Mike by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (most popular novels .TXT) 📕
He was alone in the carriage. Bob, who had been spending the last week of the holidays with an aunt further down the line, was to board the train at East Wobsley, and the brothers were to make a state entry into Wrykyn together. Meanwhile, Mike was left to his milk chocolate, his magazines, and his reflections.
The latter were not numerous, nor profound. He was excited. He had been petitioning the home authorities for the past year to be allowed to leave his private school and go to Wrykyn, and now the thing had come about. He wondered what sort of a house Wain's was, and whether they had any chance of the cricket cup. According to Bob they had no earthly; but then Bob only recognised one house, Donaldson's. He wondered if Bob would get his first eleven cap this year, and if he himself were likely to do anything at cricket. Marjory had faithfully reported e
Read free book «Mike by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (most popular novels .TXT) 📕» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
- Performer: -
Read book online «Mike by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (most popular novels .TXT) 📕». Author - Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
extent. But, at any rate at first, it was no time for science. To be
scientific one must have an opponent who observes at least the more
important rules of the ring. It is impossible to do the latest ducks
and hooks taught you by the instructor if your antagonist butts you in
the chest, and then kicks your shins, while some dear friend of his,
of whose presence you had no idea, hits you at the same time on the
back of the head. The greatest expert would lose his science in such
circumstances.
Probably what gave the school the victory in the end was the
righteousness of their cause. They were smarting under a sense of
injury, and there is nothing that adds a force to one’s blows and a
recklessness to one’s style of delivering them more than a sense of
injury.
Wyatt, one side of his face still showing traces of the tomato, led
the school with a vigour that could not be resisted. He very seldom
lost his temper, but he did draw the line at bad tomatoes.
Presently the school noticed that the enemy were vanishing little by
little into the darkness which concealed the town. Barely a dozen
remained. And their lonely condition seemed to be borne in upon these
by a simultaneous brain-wave, for they suddenly gave the fight up, and
stampeded as one man.
The leaders were beyond recall, but two remained, tackled low by Wyatt
and Clowes after the fashion of the football-field.
*
The school gathered round its prisoners, panting. The scene of the
conflict had shifted little by little to a spot some fifty yards from
where it had started. By the side of the road at this point was a
green, depressed looking pond. Gloomy in the daytime, it looked
unspeakable at night. It struck Wyatt, whose finer feelings had been
entirely blotted out by tomato, as an ideal place in which to bestow
the captives.
“Let’s chuck ‘em in there,” he said.
The idea was welcomed gladly by all, except the prisoners. A move was
made towards the pond, and the procession had halted on the brink,
when a new voice made itself heard.
“Now then,” it said, “what’s all this?”
A stout figure in policeman’s uniform was standing surveying them with
the aid of a small bull’s-eye lantern.
“What’s all this?”
“It’s all right,” said Wyatt.
“All right, is it? What’s on?”
One of the prisoners spoke.
“Make ‘em leave hold of us, Mr. Butt. They’re a-going to chuck us in
the pond.”
“Ho!” said the policeman, with a change in his voice. “Ho, are they?
Come now, young gentleman, a lark’s a lark, but you ought to know
where to stop.”
“It’s anything but a lark,” said Wyatt in the creamy voice he used
when feeling particularly savage. “We’re the Strong Right Arm of
Justice. That’s what we are. This isn’t a lark, it’s an execution.”
“I don’t want none of your lip, whoever you are,” said Mr. Butt,
understanding but dimly, and suspecting impudence by instinct.
“This is quite a private matter,” said Wyatt. “You run along on your
beat. You can’t do anything here.”
“Ho!”
“Shove ‘em in, you chaps.”
“Stop!” From Mr. Butt.
“Oo-er!” From prisoner number one.
There was a sounding splash as willing hands urged the first of the
captives into the depths. He ploughed his way to the bank, scrambled
out, and vanished.
Wyatt turned to the other prisoner.
“You’ll have the worst of it, going in second. He’ll have churned up
the mud a bit. Don’t swallow more than you can help, or you’ll go
getting typhoid. I expect there are leeches and things there, but if
you nip out quick they may not get on to you. Carry on, you chaps.”
It was here that the regrettable incident occurred. Just as the second
prisoner was being launched, Constable Butt, determined to assert
himself even at the eleventh hour, sprang forward, and seized the
captive by the arm. A drowning man will clutch at a straw. A man about
to be hurled into an excessively dirty pond will clutch at a stout
policeman. The prisoner did.
Constable Butt represented his one link with dry land. As he came
within reach he attached himself to his tunic with the vigour and
concentration of a limpet.
At the same moment the executioners gave their man the final heave.
The policeman realised his peril too late. A medley of noises made the
peaceful night hideous. A howl from the townee, a yell from the
policeman, a cheer from the launching party, a frightened squawk from
some birds in a neighbouring tree, and a splash compared with which
the first had been as nothing, and all was over.
The dark waters were lashed into a maelstrom; and then two streaming
figures squelched up the further bank.
[Illustration: THE DARK WATERS WERE LASHED INTO A MAELSTROM]
The school stood in silent consternation. It was no occasion for light
apologies.
“Do you know,” said Wyatt, as he watched the Law shaking the water
from itself on the other side of the pond, “I’m not half sure that we
hadn’t better be moving!”
BEFORE THE STORM
Your real, devastating row has many points of resemblance with a
prairie fire. A man on a prairie lights his pipe, and throws away the
match. The flame catches a bunch of dry grass, and, before any one can
realise what is happening, sheets of fire are racing over the country;
and the interested neighbours are following their example. (I have
already compared a row with a thunderstorm; but both comparisons may
stand. In dealing with so vast a matter as a row there must be no
stint.)
The tomato which hit Wyatt in the face was the thrown-away match. But
for the unerring aim of the town marksman great events would never
have happened. A tomato is a trivial thing (though it is possible that
the man whom it hits may not think so), but in the present case, it
was the direct cause of epoch-making trouble.
The tomato hit Wyatt. Wyatt, with others, went to look for the
thrower. The remnants of the thrower’s friends were placed in the
pond, and “with them,” as they say in the courts of law, Police
Constable Alfred Butt.
Following the chain of events, we find Mr. Butt, having prudently
changed his clothes, calling upon the headmaster.
The headmaster was grave and sympathetic; Mr. Butt fierce and
revengeful.
The imagination of the force is proverbial. Nurtured on motorcars and
fed with stop-watches, it has become world-famous. Mr. Butt gave free
rein to it.
“Threw me in, they did, sir. Yes, sir.”
“Threw you in!”
“Yes, sir. Plop!” said Mr. Butt, with a certain sad relish.
“Really, really!” said the headmaster. “Indeed! This is—dear me! I
shall certainly—They threw you in!—Yes, I shall—certainly–-”
Encouraged by this appreciative reception of his story, Mr. Butt
started it again, right from the beginning.
“I was on my beat, sir, and I thought I heard a disturbance. I says to
myself, ”Allo,’ I says, ‘a frakkus. Lots of them all gathered
together, and fighting.’ I says, beginning to suspect something,
‘Wot’s this all about, I wonder?’ I says. ‘Blow me if I don’t think
it’s a frakkus.’ And,” concluded Mr. Butt, with the air of one
confiding a secret, “and it was a frakkus!”
“And these boys actually threw you into the pond?”
“Plop, sir! Mrs. Butt is drying my uniform at home at this very
moment as we sit talking here, sir. She says to me, ‘Why, whatever
‘ave you been a-doing? You’re all wet.’ And,” he added, again
with the confidential air, “I was wet, too. Wringin’ wet.”
The headmaster’s frown deepened.
“And you are certain that your assailants were boys from the school?”
“Sure as I am that I’m sitting here, sir. They all ‘ad their caps on
their heads, sir.”
“I have never heard of such a thing. I can hardly believe that it is
possible. They actually seized you, and threw you into the water–-”
“Splish, sir!” said the policeman, with a vividness of imagery
both surprising and gratifying.
The headmaster tapped restlessly on the floor with his foot.
“How many boys were there?” he asked.
“Couple of ‘undred, sir,” said Mr. Butt promptly.
“Two hundred!”
“It was dark, sir, and I couldn’t see not to say properly; but if you
ask me my frank and private opinion I should say couple of ‘undred.”
“H’m—Well, I will look into the matter at once. They shall be
punished.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ye-e-s—H’m—Yes—Most severely.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes—Thank you, constable. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir.”
The headmaster of Wrykyn was not a motorist. Owing to this
disadvantage he made a mistake. Had he been a motorist, he would have
known that statements by the police in the matter of figures must be
divided by any number from two to ten, according to discretion. As it
was, he accepted Constable Butt’s report almost as it stood. He
thought that he might possibly have been mistaken as to the exact
numbers of those concerned in his immersion; but he accepted the
statement in so far as it indicated that the thing had been the work
of a considerable section of the school, and not of only one or two
individuals. And this made all the difference to his method of dealing
with the affair. Had he known how few were the numbers of those
responsible for the cold in the head which subsequently attacked
Constable Butt, he would have asked for their names, and an extra
lesson would have settled the entire matter.
As it was, however, he got the impression that the school, as a whole,
was culpable, and he proceeded to punish the school as a whole.
It happened that, about a week before the pond episode, a certain
member of the Royal Family had recovered from a dangerous illness,
which at one time had looked like being fatal. No official holiday had
been given to the schools in honour of the recovery, but Eton and
Harrow had set the example, which was followed throughout the kingdom,
and Wrykyn had come into line with the rest. Only two days before the
O.W.‘s matches the headmaster had given out a notice in the hall that
the following Friday would be a whole holiday; and the school, always
ready to stop work, had approved of the announcement exceedingly.
The step which the headmaster decided to take by way of avenging Mr.
Butt’s wrongs was to stop this holiday.
He gave out a notice to that effect on the Monday.
The school was thunderstruck. It could not understand it. The pond
affair had, of course, become public property; and those who had had
nothing to do with it had been much amused. “There’ll be a frightful
row about it,” they had said, thrilled with the pleasant excitement of
those who see trouble approaching and themselves looking on from a
comfortable distance without risk or uneasiness. They were not
malicious. They did not want to see their friends in difficulties. But
there is no denying that a row does break the monotony of a school
term. The thrilling feeling that something is going to happen is the
salt of life….
And here they were, right in it after all. The blow had fallen, and
crushed guilty and innocent alike.
Comments (0)