School Stories by P. G. Wodehouse (children's ebooks free online .TXT) 📕

thing. Tony’s next over passed off without interference. Possibly, however, this was because it was a very bad one. After the third over he asked Welch if he could get somebody else to umpire, as he had work to do. Welch heaved a sigh of relief, and agreed readily.

“Conscientious sort of chap that umpire of yours,” said Scott to Tony, after the match. Scott had made a hundred and four, and was feeling pleased. “Considering he’s in your House, he’s awfully fair.”

“You mean that we generally swindle, I suppose?”

“Of course not, you rotter. You know what I mean. But, I say, that catch Welch and you appealed for must have been a near thing. I could have sworn I hit it.”

“Of course you did. It was clean out. So was the lbw. I say, did you think that ball that bowled you was a chuck? That one in my first over, you know.”

“Chuck! My dear Tony, you don’t mean to say that man pulled you up for chucking? I thought your foot must have gone over the crease.”

“I believe the chap’s mad,” said Tony.

“Perhaps he’s taking it out of you this way for treading on his corns somehow. Have you been milling with this gentle youth lately?”

“By Jove,” said Tony, “you’re right. I gave him beans only the other night for ragging in the dormitory.”

Scott laughed.

“Well, he seems to have been getting a bit of his own back today. Lucky the game was only a friendly. Why will you let your angry passions rise, Tony? You’ve wrecked your analysis by it, though it’s improved my average considerably. I don’t know if that’s any solid satisfaction to you.”

“It isn’t.”

“You don’t say so! Well, so long. If I were you, I should keep an eye on that conscientious umpire.”

“I will,” said Tony. “Good night.”

The process of keeping an eye on Harrison brought no results. When he wished to behave himself well, he could. On such occasions Sandford and Merton were literally not in it with him, and the hero of a Sunday-school story would simply have refused to compete. But Nemesis, as the poets tell us, though no sprinter, manages, like the celebrated Maisie, to get right there in time. Give her time, and she will arrive. She arrived in the case of Harrison. One morning, about a fortnight after the House-match incident, Harrison awoke with a new sensation. At first he could not tell what exactly this sensation was, and being too sleepy to discuss nice points of internal emotion with himself, was just turning over with the intention of going to sleep again, when the truth flashed upon him. The sensation he felt was loneliness, and the reason he felt lonely was because he was the only occupant of the dormitory. To right and left and all around were empty beds.

As he mused drowsily on these portents, the distant sound of a bell came to his ears and completed the cure. It was the bell for chapel. He dragged his watch from under his pillow, and looked at it with consternation. Four minutes to seven. And chapel was at seven. Now Harrison had been late for chapel before. It was not the thought of missing the service that worried him. What really was serious was that he had been late so many times before that Merevale had hinted at serious steps to be taken if he were late again, or, at any rate, until a considerable interval of punctuality had elapsed.

That threat had been uttered only yesterday, and here he was in all probability late once more.

There was no time to dress. He sprang out of bed, passed a sponge over his face as a concession to the decencies, and looked round for something to cover his nightshirt, which, however suitable for dormitory use, was, he felt instinctively, scarcely the garment to wear in public.

Fate seemed to fight for him. On one of the pegs in the wall hung a mackintosh, a large, blessed mackintosh. He was inside it in a moment.

Four minutes later he rushed into his place in chapel.

The short service gave him some time for recovering himself. He left the building feeling a new man. His costume, though quaint, would not call for comment. Chapel at St. Austin’s was never a full-dress ceremony. Mackintoshes covering nightshirts were the rule rather than the exception.

But between his costume and that of the rest there was this subtle distinction. They wore their own mackintoshes. He wore somebody else’s.

The bulk of the School had split up into sections, each section making for its own House, and Merevale’s was already in sight, when Harrison felt himself grasped from behind. He turned, to see Graham.

“Might I ask,” enquired Tony with great politeness, “who said you might wear my mackintosh?”

Harrison gasped.

“I suppose you didn’t know it was mine?”

“No, no, rather not. I didn’t know.”

“And if you had known it was mine, you wouldn’t have taken it, I suppose?”

“Oh no, of course not,” said Harrison. Graham seemed to be taking an unexpectedly sensible view of the situation.

“Well,” said Tony, “now that you know that it is mine, suppose you give it up.”

“Give it up!”

“Yes; buck up. It looks like rain, and I mustn’t catch cold.”

“But, Graham, I’ve only got on⁠—”

“Spare us these delicate details. Mack up, please, I want it.”

Finally, Harrison appearing to be difficult in the matter, Tony took the garment off for him, and went on his way.

Harrison watched him go with mixed feelings. Righteous indignation struggled with the gravest apprehension regarding his own future. If Merevale should see him! Horrible thought. He ran. He had just reached the House, and was congratulating himself on having escaped, when the worst happened. At the private entrance stood Merevale, and with him the Headmaster himself. They both eyed him with considerable interest as he shot in at the boys’ entrance.

“Harrison,” said Merevale after breakfast.

“Yes, sir?”

“The Headmaster wishes to see you⁠—again.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harrison.

There was a curious lack of enthusiasm in his voice.