Mike - Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (the reading strategies book TXT) 📗

that the foot of Authority

was set firmly down, and the strong right hand of Justice allowed to

put in some energetic work. His comments on the team’s fielding that

morning were bitter and sarcastic. His eyes gleamed behind their

pince-nez.

 

The painful interview took place after breakfast. The head of the

house despatched his fag in search of Mike, and waited. He paced up

and down the room like a hungry lion, adjusting his pince-nez (a

thing, by the way, which lions seldom do) and behaving in other

respects like a monarch of the desert. One would have felt, looking at

him, that Mike, in coming to his den, was doing a deed which would

make the achievement of Daniel seem in comparison like the tentative

effort of some timid novice.

 

And certainly Mike was not without qualms as he knocked at the door,

and went in in response to the hoarse roar from the other side of it.

 

Firby-Smith straightened his tie, and glared.

 

“Young Jackson,” he said, “look here, I want to know what it all

means, and jolly quick. You weren’t at house-fielding this morning.

Didn’t you see the notice?”

 

Mike admitted that he had seen the notice.

 

“Then you frightful kid, what do you mean by it? What?”

 

Mike hesitated. Awfully embarrassing, this. His real reason for not

turning up to house-fielding was that he considered himself above such

things, and Firby-Smith a toothy weed. Could he give this excuse? He

had not his Book of Etiquette by him at the moment, but he rather

fancied not. There was no arguing against the fact that the head of

the house was a toothy weed; but he felt a firm conviction that

it would not be politic to say so.

 

Happy thought: overslept himself.

 

He mentioned this.

 

“Overslept yourself! You must jolly well not over-sleep yourself.

What do you mean by over-sleeping yourself?”

 

Very trying this sort of thing.

 

“What time did you wake up?”

 

“Six,” said Mike.

 

It was not according to his complicated, yet intelligible code of

morality to tell lies to save himself. When others were concerned he

could suppress the true and suggest the false with a face of brass.

 

“Six!”

 

“Five past.”

 

“Why didn’t you get up then?”

 

“I went to sleep again.”

 

“Oh, you went to sleep again, did you? Well, just listen to me. I’ve

had my eye on you for some time, and I’ve seen it coming on. You’ve

got swelled head, young man. That’s what you’ve got. Frightful swelled

head. You think the place belongs to you.”

 

“I don’t,” said Mike indignantly.

 

“Yes, you do,” said the Gazeka shrilly. “You think the whole frightful

place belongs to you. You go siding about as if you’d bought it. Just

because you’ve got your second, you think you can do what you like;

turn up or not, as you please. It doesn’t matter whether I’m only in

the third and you’re in the first. That’s got nothing to do with it.

The point is that you’re one of the house team, and I’m captain of it,

so you’ve jolly well got to turn out for fielding with the others when

I think it necessary. See?”

 

Mike said nothing.

 

“Do—you—see, you frightful kid?”

 

[Illustration: “DO—YOU—SEE, YOU FRIGHTFUL KID?”]

 

Mike remained stonily silent. The rather large grain of truth in what

Firby-Smith had said had gone home, as the unpleasant truth about

ourselves is apt to do; and his feelings were hurt. He was determined

not to give in and say that he saw even if the head of the house

invoked all the majesty of the prefects’ room to help him, as he had

nearly done once before. He set his teeth, and stared at a photograph

on the wall.

 

Firby-Smith’s manner became ominously calm. He produced a

swagger-stick from a corner.

 

“Do you see?” he asked again.

 

Mike’s jaw set more tightly.

 

What one really wants here is a row of stars.

 

*

 

Mike was still full of his injuries when Wyatt came back. Wyatt was

worn out, but cheerful. The school had finished sixth for the

Ashburton, which was an improvement of eight places on their last

year’s form, and he himself had scored thirty at the two hundred and

twenty-seven at the five hundred totals, which had put him in a very

good humour with the world.

 

“Me ancient skill has not deserted me,” he said, “That’s the cats. The

man who can wing a cat by moonlight can put a bullet where he likes on

a target. I didn’t hit the bull every time, but that was to give the

other fellows a chance. My fatal modesty has always been a hindrance

to me in life, and I suppose it always will be. Well, well! And what

of the old homestead? Anything happened since I went away? Me old

father, is he well? Has the lost will been discovered, or is there a

mortgage on the family estates? By Jove, I could do with a stoup of

Malvoisie. I wonder if the moke’s gone to bed yet. I’ll go down and

look. A jug of water drawn from the well in the old courtyard where my

ancestors have played as children for centuries back would just about

save my life.”

 

He left the dormitory, and Mike began to brood over his wrongs once

more.

 

Wyatt came back, brandishing a jug of water and a glass.

 

“Oh, for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the

blushful Hippocrene! Have you ever tasted Hippocrene, young Jackson?

Rather like ginger-beer, with a dash of raspberry-vinegar. Very heady.

Failing that, water will do. A-ah!”

 

He put down the glass, and surveyed Mike, who had maintained a moody

silence throughout this speech.

 

“What’s your trouble?” he asked. “For pains in the back try Ju-jar. If

it’s a broken heart, Zam-buk’s what you want. Who’s been quarrelling

with you?”

 

“It’s only that ass Firby-Smith.”

 

“Again! I never saw such chaps as you two. Always at it. What was the

trouble this time? Call him a grinning ape again? Your passion for the

truth’ll be getting you into trouble one of these days.”

 

“He said I stuck on side.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“I mean, did he buttonhole you on your way to school, and say,

‘Jackson, a word in your ear. You stick on side.’ Or did he lead up to

it in any way? Did he say, ‘Talking of side, you stick it on.’ What

had you been doing to him?”

 

“It was the house-fielding.”

 

“But you can’t stick on side at house-fielding. I defy any one to.

It’s too early in the morning.”

 

“I didn’t turn up.”

 

“What! Why?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know.”

 

“No, but, look here, really. Did you simply bunk it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Wyatt leaned on the end of Mike’s bed, and, having observed its

occupant thoughtfully for a moment, proceeded to speak wisdom for the

good of his soul.

 

“I say, I don’t want to jaw—I’m one of those quiet chaps with

strong, silent natures; you may have noticed it—but I must put in

a well-chosen word at this juncture. Don’t pretend to be dropping

off to sleep. Sit up and listen to what your kind old uncle’s got to

say to you about manners and deportment. Otherwise, blood as you are

at cricket, you’ll have a rotten time here. There are some things you

simply can’t do; and one of them is bunking a thing when you’re put

down for it. It doesn’t matter who it is puts you down. If he’s

captain, you’ve got to obey him. That’s discipline, that ‘ere is. The

speaker then paused, and took a sip of water from the carafe which

stood at his elbow. Cheers from the audience, and a voice ‘Hear!

Hear!’”

 

Mike rolled over in bed and glared up at the orator. Most of his face

was covered by the water-jug, but his eyes stared fixedly from above

it. He winked in a friendly way, and, putting down the jug, drew a

deep breath.

 

“Nothing like this old ‘87 water,” he said. “Such body.”

 

“I like you jawing about discipline,” said Mike morosely.

 

“And why, my gentle che-ild, should I not talk about discipline?”

 

“Considering you break out of the house nearly every night.”

 

“In passing, rather rum when you think that a burglar would get it

hot for breaking in, while I get dropped on if I break out. Why

should there be one law for the burglar and one for me? But you were

saying—just so. I thank you. About my breaking out. When you’re a

white-haired old man like me, young Jackson, you’ll see that there

are two sorts of discipline at school. One you can break if you feel

like taking the risks; the other you mustn’t ever break. I don’t know

why, but it isn’t done. Until you learn that, you can never hope to

become the Perfect Wrykynian like,” he concluded modestly, “me.”

 

Mike made no reply. He would have perished rather than admit it, but

Wyatt’s words had sunk in. That moment marked a distinct epoch in his

career. His feelings were curiously mixed. He was still furious with

Firby-Smith, yet at the same time he could not help acknowledging to

himself that the latter had had the right on his side. He saw and

approved of Wyatt’s point of view, which was the more impressive to

him from his knowledge of his friend’s contempt for, or, rather,

cheerful disregard of, most forms of law and order. If Wyatt, reckless

though he was as regarded written school rules, held so rigid a

respect for those that were unwritten, these last must be things which

could not be treated lightly. That night, for the first time in his

life, Mike went to sleep with a clear idea of what the public school

spirit, of which so much is talked and written, really meant.