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

“Hullo,” he said, “done up?”

For reply Jim merely grunted.

“Slacker,” said Drake. “Where’s Welch?”

“Miles ahead.”

“Oh Lord!” groaned Drake and, pulling himself together, set out painfully once more across the heavy surface of the field.

Jim lay where he was a little longer. The recollection of the other runners, who might be expected to arrive shortly, stirred him to action. He did not wish to interview everyone on the subject of his dropping out. He struck off at right angles towards the hedge on the left. As he did so, the first of the crowd entered the field. Simpson major, wearing the colours of Perkins’ House on his manly bosom, was leading. Behind him came a group of four, two School House, Dallas of Ward’s, and a representative of Prater’s. A minute later they were followed by a larger group, consisting this time of twenty or more runners⁠—all that was left of the fifty who had started. The rest had dropped out at the sight of the ploughed field.

Jim watched the procession vanish over the brow of the hill, and, as it passed out of sight, began to walk slowly back to the School again.

He reached it at last, only to find it almost entirely deserted. In Merevale’s house there was nobody. He had hoped that Charteris and Tony might have been somewhere about. When he had changed into his ordinary clothes, he made a tour of the School grounds. The only sign of life, as far as he could see, was Biffen, who was superintending the cutting of the grass on the cricket field. During the winter Biffen always disappeared, nobody knew where, returning at the beginning of Sports’ week to begin preparations for the following cricket season. It had been stated that during the winter he shut himself up and lived on himself after the fashion of a bear. Others believed that he went and worked in some Welsh mine until he was needed again at the School. Biffen himself was not communicative on the subject, a fact which led a third party to put forward the awful theory that he was a professional association player and feared to mention his crime in a school which worshipped rugby.

“Why, Mr. Thomson,” he said, as Jim came up, “I thought you was running. Whoa!” The last remark was addressed to a bored-looking horse attached to the mowing machine. From the expression on its face, the animal evidently voted the whole process pure foolishness. He pulled up without hesitation, and Biffen turned to Jim again.

“Surely they ain’t come back yet?” he said.

“I have,” said Jim. “I did myself up rather in the mile yesterday, and couldn’t keep up the pace. I dropped out at that awfully long ploughed field by Parker’s Spinney.”

Biffen nodded.

“And ’oo was winning, sir?”

“Well, Welch was leading, the last I saw of it. Shouldn’t wonder if he won either. He was going all right. I say, the place seems absolutely deserted. Isn’t anybody about?”

“Just what Mr. MacArthur was saying to me just this minute, sir. ’E went into the Pavilion.”

“Good. I’ll go and hunt for him.”

Biffen “clicked” the blasé horse into movement again. Jim went to the Pavilion and met the Babe coming down the steps.

“Hullo, Babe! I was looking for you.”

“Hullo! Why aren’t you running?”

“Dropped out. Come and have tea in my study.”

“No, I’ll tell you what. You come back with me. I’ve got rather a decent dog I want to show you. Only got him yesterday.”

Jim revelled in dogs, so he agreed instantly. The Babe lived with his parents in a big house about a mile from the College, and in so doing was the object of much envy amongst those who had to put up with life at the Houses. Jim had been to his home once or twice before, and had always had a very good time indeed there. The two strolled off. In another hour the place began to show signs of life again. The School began to return by ones and twos, most of them taking up a position near the big gates. This was where the race was to finish. There was a straight piece of road about 200 yards in length before the high road was reached. It was a sight worth seeing when the runners, paced by their respective Houses on each side of the road, swept round the corner, and did their best to sprint with all that was left in them after ten miles of difficult country. Suddenly a distant shouting began to be heard. The leaders had been sighted. The noise increased, growing nearer and nearer, until at last it swelled into a roar, and a black mass of runners turned the corner. In the midst of the black was one white figure⁠—Welch, as calm and unruffled as if he had been returning from a short trot to improve his wind. Merevale’s surged round him in a cheering mob. Welch simply disregarded them. He knew where he wished to begin his sprint, and he would begin it at that spot and no other. The spot he had chosen was well within a hundred yards from the gates. When he reached it, he let himself go, and from the uproar, the crowd appeared to be satisfied. A long pause, and still none of the other runners appeared. Five minutes went by before they began to appear. First Jones, of the School House, and Simpson, who raced every yard of the way, and finished in the order named, and then three of Philpott’s House in a body. The rest dropped in at intervals for the next quarter of an hour.

The Headmaster always made a point of watching the finish of the cross-country run. Indeed, he was generally one of the last to leave. With the majority of the spectators it was enough to see the first five safely in.

The last man and lockup arrived almost simultaneously, and the Head went off to a well-earned dinner.

He had just finished this meal, and was congratulating