, and a yell of anguish showed that the contents had got to the right address.

Then a hand grabbed his ankle and he went down, a million sparks dancing before his eyes as a fist, flying out at a venture, caught him on the nose.

Mike had not been well-disposed towards the invaders before, but now he ran amok, hitting out right and left at random.  His right missed, but his left went home hard on some portion of somebody’s anatomy.  A kick freed his ankle and he staggered to his feet.  At the same moment a sudden increase in the general volume of noise spoke eloquently of good work that was being put in by Psmith.

Even at that crisis, Mike could not help feeling that if a row of this calibre did not draw Mr. Outwood from his bed, he must be an unusual kind of house-master.

He plunged forward again with outstretched arms, and stumbled and fell over one of the on-the-floor section of the opposing force.  They seized each other earnestly and rolled across the room till Mike, contriving to secure his adversary’s head, bumped it on the floor with such abandon that, with a muffled yell, the other let go, and for the second time he rose.  As he did so he was conscious of a curious thudding sound that made itself heard through the other assorted noises of the battle.

All this time the fight had gone on in the blackest darkness, but now a light shone on the proceedings.  Interested occupants of other dormitories, roused from their slumbers, had come to observe the sport.  They were crowding in the doorway with a candle.

By the light of this Mike got a swift view of the theatre of war.  The enemy appeared to number five.  The warrior whose head Mike had bumped on the floor was Robinson, who was sitting up feeling his skull in a gingerly fashion.  To Mike’s right, almost touching him, was Stone.  In the direction of the door, Psmith, wielding in his right hand the cord of a dressing-gown, was engaging the remaining three with a patient smile.  They were clad in pyjamas, and appeared to be feeling the dressing-gown cord acutely.

The sudden light dazed both sides momentarily.  The defence was the first to recover, Mike, with a swing, upsetting Stone, and Psmith, having seized and emptied Jellicoe’s jug over Spiller, getting to work again with the cord in a manner that roused the utmost enthusiasm of the spectators.

Agility seemed to be the leading feature of Psmith’s tactics.  He was everywhere—­on Mike’s bed, on his own, on Jellicoe’s (drawing a passionate complaint from that non-combatant, on whose face he inadvertently trod), on the floor—­he ranged the room, sowing destruction.

The enemy were disheartened; they had started with the idea that this was to be a surprise attack, and it was disconcerting to find the garrison armed at all points.  Gradually they edged to the door, and a final rush sent them through.

“Hold the door for a second,” cried Psmith, and vanished.  Mike was alone in the doorway.

It was a situation which exactly suited his frame of mind; he stood alone in direct opposition to the community into which Fate had pitchforked him so abruptly.  He liked the feeling; for the first time since his father had given him his views upon school reports that morning in the Easter holidays, he felt satisfied with life.  He hoped, outnumbered as he was, that the enemy would come on again and not give the thing up in disgust; he wanted more.

On an occasion like this there is rarely anything approaching concerted action on the part of the aggressors.  When the attack came, it was not a combined attack; Stone, who was nearest to the door, made a sudden dash forward, and Mike hit him under the chin.

Stone drew back, and there was another interval for rest and reflection.

It was interrupted by the reappearance of Psmith, who strolled back along the passage swinging his dressing-gown cord as if it were some clouded cane.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Comrade Jackson,” he said politely.  “Duty called me elsewhere.  With the kindly aid of a guide who knows the lie of the land, I have been making a short tour of the dormitories.  I have poured divers jugfuls of water over Comrade Spiller’s bed, Comrade Robinson’s bed, Comrade Stone’s—­Spiller, Spiller, these are harsh words; where you pick them up I can’t think—­not from me.  Well, well, I suppose there must be an end to the pleasantest of functions.  Good-night, good-night.”

The door closed behind Mike and himself.  For ten minutes shufflings and whisperings went on in the corridor, but nobody touched the handle.

Then there was a sound of retreating footsteps, and silence reigned.

On the following morning there was a notice on the house-board.  It ran: 

CHAPTER XXXVI

ADAIR

On the same morning Mike met Adair for the first time.

He was going across to school with Psmith and Jellicoe, when a group of three came out of the gate of the house next door.

“That’s Adair,” said Jellicoe, “in the middle.”

His voice had assumed a tone almost of awe.

“Who’s Adair?” asked Mike.

“Captain of cricket, and lots of other things.”

Mike could only see the celebrity’s back.  He had broad shoulders and wiry, light hair, almost white.  He walked well, as if he were used to running.  Altogether a fit-looking sort of man.  Even Mike’s jaundiced eye saw that.

As a matter of fact, Adair deserved more than a casual glance.  He was that rare type, the natural leader.  Many boys and men, if accident, or the passage of time, places them in a position where they are expected to lead, can handle the job without disaster; but that is a very different thing from being a born leader.  Adair was of the sort that comes to the top by sheer force of character and determination.  He was not naturally clever at work, but he had gone at it with a dogged resolution which had carried him up the school, and landed him high in the Sixth.  As a cricketer he was almost entirely self-taught.  Nature had given him a good eye, and left the thing at that.  Adair’s doggedness had triumphed over her failure to do her work thoroughly.  At the cost of more trouble than most people give to their life-work he had made himself into a bowler.  He read the authorities, and watched first-class players, and thought the thing out on his own account, and he divided the art of bowling into three sections.  First, and most important—­pitch.  Second on the list—­break.  Third—­pace.  He set himself to acquire pitch.  He acquired it.  Bowling at his own pace and without any attempt at break, he could now drop the ball on an envelope seven times out of ten.

Break was a more uncertain quantity.  Sometimes he could get it at the expense of pitch, sometimes at the expense of pace.  Some days he could get all three, and then he was an uncommonly bad man to face on anything but a plumb wicket.

Running he had acquired in a similar manner.  He had nothing approaching style, but he had twice won the mile and half-mile at the Sports off elegant runners, who knew all about stride and the correct timing of the sprints and all the rest of it.

Briefly, he was a worker.  He had heart.

A boy of Adair’s type is always a force in a school.  In a big public school of six or seven hundred, his influence is felt less; but in a small school like Sedleigh he is like a tidal wave, sweeping all before him.  There were two hundred boys at Sedleigh, and there was not one of them in all probability who had not, directly or indirectly, been influenced by Adair.  As a small boy his sphere was not large, but the effects of his work began to be apparent even then.  It is human nature to want to get something which somebody else obviously values very much; and when it was observed by members of his form that Adair was going to great trouble and inconvenience to secure a place in the form eleven or fifteen, they naturally began to think, too, that it was worth being in those teams.  The consequence was that his form always played hard.  This made other forms play hard.  And the net result was that, when Adair succeeded to the captaincy of football and cricket in the same year, Sedleigh, as Mr. Downing, Adair’s house-master and the nearest approach to a cricket-master that Sedleigh possessed, had a fondness for saying, was a keen school.  As a whole, it both worked and played with energy.

All it wanted now was opportunity.

This Adair was determined to give it.  He had that passionate fondness for his school which every boy is popularly supposed to have, but which really is implanted in about one in every thousand.  The average public-school boy likes his school.  He hopes it will lick Bedford at footer and Malvern at cricket, but he rather bets it won’t.  He is sorry to leave, and he likes going back at the end of the holidays, but as for any passionate, deep-seated love of the place, he would think it rather bad form than otherwise.  If anybody came up to him, slapped him on the back, and cried, “Come along, Jenkins, my boy!  Play up for the old school, Jenkins!  The dear old school!  The old place you love so!” he would feel