The Pothunters by P. G. Wodehouse (good short books .txt) 📗

'I wish the Mutual would leave,' said Vaughan. 'Only that sort of chap always lingers on until he dies or gets sacked.'

'He's not the sort of fellow to get sacked, I should say,' said the Babe.

''Fraid not. I wish I could shunt into some other House. Between Ward and the Mutual life here isn't worth living.'

'There's Merevale's, now,' said Vaughan. 'I wish I was in there. In the first place you've got Merevale. He gets as near perfection as a beak ever does. Coaches the House footer and cricket, and takes an intelligent interest in things generally. Then there are some decent fellows in Merevale's. Charteris, Welch, Graham, Thomson, heaps of them.'

'Pity you came to Ward's,' said the Babe. 'Why did you?'

'My pater knew Ward a bit. If he'd known him well, he'd have sent me somewhere else.'

'My pater knew Vaughan's pater well, who knew Ward slightly and there you are. Voilà comme des accidents arrivent.'

'If Ward wanted to lug in a day boy to be head of the House,' said Vaughan, harping once more on the old string, 'he might at least have got somebody decent.'

'There's the great Babe himself. Babe, why don't you come in next term?'

'Not much,' said the Babe, with a shudder.

'Well, even barring present company, there are lots of chaps who would have jumped at the chance of being head of a House. But nothing would satisfy Ward but lugging the Mutual from the bosom of his beastly family.'

'We haven't decided that point about where he goes to,' said the Babe.

At this moment the door of the study opened, and the gentleman in question appeared in person. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds, gasping and throwing his arms about as if he found a difficulty in making his way in.

'I wish you two wouldn't make such an awful froust in the study every afternoon,' he observed, pleasantly. 'Have you been having a little tea-party? How nice!'

'We've been brewing, if that's what you mean,' said Vaughan, shortly.

'Oh,' said Plunkett, 'I hope you enjoyed yourselves. It's nearly lock-up, MacArthur.'

'That's Plunkett's delicate way of telling you you're not wanted, Babe.'

'Well, I suppose I ought to be going,' said the Babe. 'So long.'

And he went, feeling grateful to Providence for not having made his father, like the fathers of Vaughan and Dallas, a casual acquaintance of Mr Ward.

The Mutual Friend really was a trial to Vaughan and Dallas. Only those whose fate it is or has been to share a study with an uncongenial companion can appreciate their feelings to the full. Three in a study is always something of a tight fit, and when the three are in a state of perpetual warfare, or, at the best, of armed truce, things become very bad indeed.

'Do you find it necessary to have tea-parties every evening?' enquired Plunkett, after he had collected his books for the night's work. 'The smell of burnt meat—'

'Fried sausages,' said Vaughan. 'Perfectly healthy smell. Do you good.'

'It's quite disgusting. Really, the air in here is hardly fit to breathe.'

'You'll find an excellent brand of air down in the senior study,' said Dallas, pointedly. 'Don't stay and poison yourself here on our account,' he added. 'Think of your family.'

'I shall work where I choose,' said the Mutual Friend, with dignity.

'Of course, so long as you do work. You mustn't talk. Vaughan and I have got some Livy to do.'

Plunkett snorted, and the passage of arms ended, as it usually did, in his retiring with his books to the senior study, leaving Dallas and Vaughan to discuss his character once more in case there might be any points of it left upon which they had not touched in previous conversations.

'This robbery of the pots is a rum thing,' said Vaughan, thoughtfully, when the last shreds of Plunkett's character had been put through the mincing-machine to the satisfaction of all concerned.

'Yes. It's the sort of thing one doesn't think possible till it actually happens.'

'What the dickens made them put the things in the Pav. at all? They must have known it wouldn't be safe.'

'Well, you see, they usually cart them into the Board Room, I believe, only this time the governors were going to have a meeting there. They couldn't very well meet in a room with the table all covered with silver pots.'

'Don't see why.'

'Well, I suppose they could, really, but some of the governors are fairly nuts on strict form. There's that crock who makes the two-hour vote of thanks speeches on Prize Day. You can see him rising to a point of order, and fixing the Old 'Un with a fishy eye.'

'Well, anyhow, I don't see that they can blame a burglar for taking the pots if they simply chuck them in his way like that.'

'No. I say, we'd better weigh in with the Livy. The man Ward'll be round directly. Where's the dic? And our invaluable friend, Mr Bohn? Right. Now, you reel it off, and I'll keep an eye on the notes.' And they settled down to the business of the day.

After a while Vaughan looked up.

'Who's going to win the mile?' he asked.

'What's the matter with Thomson?'

'How about Drake then?'

'Thomson won the half.'

'I knew you'd say that. The half isn't a test of a chap's mile form. Besides, did you happen to see Drake's sprint?'

'Jolly good one.'

'I know, but look how late he started for it. Thomson crammed on the pace directly he got into the straight. Drake only began to put it on when he got to the Pav. Even then he wasn't far behind at the tape.'

'No. Well, I'm not plunging either way. Ought to be a good race.'

'Rather. I say, I wonder Welch doesn't try his hand at the mile. I believe he would do some rattling times if he'd only try.'

'Why, Welch is a sprinter.'

'I know. But I believe for all that that the mile's his distance. He's always well up in the cross-country runs.'

'Anyhow, he's not in for it this year. Thomson's my man. It'll be a near thing, though.'

'Jolly near thing. With Drake in front.'

'Thomson.'

'Drake.'

'All right, we'll see. Wonder why the beak doesn't