School Stories - P. G. Wodehouse (best e book reader TXT) 📗

tonight? I find I shall be unable to be there.” It was the custom at St. Austin’s for the Head to preside at preparation once a week; but he performed this duty, like the celebrated Irishman, as often as he could avoid it.

The Babe accepted the commission. He was shown into the drawing room. To his consternation, for he was not a society man, there appeared to be a species of tea-party going on. As the door opened, somebody was just finishing a remark.

“… faculty which he displayed in such poems as ‘Sordello,’ ” said the voice.

The Babe knew that voice.

He would have fled if he had been able, but the servant was already announcing him. Mr. Dacre began to do the honours.

“Mr. MacArthur and I have met before,” said Miss Beezley, for it was she. “Curiously enough, the subject which we have just been discussing is one in which he takes, I think, a great interest. I was saying, Mr. MacArthur, when you came in, that few of Tennyson’s works show the poetic faculty which Browning displays in ‘Sordello.’ ”

The Babe looked helplessly at Mr. Dacre.

“I think you are taking MacArthur out of his depth there,” said Mr. Dacre. “Was there something you wanted to see me about, MacArthur?”

The Babe delivered his message.

“Oh, yes, certainly,” said Mr. Dacre. “Shall you be passing the School House tonight? If so, you might give the Headmaster my compliments, and say I shall be delighted.”

The Babe had had no intention of going out of his way to that extent, but the chance of escape offered by the suggestion was too good to be missed. He went.

On his way he called at Merevale’s, and asked to see Charteris.

“Look here, Charteris,” he said, “you remember telling me that Dacre was going to be married?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do you know her name by any chance?”

“I ken it weel, ma braw Hielander. She is a Miss Beezley.”

“Great Scott!” said the Babe.

“Hullo! Why, was your young heart set in that direction? You amaze and pain me, Babe. I think we’d better have a story on the subject in The Glow Worm, with you as hero and Dacre as villain. It shall end happily, of course. I’ll write it myself.”

“You’d better,” said the Babe, grimly. “Oh, I say, Charteris.”

“Well?”

“When I come as a boarder, I shall be a House-prefect, shan’t I, as I’m in the Sixth?”

“Yes.”

“And prefects have to go to breakfast and supper, and that sort of thing, pretty often with the House-beak, don’t they?”

“Such are the facts of the case.”

“Thanks. That’s all. Go away and do some work. Good night.”

The cup went to Merevale’s that year. The Babe played a singularly brilliant game for them.

The Manoeuvres of Charteris I

“Might I observe, sir⁠—”

“You may observe whatever you like,” said the referee kindly. “Twenty-five.”

“The rules say⁠—”

“I have given my decision. Twenty-five!” A spot of red appeared on the official cheek. The referee, who had been heckled since the kickoff, was beginning to be annoyed.

“The ball went behind without bouncing, and the rules say⁠—”

“Twenty-five!!” shouted the referee. “I am perfectly well aware what the rules say.” And he blew his whistle with an air of finality. The secretary of the Bargees’ F.C. subsided reluctantly, and the game was restarted.

The Bargees’ match was a curious institution. Their real name was the Old Crockfordians. When, a few years before, the St. Austin’s secretary had received a challenge from them, dated from Stapleton, where their secretary happened to reside, he had argued within himself as follows: “This sounds all right. Old Crockfordians? Never heard of Crockford. Probably some large private school somewhere. Anyhow, they’re certain to be decent fellows.” And he arranged the fixture. It then transpired that Old Crockford was a village, and, from the appearance of the team on the day of battle, the Old Crockfordians seemed to be composed exclusively of the riffraff of same. They wore green shirts with a bright yellow leopard over the heart, and C.F.C. woven in large letters about the chest. One or two of the outsides played in caps, and the team to a man criticized the referee’s decisions with point and pungency. Unluckily, the first year saw a weak team of Austinians rather badly beaten, with the result that it became a point of honour to wipe this off the slate before the fixture could be cut out of the card. The next year was also unlucky. The Bargees managed to score a penalty goal in the first half, and won on that. The match resulted in a draw in the following season, and by this time the thing had become an annual event.

Now, however, the School was getting some of its own back. The Bargees had brought down a player of some reputation from the North, and were as strong as ever in the scrum. But St. Austin’s had a great team, and were carrying all before them. Charteris and Graham at half had the ball out to their centres in a way which made Merevale, who looked after the football of the School, feel that life was worth living. And when once it was out, things happened rapidly. MacArthur, the captain of the team, with Thomson as his fellow-centre, and Welch and Bannister on the wings, did what they liked with the Bargees’ three-quarters. All the School outsides had scored, even the back, who dropped a neat goal. The player from the North had scarcely touched the ball during the whole game, and altogether the Bargees were becoming restless and excited.

The kickoff from the twenty-five line which followed upon the small discussion alluded to above, reached Graham. Under ordinary circumstances he would have kicked, but in a winning game original methods often pay. He dodged a furious sportsman in green and yellow, and went away down the touchline. He was almost through when he stumbled. He recovered himself, but too late. Before he could pass, someone was on him. Graham was not heavy, and his opponent was muscular. He was swung off his feet,