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

Old ’Un want you for?” asked Dallas, curiously, when he returned to the study.

Plunkett had recovered himself by this time sufficiently to be able to tell a lie.

“He wanted to tell me he’d heard from my father about my leaving.”

“About your leaving!” Dallas tried to keep his voice as free as possible from triumphant ecstasy.

“Are you leaving? When?”

“This term.”

“Oh!” said Dallas. It was an uncomfortable moment. He felt that at least some conventional expression of regret ought to proceed from him.

“Don’t trouble to lie about being sorry,” said Plunkett with a sneer.

“Thanks,” said Dallas, gratefully, “since you mention it, I rather think I won’t.”

XIV The Long Run

Vaughan came up soon afterwards, and Dallas told him the great news. They were neither of them naturally vindictive, but the Mutual Friend had been a heavy burden to them during his stay in the House, and they did not attempt to conceal from themselves their unfeigned pleasure at the news of his impending departure.

“I’ll never say another word against Mr. Plunkett, senior, in my life,” said Vaughan. “He’s a philanthropist. I wonder what the Mutual’s going to do? Gentleman of leisure, possibly. Unless he’s going to the varsity.”

“Same thing, rather. I don’t know a bit what he’s going to do, and I can’t say I care much. He’s going, that’s the main point.”

“I say,” said Vaughan. “I believe the Old Man was holding a sort of reception tonight. I know he had Thomson over to his House. Do you think there’s a row on?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably only wanted to see if he was all right after the mile. By Jove, it was a bit of a race, wasn’t it?” And the conversation drifted off into matters athletic.

There were two persons that night who slept badly. Jim lay awake until the College clock had struck three, going over in his mind the various points of his difficulties, on the chance of finding a solution of them. He fell asleep at a quarter past, without having made any progress. The Head, also, passed a bad night. He was annoyed for many reasons, principally, perhaps, because he had allowed Sir Alfred Venner to score so signal a victory over him. Besides that, he was not easy in his mind about Jim. He could not come to a decision. The evidence was all against him, but evidence is noted for its untrustworthiness. The Head would have preferred to judge the matter from his knowledge of Jim’s character. But after the Plunkett episode he mistrusted his powers in that direction. He thought the matter over for a time, and then, finding himself unable to sleep, got up and wrote an article for a leading review on the subject of the doxology. The article was subsequently rejected⁠—which proves that Providence is not altogether incapable of a kindly action⁠—but it served its purpose by sending its author to sleep.

Barrett, too, though he did not allow it to interfere with his slumbers, was considerably puzzled as to what he ought to do about the cups which he had stumbled upon in the wood. He scarcely felt equal to going to the Dingle again to fetch them, and yet every minute he delayed made the chances of their remaining there more remote. He rather hoped that Reade would think of some way out of it. He had a great respect for Reade’s intellect, though he did not always show it. The next day was the day of the inter-house cross-country race. It was always fixed for the afternoon after Sports Day, a most inconvenient time for it, as everybody who had exerted or overexerted himself the afternoon before was unable to do himself justice. Today, contrary to general expectation, both Drake and Thomson had turned out. The knowing ones, however, were prepared to bet anything you liked (except cash), that both would drop out before the first mile was over. Merevale’s pinned their hopes on Welch. At that time Welch had not done much long-distance running. He confined himself to the hundred yards and the quarter. But he had it in him to do great things, as he proved in the following year, when he won the half, and would have beaten the great Mitchell-Jones record for the mile, but for an accident, or rather an event, which prevented his running. The tale of which is told elsewhere.

The course for the race was a difficult one. There were hedges and brooks to be negotiated, and, worst of all, ploughed fields. The first ploughed field usually thinned the ranks of the competitors considerably. The distance was about ten miles.

The race started at three o’clock. Jim and Welch, Merevale’s first string, set the pace from the beginning, and gradually drew away from the rest. Drake came third, and following him the rest of the Houses in a crowd.

Welch ran easily and springily; Jim with more effort. He felt from the start that he could not last. He resolved to do his best for the honour of the House, but just as the second mile was beginning, the first of the ploughed fields appeared in view, stretching, so it appeared to Jim, right up to the horizon. He groaned.

“Go on, Welch,” he gasped. “I’m done.”

Welch stopped short in his stride, and eyed him critically.

“Yes,” he said, “better get back to the House. You overdid it yesterday. Lie down somewhere. G’bye.” And he got into his stride again. Jim watched his figure diminish, until at last it was a shapeless dot of white against the brown surface. Then he lay down on his back and panted.

It was in this attitude that Drake found him. For a moment an almost irresistible wish seized him to act in the same way. There was an unstudied comfort about Jim’s pose which appealed to him strongly. His wind still held out, but his legs were beginning to feel as if they did not belong to him at all. He pulled up for an