The Pothunters - P. G. Wodehouse (free ebook novel .txt) 📗

“We crushed him,” said Vaughan.

“I said: ‘In my young days the head of the House used to keep order for himself.’ I asked him what he thought he was here for. Because he isn’t ornamental. So he went down after that.”

“Well?” said the Babe. Being a miserable day boy he had had no experience of the inner life of a boarding house, which is the real life of a public school. His experience of life at St. Austin’s was limited to doing his work and playing centre three-quarter for the Fifteen. Which, it may be remarked in passing, he did extremely well.

Dallas took up the narrative. “Well, after he’d been gone about five minutes, and the row seemed to be getting worse than ever, we thought we’d better go down and investigate. So we did.”

“And when we got to the fags’ room,” said Vaughan, pointing the toasting fork at the Babe by way of emphasis, “there was the Mutual standing in the middle of the room gassing away with an expression on his face a cross between a village idiot and an unintelligent fried egg. And all round him was a seething mass of fags, half of them playing soccer with a top hat and the other half cheering wildly whenever the Mutual opened his mouth.”

“What did you do?”

“We made an aggressive movement in force. Collared the hat, brained every fag within reach, and swore we’d report them to the beak and so on. They quieted down in about three and a quarter seconds by stopwatch, and we retired, taking the hat as a prize of war, and followed by the Mutual Friend.”

“He looked worried, rather,” said Vaughan. “And, thank goodness, he let us alone for the rest of the evening.”

“That’s only a sample, though,” explained Dallas. “That sort of thing has been going on the whole term. If the head of a House is an abject lunatic, there’s bound to be ructions. Fags simply live for the sake of kicking up rows. It’s meat and drink to them.”

“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 lockup, 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