Mike by P. G. Wodehouse (good fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

half an hour.  He would be safe now in trying for home again.

He walked in that direction.

Now it happened that Mr. Downing, aroused from his first sleep by the news, conveyed to him by Adair, that MacPhee, one of the junior members of Adair’s dormitory, was groaning and exhibiting other symptoms of acute illness, was disturbed in his mind.  Most housemasters feel uneasy in the event of illness in their houses, and Mr. Downing was apt to get jumpy beyond the ordinary on such occasions.  All that was wrong with MacPhee, as a matter of fact, was a very fair stomach-ache, the direct and legitimate result of eating six buns, half a cocoa-nut, three doughnuts, two ices, an apple, and a pound of cherries, and washing the lot down with tea.  But Mr. Downing saw in his attack the beginnings of some deadly scourge which would sweep through and decimate the house.  He had despatched Adair for the doctor, and, after spending a few minutes prowling restlessly about his room, was now standing at his front gate, waiting for Adair’s return.

It came about, therefore, that Mike, sprinting lightly in the direction of home and safety, had his already shaken nerves further maltreated by being hailed, at a range of about two yards, with a cry of “Is that you, Adair?” The next moment Mr. Downing emerged from his gate.

Mike stood not upon the order of his going.  He was off like an arrow—­a flying figure of Guilt.  Mr. Downing, after the first surprise, seemed to grasp the situation.  Ejaculating at intervals the words, “Who is that?  Stop!  Who is that?  Stop!” he dashed after the much-enduring Wrykynian at an extremely creditable rate of speed.  Mr. Downing was by way of being a sprinter.  He had won handicap events at College sports at Oxford, and, if Mike had not got such a good start, the race might have been over in the first fifty yards.  As it was, that victim of Fate, going well, kept ahead.  At the entrance to the school grounds he led by a dozen yards.  The procession passed into the field, Mike heading as before for the pavilion.

As they raced across the soft turf, an idea occurred to Mike which he was accustomed in after years to attribute to genius, the one flash of it which had ever illumined his life.

It was this.

One of Mr. Downing’s first acts, on starting the Fire Brigade at Sedleigh, had been to institute an alarm bell.  It had been rubbed into the school officially—­in speeches from the daïs—­by the headmaster, and unofficially—­in earnest private conversations—­by Mr. Downing, that at the sound of this bell, at whatever hour of day or night, every member of the school must leave his house in the quickest possible way, and make for the open.  The bell might mean that the school was on fire, or it might mean that one of the houses was on fire.  In any case, the school had its orders—­to get out into the open at once.

Nor must it be supposed that the school was without practice at this feat.  Every now and then a notice would be found posted up on the board to the effect that there would be fire drill during the dinner hour that day.  Sometimes the performance was bright and interesting, as on the occasion when Mr. Downing, marshalling the brigade at his front gate, had said, “My house is supposed to be on fire.  Now let’s do a record!” which the Brigade, headed by Stone and Robinson, obligingly did.  They fastened the hose to the hydrant, smashed a window on the ground floor (Mr. Downing having retired for a moment to talk with the headmaster), and poured a stream of water into the room.  When Mr. Downing was at liberty to turn his attention to the matter, he found that the room selected was his private study, most of the light furniture of which was floating on a miniature lake.  That episode had rather discouraged his passion for realism, and fire drill since then had taken the form, for the most part, of “practising escaping.”  This was done by means of canvas shoots, kept in the dormitories.  At the sound of the bell the prefect of the dormitory would heave one end of the shoot out of window, the other end being fastened to the sill.  He would then go down it himself, using his elbows as a brake.  Then the second man would follow his example, and these two, standing below, would hold the end of the shoot so that the rest of the dormitory could fly rapidly down it without injury, except to their digestions.

After the first novelty of the thing had worn off, the school had taken a rooted dislike to fire drill.  It was a matter for self-congratulation among them that Mr. Downing had never been able to induce the headmaster to allow the alarm bell to be sounded for fire drill at night.  The headmaster, a man who had his views on the amount of sleep necessary for the growing boy, had drawn the line at night operations.  “Sufficient unto the day” had been the gist of his reply.  If the alarm bell were to ring at night when there was no fire, the school might mistake a genuine alarm of fire for a bogus one, and refuse to hurry themselves.

So Mr. Downing had had to be content with day drill.

The alarm bell hung in the archway leading into the school grounds.  The end of the rope, when not in use, was fastened to a hook half-way up the wall.

Mike, as he raced over the cricket field, made up his mind in a flash that his only chance of getting out of this tangle was to shake his pursuer off for a space of time long enough to enable him to get to the rope and tug it.  Then the school would come out.  He would mix with them, and in the subsequent confusion get back to bed unnoticed.

The task was easier than it would have seemed at the beginning of the chase.  Mr. Downing, owing to the two facts that he was not in the strictest training, and that it is only an Alfred Shrubb who can run for any length of time at top speed shouting “Who is that?  Stop!  Who is that?  Stop!” was beginning to feel distressed.  There were bellows to mend in the Downing camp.  Mike perceived this, and forced the pace.  He rounded the pavilion ten yards to the good.  Then, heading for the gate, he put all he knew into one last sprint.  Mr. Downing was not equal to the effort.  He worked gamely for a few strides, then fell behind.  When Mike reached the gate, a good forty yards separated them.

As far as Mike could judge—­he was not in a condition to make nice calculations—­he had about four seconds in which to get busy with that bell rope.

Probably nobody has ever crammed more energetic work into four seconds than he did then.

The night was as still as only an English summer night can be, and the first clang of the clapper sounded like a million iron girders falling from a height on to a sheet of tin.  He tugged away furiously, with an eye on the now rapidly advancing and loudly shouting figure of the housemaster.

And from the darkened house beyond there came a gradually swelling hum, as if a vast hive of bees had been disturbed.

The school was awake.

CHAPTER XLVI

THE DECORATION OF SAMMY

Psmith leaned against the mantelpiece in the senior day-room at Outwood’s—­since Mike’s innings against Downing’s the Lost Lambs had been received as brothers by that centre of disorder, so that even Spiller was compelled to look on the hatchet as buried—­and gave his views on the events of the preceding night, or, rather, of that morning, for it was nearer one than twelve when peace had once more fallen on the school.

“Nothing that happens in this luny-bin,” said Psmith, “has power to surprise me now.  There was a time when I might have thought it a little unusual to have to leave the house through a canvas shoot at one o’clock in the morning, but I suppose it’s quite the regular thing here.  Old school tradition, &c.  Men leave the school, and find that they’ve got so accustomed to jumping out of window that they look on it as a sort of affectation to go out by the door.  I suppose none of you merchants can give me any idea when the next knockabout entertainment of this kind is likely to take place?”

“I wonder who rang that bell!” said Stone.  “Jolly sporting idea.”

“I believe it was Downing himself.  If it was, I hope he’s satisfied.”

Jellicoe, who was appearing in society supported by a stick, looked meaningly at Mike, and giggled, receiving in answer a stony stare.  Mike had informed Jellicoe of the details of his interview with Mr. Barley at the “White Boar,” and Jellicoe, after a momentary splutter of wrath against the practical joker, was now in a particularly light-hearted mood.  He hobbled about, giggling at nothing and at peace with all the world.

“It was a stirring scene,” said Psmith.  “The agility with which Comrade Jellicoe boosted himself down the shoot was a triumph of mind over matter.  He seemed to forget his ankle.  It was the nearest thing to a Boneless Acrobatic Wonder that I have ever seen.”

“I was in a beastly funk, I can tell you.”

Stone gurgled.

“So was I,” he said, “for a bit.  Then, when I saw that it was all a rag, I began to look about for ways of doing the thing really well.  I emptied about six jugs of water on a gang of kids under my window.”

“I rushed into Downing’s, and ragged some of the beds,” said Robinson.

“It was an invigorating time,” said Psmith.  “A sort of pageant.  I was particularly struck with the way some of the bright lads caught hold of the idea.  There was no skimping.  Some of the kids, to my certain knowledge, went down the shoot a dozen times.  There’s nothing like doing a thing thoroughly.  I saw them come down, rush upstairs, and be saved again, time after time.  The thing became chronic with them.  I should say Comrade Downing ought to be satisfied with the high state of efficiency to which he has brought us.  At any rate I hope——­”

There was a sound of hurried footsteps outside the door, and Sharpe, a member of the senior day-room, burst excitedly in.  He seemed amused.

“I say, have you chaps seen Sammy?”

“Seen who?” said Stone.  “Sammy?  Why?”

“You’ll know in a second.  He’s just outside.  Here, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!  Sam!  Sam!”

A bark and a patter of feet outside.

“Come on, Sammy.  Good dog.”

There was a moment’s silence.  Then a great yell of laughter burst forth.  Even Psmith’s massive calm was shattered.  As for Jellicoe, he sobbed in a corner.

Sammy’s beautiful white coat was almost entirely concealed by a thick covering of bright red paint.  His head, with the exception of the ears, was untouched, and his serious, friendly eyes seemed to emphasise the weirdness of his appearance.  He stood in the doorway, barking and wagging his tail, plainly puzzled at his reception.  He was a popular dog, and was always well received when he visited any of the houses, but he had never before met with enthusiasm like this.

“Good old Sammy!”

“What on earth’s been happening to him?”

“Who did it?”

Sharpe, the introducer, had no views on the matter.

“I found him outside Downing’s, with a crowd round him.  Everybody seems to have seen him.  I wonder who on earth has gone and mucked him up like that!”

Mike was the first to show any sympathy for the maltreated animal.

“Poor old Sammy,” he said, kneeling on the floor beside the victim, and scratching him under the ear.  “What a beastly shame!  It’ll take hours to wash all that off him, and he’ll hate it.”

“It seems to me,” said Psmith, regarding Sammy dispassionately through his eyeglass, “that it’s not a case for mere washing.  They’ll either have to skin him bodily, or leave the thing to time.  Time, the Great Healer.  In a year or two he’ll fade to a delicate pink.  I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a pink bull-terrier.  It would lend a touch of distinction to the place.  Crowds would come in excursion trains to see him.  By charging a small fee you might make him self-supporting.  I think I’ll suggest it to Comrade Downing.”

“There’ll be a row about this,” said Stone.

“Rows are rather sport when you’re not mixed up in them,” said Robinson, philosophically.  “There’ll be another if we don’t start off for chapel soon.  It’s a quarter to.”

There was a general move.  Mike was the last to leave the room.  As he was going, Jellicoe stopped him.  Jellicoe was staying in that Sunday, owing to his ankle.

“I say,” said Jellicoe, “I just wanted to thank you again about that——­”

“Oh, that’s all right.”

“No, but it really was awfully decent of you.  You might have got into a frightful row.  Were you nearly caught?”

“Jolly nearly.”

“It was you who rang the bell, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.  But for goodness sake don’t go gassing about it, or somebody will get to hear who oughtn’t to, and I shall be sacked.”

“All right.  But,