TALES OF ST AUSTIN'S
by P. G. Wodehouse
1903
PREFACE
Most of these stories originally appeared in _The Captain_. I am
indebted to the Editor of that magazine for allowing me to republish.
The rest are from the _Public School Magazine_. The story entitled
'A Shocking Affair' appears in print for the first time. 'This was one
of our failures.'
_P. G. Wodehouse_
[Dedication]
AD MATREM
CONTENTS
1 How Pillingshot Scored
2 The Odd Trick
3 L'Affaire Uncle John (A Story in Letters)
4 Harrison's Slight Error
5 Bradshaw's Little Story
6 A Shocking Affair
7 The Babe and the Dragon
8 The Manoeuvres of Charteris
9 How Payne Bucked Up
10 Author!
11 'The Tabby Terror'
12 The Prize Poem
13 Work
14 Notes
15 Now, Talking About Cricket -
16 The Tom Brown Question
[1]
HOW PILLINGSHOT SCORED
Pillingshot was annoyed. He was disgusted, mortified; no other word for
it. He had no objection, of course, to Mr Mellish saying that his work
during the term, and especially his Livy, had been disgraceful. A
master has the right to say that sort of thing if he likes. It is one
of the perquisites of the position. But when he went on to observe,
without a touch of shame, that there would be an examination in the
Livy as far as they had gone in it on the following Saturday,
Pillingshot felt that he exceeded. It was not playing the game. There
were the examinations at the end of term. Those were fair enough. You
knew exactly when they were coming, and could make your arrangements
accordingly. But to spring an examination on you in the middle of the
term out of a blue sky, as it were, was underhand and unsportsmanlike,
and would not do at all. Pillingshot wished that he could put his foot
down. He would have liked to have stalked up to Mr Mellish's desk,
fixed him with a blazing eye, and remarked, 'Sir, withdraw that remark.
Cancel that statement instantly, or - !' or words to that effect.
What he did say was: 'Oo, si-i-r!!'
'Yes,' said Mr Mellish, not troubling to conceal his triumph
at Pillingshot's reception of the news, 'there will be a Livy
examination next Saturday. And - ' (he almost intoned this last
observation) - 'anybody who does not get fifty per cent, Pillingshot,
fifty per cent, will be severely punished. Very severely punished,
Pillingshot.'
After which the lesson had proceeded on its course.
'Yes, it is rather low, isn't it?' said Pillingshot's friend, Parker,
as Pillingshot came to the end of a stirring excursus on the rights of
the citizen, with special reference to mid-term Livy examinations.
'That's the worst of Mellish. He always has you somehow.'
'But what am I to _do_?' raved Pillingshot.
'I should advise you to swot it up before Saturday,' said Parker.
'Oh, don't be an ass,' said Pillingshot, irritably.
What was the good of friends if they could only make idiotic
suggestions like that?
He retired, brooding, to his house.
The day was Wednesday. There were only two more days, therefore, in
which to prepare a quarter of a book of Livy. It couldn't be done. The
thing was not possible.
In the house he met Smythe.
'What are you going to do about it?' he inquired. Smythe was top of the
form, and if he didn't know how to grapple with a crisis of this sort,
who _could_ know?
'If you'll kindly explain,' said Smythe, 'what the dickens you are
talking about, I might be able to tell you.'
Pillingshot explained, with unwonted politeness, that 'it' meant the
Livy examination.
'Oh,' said Smythe, airily, 'that! I'm just going to skim through it in
case I've forgotten any of it. Then I shall read up the notes
carefully. And then, if I have time, I shall have a look at the history
of the period. I should advise you to do that, too.'
'Oh, don't be a goat,' said Pillingshot.
And he retired, brooding, as before.
That afternoon he spent industriously, copying out the fourth book of
_The Aeneid_. At the beginning of the week he had had a slight
disagreement with M. Gerard, the French master.
Pillingshot's views on behaviour and deportment during French lessons
did not coincide with those of M. Gerard. Pillingshot's idea of a
French lesson was something between a pantomime rally and a scrum at
football. To him there was something wonderfully entertaining in the
process of 'barging' the end man off the edge of the form into space,
and upsetting his books over him. M. Gerard, however, had a very
undeveloped sense of humour. He warned the humorist twice, and on the
thing happening a third time, suggested that he should go into extra
lesson on the ensuing Wednesday.
So Pillingshot went, and copied out Virgil.
He emerged from the room of detention at a quarter past four. As he
came out into the grounds he espied in the middle distance somebody
being carried on a stretcher in the direction of the School House. At
the same moment Parker loomed in sight, walking swiftly towards the
School shop, his mobile features shining with the rapt expression of
one who sees much ginger-beer in the near future.
'Hullo, Parker,' said Pillingshot, 'who's the corpse?'
'What, haven't you heard?' said Parker. 'Oh, no, of course, you were in
extra. It's young Brown. He's stunned or something.'
'How did it happen?'
'That rotter, Babington, in Dacre's. Simply slamming about, you know,
getting his eye in before going in, and Brown walked slap into one of
his drives. Got him on the side of the head.'
'Much hurt?'
'Oh, no, I don't think so. Keep him out of school for about a week.'
'Lucky beast. Wish somebody would come and hit me on the head. Come
and hit me on the head, Parker.'
'Come and have an ice,' said Parker.
'Right-ho,' said Pillingshot. It was one of his peculiarities, that
whatever the hour or the state of the weather, he was always equal to
consuming an ice. This was probably due to genius. He had an infinite
capacity for taking pains. Scarcely was he outside the promised ice
when another misfortune came upon him. Scott, of the First Eleven,
entered the shop. Pillingshot liked Scott, but he was not blind to
certain flaws in the latter's character. For one thing, he was too
energetic. For another, he could not keep his energy to himself. He was
always making Pillingshot do things. And Pillingshot's notion of the
ideal life was complete _dolce far niente_.
'Ginger-beer, please,' said Scott, with parched lips. He had been
bowling at the nets, and the day was hot. 'Hullo! Pillingshot, you
young slacker, why aren't you changed? Been bunking half-holiday games?
You'd better reform, young man.'
'I've been in extra,' said Pillingshot, with dignity.
'How many times does that make this term? You're going for the record,
aren't you? Jolly sporting of you. Bit slow in there, wasn't it?
'Nother ginger-beer, please.'
'Just a bit,' said Pillingshot.
'I thought so. And now you're dying for some excitement. Of course you
are. Well, cut over to the House and change, and then come back and
field at the nets. The man Yorke is going to bowl me some of his
celebrated slow tosh, and I'm going to show him exactly how Jessop does
it when he's in form.'
Scott was the biggest hitter in the School. Mr Yorke was one of the
masters. He bowled slow leg-breaks, mostly half-volleys and long hops.
Pillingshot had a sort of instinctive idea that fielding out in the
deep with Mr Yorke bowling and Scott batting would not contribute
largely to the gaiety of his afternoon. Fielding deep at the nets meant
that you stood in the middle of the football field, where there was no
telling what a ball would do if it came at you along the ground. If you
were lucky you escaped without injury. Generally, however, the ball
bumped and deprived you of wind or teeth, according to the height to
which it rose. He began politely, but firmly, to excuse himself.
'Don't talk rot,' said Scott, complainingly, 'you must have some
exercise or you'll go getting fat. Think what a blow it would be to
your family, Pillingshot, if you lost your figure. Buck up. If you're
back here in a quarter of an hour you shall have another ice. A large
ice, Pillingshot, price sixpence. Think of it.'
The word ice, as has been remarked before, touched chords in
Pillingshot's nature to which he never turned a deaf ear. Within the
prescribed quarter of an hour he was back again, changed.
'Here's the ice,' said Scott, 'I've been keeping it warm for you.
Shovel it down. I want to be starting for the nets. Quicker, man,
quicker! Don't roll it round your tongue as if it was port. Go for it.
Finished? That's right. Come on.'
Pillingshot had not finished, but Scott so evidently believed that he
had, that it would have been unkind to have mentioned the fact. He
followed the smiter to the nets.
If Pillingshot had passed the earlier part of the afternoon in a
sedentary fashion, he made up for it now. Scott was in rare form, and
Pillingshot noticed with no small interest that, while he invariably
hit Mr Yorke's deliveries a quarter of a mile or so, he never hit two
balls in succession in the same direction. As soon as the panting
fieldsman had sprinted to one side of the football ground and returned
the ball, there was a beautiful, musical _plonk_, and the ball
soared to the very opposite quarter of the field. It was a fine
exhibition of hitting, but Pillingshot felt that he would have enjoyed
it more if he could have watched it from a deck-chair.
'You're coming on as a deep field, young Pillingshot,' said Scott, as
he took off his pads. 'You've got a knack of stopping them with your
stomach, which the best first-class fields never have. You ought to
give lessons at it. Now we'll go and have some tea.'
If Pillingshot had had a more intimate acquaintance with the classics,
he would have observed at this point, '_Timeo Danaos_', and made a
last dash for liberty in the direction of the shop. But he was deceived
by the specious nature of Scott's remark. Visions rose before his eyes
of sitting back in one of Scott's armchairs, watching a fag toasting
muffins, which he would eventually dispatch with languid enjoyment. So
he followed Scott to his study. The classical parallel to his situation
is the well-known case of the oysters. They, too, were eager for the
treat.
They had reached the study, and Pillingshot was about to fling himself,
with a sigh of relief, into the most comfortable chair, when Scott
unmasked his batteries.
'Oh, by the way,' he said, with a coolness which to Pillingshot
appeared simply brazen, 'I'm afraid my fag won't be here today. The
young crock's gone and got mumps, or the plague, or something. So would
you mind just lighting that stove? It'll be rather warm, but that won't
matter. There are some muffins in the cupboard. You might weigh in with
them. You'll find the toasting-fork on the wall somewhere. It's hanging
up. Got it? Good man. Fire away.'
And Scott collected five cushions, two chairs, and a tin of mixed
biscuits, and made himself comfortable. Pillingshot, with feelings too
deep for words (in the then limited state of his vocabulary), did as he
was requested. There was something remarkable about the way Scott could
always get people to do things for him. He seemed to take everything
for granted. If he had had occasion to hire an assassin to make away
with the German Emperor, he would have said, 'Oh, I say, you might run
over to Germany and kill the Kaiser, will you, there's a good chap?
Don't be long.' And he would have taken a seat and waited, without the
least doubt in his mind that the thing would be carried through as
desired.
Pillingshot had just finished toasting the muffins, when the door
opened, and Venables, of Merevale's, came in.
'I thought I heard you say something about tea this afternoon, Scott,'
said Venables. 'I just looked in on the chance. Good Heavens, man!
Fancy muffins at this time of year! Do you happen to know what the
thermometer is in the shade?'
'Take a seat,' said Scott. 'I attribute my entire success in life
to the fact that I never find it too hot to eat muffins. Do you
know Pillingshot? One of the hottest fieldsmen in the School.
At least, he was just now. He's probably cooled off since then.
Venables - Pillingshot, and _vice versa_. Buck up with the tea,
Pillingshot. What, ready? Good man. Now we might almost begin.'
'Beastly thing that accident of young Brown's, wasn't it?' said Scott.
'Chaps oughtn't to go slamming about like that with the field full of
fellows. I suppose he won't be right by next Saturday?'
'Not a chance. Why? Oh, yes, I forgot. He was to have scored for the
team at Windybury, wasn't he?'
'Who are you going to get now?'
Venables was captain of the St Austin's team. The match next Saturday
was at Windybury, on the latter's ground.
'I haven't settled,' said Venables. 'But it's easy to get somebody.
Scoring isn't one of those things which only one chap in a hundred
understands.'
Then Pillingshot had an idea - a great, luminous idea.
'May I score?' he asked, and waited trembling with apprehension lest
the request be refused.
'All right,' said Venables, 'I don't see any reason why you shouldn't.
We have to catch the 8.14 at the station. Don't you go missing it or
anything.'
'Rather _not_,' said Pillingshot. 'Not much.'
* * * * *
On Saturday morning, at exactly 9.15, Mr Mellish distributed the Livy
papers. When he arrived at Pillingshot's seat and found it empty, an
expression passed over his face like unto that of the baffled villain
in transpontine melodrama.
'Where is Pillingshot?' he demanded tragically. 'Where is he?'
'He's gone with the team to Windybury, sir,' said Parker, struggling to
conceal a large size in grins. 'He's going to score.'
'No,' said Mr Mellish sadly to himself, 'he _has_ scored.'
[2]
THE ODD TRICK
The attitude of Philip St H. Harrison, of Merevale's House, towards his
fellow-man was outwardly one of genial and even sympathetic toleration.
Did his form-master intimate that his conduct was not _his_ idea
of what Young England's conduct should be, P. St H. Harrison agreed
cheerfully with every word he said, warmly approved his intention of
laying the matter before the Headmaster, and accepted his punishment
with the air of a waiter booking an order for a chump chop and fried
potatoes. But the next day there would be a squeaking desk in the
form-room, just to show the master that he had not been forgotten. Or,
again, did the captain of his side at football speak rudely to him on
the subject of kicking the ball through in the scrum, Harrison would
smile gently, and at the earliest opportunity tread heavily on the
captain's toe. In short, he was a youth who made a practice of taking
very good care of himself. Yet he had his failures. The affair of
Graham's mackintosh was one of them, and it affords an excellent
example of the truth of the proverb that a cobbler should stick to his
last. Harrison's _forte_ was diplomacy. When he forsook the arts
of the diplomatist for those of the brigand, he naturally went wrong.
And the manner of these things was thus.
Tony Graham was a prefect in Merevale's, and part of his duties was to
look after the dormitory of which Harrison was one of the ornaments. It
was a dormitory that required a good deal of keeping in order. Such
choice spirits as Braithwaite of the Upper Fourth, and Mace, who was
rapidly driving the master of the Lower Fifth into a premature grave,
needed a firm hand. Indeed, they generally needed not only a firm hand,
but a firm hand grasping a serviceable walking-stick. Add to these
Harrison himself, and others of a similar calibre, and it will be seen
that Graham's post was no sinecure. It was Harrison's custom to throw
off his mask at night with his other garments, and appear in his true
character of an abandoned villain, willing to stick at nothing as long
as he could do it strictly incog. In this capacity he had come into
constant contact with Graham. Even in the dark it is occasionally
possible for a prefect to tell where a noise comes from. And if the
said prefect has been harassed six days in the week by a noise, and
locates it suddenly on the seventh, it is wont to be bad for the
producer and patentee of same.
And so it came about that Harrison, enjoying himself one night, after
the manner of his kind, was suddenly dropped upon with violence. He had
constructed an ingenious machine, consisting of a biscuit tin, some
pebbles, and some string. He put the pebbles in the tin, tied the
string to it, and placed it under a chest of drawers. Then he took the
other end of the string to bed with him, and settled down to make a
night of it. At first all went well. Repeated inquiries from Tony
failed to produce the author of the disturbance, and when finally the
questions ceased, and the prefect appeared to have given the matter up
as a bad job, P. St H. Harrison began to feel that under certain
circumstances life was worth living. It was while he was in this happy
frame of mind that the string, with which he had just produced a
triumphant rattle from beneath the chest of drawers, was seized, and
the next instant its owner was enjoying the warmest minute of a
chequered career. Tony, like Brer Rabbit, had laid low until he was
certain of the direction from which the sound proceeded. He had then
slipped out of bed, crawled across the floor in a snake-like manner
which would have done credit to a Red Indian, found the tin, and traced
the string to its owner. Harrison emerged from the encounter feeling
sore and unfit for any further recreation. This deed of the night left
its impression on Harrison. The account had to be squared somehow, and
in a few days his chance came. Merevale's were playing a 'friendly'
with the School House, and in default of anybody better, Harrison had
been pressed into service as umpire. This in itself had annoyed him.
Cricket was not in his line - he was not one of your flannelled
fools - and of all things in connection with the game he loathed
umpiring most.
When, however, Tony came on to bowl at his end, _vice_ Charteris,
who had been hit for three fours in an over by Scott, the School
slogger, he recognized that even umpiring had its advantages, and
resolved to make the most of the situation.
Scott had the bowling, and he lashed out at Tony's first ball in his
usual reckless style. There was an audible click, and what the sporting
papers call confident appeals came simultaneously from Welch,
Merevale's captain, who was keeping wicket, and Tony himself. Even
Scott seemed to know that his time had come. He moved a step or two
away from the wicket, but stopped before going farther to look at the
umpire, on the off-chance of a miracle happening to turn his decision
in the batsman's favour.
The miracle happened.
'Not out,' said Harrison.
'Awfully curious,' he added genially to Tony, 'how like a bat those
bits of grass sound! You have to be jolly smart to know where a noise
comes from, don't you!'
Tony grunted disgustedly, and walked back again to the beginning of his
run.
If ever, in the whole history of cricket, a man was out
leg-before-wicket, Scott was so out to Tony's second ball. It was
hardly worth appealing for such a certainty. Still, the formality had
to be gone through.
'How was _that_?' inquired Tony.
'Not out. It's an awful pity, don't you think, that they don't bring in
that new leg-before rule?'
'Seems to me,' said Tony bitterly, 'the old rule holds pretty good when
a man's leg's bang in front.'
'Rather. But you see the ball didn't pitch straight, and the rule
says - '
'Oh, all right,' said Tony.
The next ball Scott hit for four, and the next after that for a couple.
The fifth was a yorker, and just grazed the leg stump. The sixth was a
beauty. You could see it was going to beat the batsman from the moment
it left Tony's hand. Harrison saw it perfectly.
'No ball,' he shouted. And just as he spoke Scott's off-stump
ricocheted towards the wicket-keeper.
'Heavens, man,' said Tony, fairly roused out of his cricket manners, a
very unusual thing for him. 'I'll swear my foot never went over the
crease. Look, there's the mark.'
'Rather not. Only, you see, it seemed to me you chucked that time. Of
course, I know you didn't mean to, and all that sort of thing, but
still, the rules - '
Tony would probably have liked to have said something very forcible
about the rules at this point, but it occurred to him that after all
Harrison was only within his rights, and that it was bad form to
dispute the umpire's decision. Harrison walked off towards square-leg
with a holy joy.
But he was too much of an artist to overdo the thing. Tony's next over
passed off without interference. Possibly, however, this was because it
was a very bad one. After the third over he asked Welch if he could get
somebody else to umpire, as he had work to do. Welch heaved a sigh of
relief, and agreed readily.
'Conscientious sort of chap that umpire of yours,' said Scott to Tony,
after the match. Scott had made a hundred and four, and was feeling
pleased. 'Considering he's in your House, he's awfully fair.'
'You mean that we generally swindle, I suppose?'
'Of course not, you rotter. You know what I mean. But, I say, that
catch Welch and you appealed for must have been a near thing. I could
have sworn I hit it.'
'Of course you did. It was clean out. So was the lbw. I say, did you
think that ball that bowled you was a chuck? That one in my first over,
you know.'
'Chuck! My dear Tony, you don't mean to say that man pulled you up for
chucking? I thought your foot must have gone over the crease.'
'I believe the chap's mad,' said Tony.
'Perhaps he's taking it out of you this way for treading on his corns
somehow. Have you been milling with this gentle youth lately?'
'By Jove,' said Tony, 'you're right. I gave him beans only the other
night for ragging in the dormitory.'
Scott laughed.
'Well, he seems to have been getting a bit of his own back today. Lucky
the game was only a friendly. Why will you let your angry passions
rise, Tony? You've wrecked your analysis by it, though it's improved my
average considerably. I don't know if that's any solid satisfaction to
you.'
'It isn't.'
'You don't say so! Well, so long. If I were you, I should keep an eye
on that conscientious umpire.'
'I will,' said Tony. 'Good-night.'
The process of keeping an eye on Harrison brought no results. When he
wished to behave himself well, he could. On such occasions Sandford and
Merton were literally not in it with him, and the hero of a
Sunday-school story would simply have refused to compete. But Nemesis,
as the poets tell us, though no sprinter, manages, like the celebrated
Maisie, to get right there in time. Give her time, and she will arrive.
She arrived in the case of Harrison. One morning, about a fortnight
after the House-match incident, Harrison awoke with a new sensation. At
first he could not tell what exactly this sensation was, and being too
sleepy to discuss nice points of internal emotion with himself, was
just turning over with the intention of going to sleep again, when the
truth flashed upon him. The sensation he felt was loneliness, and the
reason he felt lonely was because he was the only occupant of the
dormitory. To right and left and all around were empty beds.
As he mused drowsily on these portents, the distant sound of a bell
came to his ears and completed the cure. It was the bell for chapel. He
dragged his watch from under his pillow, and looked at it with
consternation. Four minutes to seven. And chapel was at seven. Now
Harrison had been late for chapel before. It was not the thought of
missing the service that worried him. What really was serious was that
he had been late so many times before that Merevale had hinted at
serious steps to be taken if he were late again, or, at any rate, until
a considerable interval of punctuality had elapsed.
That threat had been uttered only yesterday, and here he was in all
probability late once more.
There was no time to dress. He sprang out of bed, passed a sponge over
his face as a concession to the decencies, and looked round for
something to cover his night-shirt, which, however suitable for
dormitory use, was, he felt instinctively, scarcely the garment to wear
in public.
Fate seemed to fight for him. On one of the pegs in the wall hung a
mackintosh, a large, blessed mackintosh. He was inside it in a moment.
Four minutes later he rushed into his place in chapel.
The short service gave him some time for recovering himself. He left
the building feeling a new man. His costume, though quaint, would not
call for comment. Chapel at St Austin's was never a full-dress
ceremony. Mackintoshes covering night-shirts were the rule rather than
the exception.
But between his costume and that of the rest there was this subtle
distinction. They wore their own mackintoshes. He wore somebody else's.
The bulk of the School had split up into sections, each section making
for its own House, and Merevale's was already in sight, when Harrison
felt himself grasped from behind. He turned, to see Graham.
'Might I ask,' enquired Tony with great politeness, 'who said you might
wear my mackintosh?'
Harrison gasped.
'I suppose you didn't know it was mine?'
'No, no, rather not. I didn't know.'
'And if you had known it was mine, you wouldn't have taken it, I
suppose?'
'Oh no, of course not,' said Harrison. Graham seemed to be taking an
unexpectedly sensible view of the situation.
'Well,' said Tony, 'now that you know that it is mine, suppose you give
it up.'
'Give it up!'
'Yes; buck up. It looks like rain, and I mustn't catch cold.'
'But, Graham, I've only got on - '
'Spare us these delicate details. Mack up, please, I want it.'
Finally, Harrison appearing to be difficult in the matter, Tony took
the garment off for him, and went on his way.
Harrison watched him go with mixed feelings. Righteous indignation
struggled with the gravest apprehension regarding his own future. If
Merevale should see him! Horrible thought. He ran. He had just reached
the House, and was congratulating himself on having escaped, when the
worst happened. At the private entrance stood Merevale, and with him
the Headmaster himself. They both eyed him with considerable interest
as he shot in at the boys' entrance.
'Harrison,' said Merevale after breakfast.
'Yes, sir?'
'The Headmaster wishes to see you - again.'
'Yes, sir,' said Harrison.
There was a curious lack of enthusiasm in his voice.
[3]
L'AFFAIRE UNCLE JOHN
(_A Story in Letters_)
I
From Richard Venables, of St Austin's School, to his brother Archibald
Venables, of King's College, Cambridge:
Dear Archie - I take up my pen to write to you, not as one hoping for an
answer, but rather in order that (you notice the Thucydidean
construction) I may tell you of an event the most important of those
that have gone before. You may or may not have heard far-off echoes of
my adventure with Uncle John, who has just come back from the
diamond-mines - and looks it. It happened thusly:
Last Wednesday evening I was going through the cricket field to meet
Uncle John, at the station, as per esteemed favour from the governor,
telling me to. Just as I got on the scene, to my horror, amazement, and
disgust, I saw a middle-aged bounder, in loud checks, who, from his
looks, might have been anything from a retired pawnbroker to a
second-hand butler, sacked from his last place for stealing the
sherry, standing in the middle of the field, on the very wicket the
Rugborough match is to be played on next Saturday (tomorrow), and
digging - _digging_ - I'll trouble you. Excavating great chunks of
our best turf with a walking-stick. I was so unnerved, I nearly
fainted. It's bad enough being captain of a School team under any
circs., as far as putting you off your game goes, but when you see the
wicket you've been rolling by day, and dreaming about by night, being
mangled by an utter stranger - well! They say a cow is slightly
irritated when her calf is taken away from her, but I don't suppose the
most maternal cow that ever lived came anywhere near the frenzy that
surged up in my bosom at that moment. I flew up to him, foaming at the
mouth. 'My dear sir,' I shrieked, '_are_ you aware that you're
spoiling the best wicket that has ever been prepared since cricket
began?' He looked at me, in a dazed sort of way, and said, 'What?' I
said: 'How on earth do you think we're going to play Rugborough on a
ploughed field?' 'I don't follow, mister,' he replied. A man who calls
you 'mister' is beyond the pale. You are justified in being a little
rude to him. So I said: 'Then you must be either drunk or mad, and I
trust it's the latter.' I believe that's from some book, though I don't
remember which. This did seem to wake him up a bit, but before he could
frame his opinion in words, up came Biffen, the ground-man, to have a
last look at his wicket before retiring for the night. When he saw the
holes - they were about a foot deep, and scattered promiscuously, just
where two balls out of three pitch - he almost had hysterics. I gently
explained the situation to him, and left him to settle with my friend
of the check suit. Biffen was just settling down to a sort of Philippic
when I went, and I knew that I had left the man in competent hands.
Then I went to the station. The train I had been told to meet was the
5.30. By the way, of course, I didn't know in the least what Uncle John
was like, not having seen him since I was about one-and-a-half, but I
had been told to look out for a tall, rather good-looking man. Well,
the 5.30 came in all right, but none of the passengers seemed to answer
to the description. The ones who were tall were not good looking, and
the only man who was good looking stood five feet nothing in his boots.
I did ask him if he was Mr John Dalgliesh; but, his name happening to
be Robinson, he could not oblige. I sat out a couple more trains, and
then went back to the field. The man had gone, but Biffen was still
there. 'Was you expecting anyone today, sir?' he asked, as I came up.
'Yes. Why?' I said. 'That was 'im,' said Biffen. By skilful
questioning, I elicited the whole thing. It seems that the fearsome
bargee, in checks, was the governor's 'tall, good-looking man'; in
other words, Uncle John himself. He had come by the 4.30, I suppose.
Anyway, there he was, and I had insulted him badly. Biffen told me that
he had asked who I was, and that he (Biffen) had given the information,
while he was thinking of something else to say to him about his
digging. By the way, I suppose he dug from force of habit. Thought he'd
find diamonds, perhaps. When Biffen told him this, he said in a nasty
voice: 'Then, when he comes back will you have the goodness to tell him
that my name is John Dalgliesh, and that he will hear more of this.'
And I'm uncommonly afraid I shall. The governor bars Uncle John
awfully, I know, but he wanted me to be particularly civil to him,
because he was to get me a place in some beastly firm when I leave. I
haven't heard from home yet, but I expect to soon. Still, I'd like to
know how I could stand and watch him ruining the wicket for our spot
match of the season. As it is, it won't be as good as it would have
been. The Rugborough slow man will be unplayable if he can find one of
these spots. Altogether, it's a beastly business. Write soon, though I
know you won't - Yours ever, _Dick_
II
Telegram from Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G., to
his son Richard Venables:
Venables, St Austin's. What all this about Uncle John. Says were
grossly rude. Write explanation next post - _Venables_.
III
Letter from Mrs James Anthony (nee Miss Dorothy Venables) to her
brother Richard Venables:
Dear Dick - What _have_ you been doing to Uncle John? Jim and I are
stopping for a fortnight with father, and have just come in for the
whole thing. Uncle John - _isn't_ he a horrible man? - says you were
grossly insolent to him when he went down to see you. _Do_ write
and tell me all about it. I have heard no details as yet. Father
refuses to give them, and gets simply _furious_ when the matter is
mentioned. Jim said at dinner last night that a conscientious boy would
probably feel bound to be rude to Uncle John. Father said 'Conscience
be - '; I forget the rest, but it was awful. Jim says if he gets any
worse we shall have to sit on his head, and cut the traces. He is
getting so dreadfully _horsey_. Do write the very minute you get
this. I want to know all about it. - Your affectionate sister, _Dorothy_
IV
Part of Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his father
Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G.:
... So you see it was really his fault. The Emperor of Germany has no
right to come and dig holes in our best wicket. Take a parallel case.
Suppose some idiot of a fellow (not that Uncle John's that, of course,
but you know what I mean) came and began rooting up your azaleas.
Wouldn't you want to say something cutting? I will apologize to Uncle
John, if you like; but still, I do think he might have gone somewhere
else if he really wanted to dig. So you see, etc., etc.
V
Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his sister Mrs James
Anthony:
Dear Dolly - Thanks awfully for your letter, and thank Jim for his
message. He's a ripper. I'm awfully glad you married him and not that
rotter, Thompson, who used to hang on so. I hope the most marvellous
infant on earth is flourishing. And now about Uncle John. Really, I am
jolly glad I did say all that to him. We played Rugborough yesterday,
and the wicket was simply vile. They won the toss, and made two hundred
and ten. Of course, the wicket was all right at one end, and that's
where they made most of their runs. I was wicket-keeping as usual, and
I felt awfully ashamed of the beastly pitch when their captain asked me
if it was the football-field. Of course, he wouldn't have said that if
he hadn't been a pal of mine, but it was probably what the rest of the
team thought, only they were too polite to say so. When we came to bat
it was worse than ever. I went in first with Welch - that's the fellow
who stopped a week at home a few years ago; I don't know whether you
remember him. He got out in the first over, caught off a ball that
pitched where Uncle John had been prospecting, and jumped up. It was
rotten luck, of course, and worse was to follow, for by half-past five
we had eight wickets down for just over the hundred, and only young
Scott, who's simply a slogger, and another fellow to come in. Well,
Scott came in. I had made about sixty then, and was fairly well
set - and he started simply mopping up the bowling. He gave a chance
every over as regular as clockwork, and it was always missed, and then
he would make up for it with two or three tremendous whangs - a safe
four every time. It wasn't batting. It was more like golf. Well, this
went on for some time, and we began to get hopeful again, having got a
hundred and eighty odd. I just kept up my wicket, while Scott hit. Then
he got caught, and the last man, a fellow called Moore, came in. I'd
put him in the team as a bowler, but he could bat a little, too, on
occasions, and luckily this was one of them. There were only eleven to
win, and I had the bowling. I was feeling awfully fit, and put their
slow man clean over the screen twice running, which left us only three
to get. Then it was over, and Moore played the fast man in grand style,
though he didn't score. Well, I got the bowling again, and half-way
through the over I carted a half-volley into the Pav., and that gave us
the match. Moore hung on for a bit and made about ten, and then got
bowled. We made 223 altogether, of which I had managed to get
seventy-eight, not out. It pulls my average up a good bit. Rather
decent, isn't it? The fellows rotted about a good deal, and chaired me
into the Pav., but it was Scott who won us the match, I think. He made
ninety-four. But Uncle John nearly did for us with his beastly
walking-stick. On a good wicket we might have made any number. I don't
know how the affair will end. Keep me posted up in the governor's
symptoms, and write again soon. - Your affectionate brother, _Dick_
PS. - On looking over this letter, I find I have taken it for granted
that you know all about the Uncle John affair. Probably you do, but, in
case you don't, it was this way. You see, I was going, etc., etc.
VI
From Archibald Venables, of King's College, Cambridge, to Richard
Venables, of St Austin's:
Dear Dick - Just a line to thank you for your letter, and to tell you
that since I got it I have had a visit from the great Uncle John, too.
He _is_ an outsider, if you like. I gave him the best lunch I
could in my rooms, and the man started a long lecture on extravagance.
He doesn't seem to understand the difference between the 'Varsity and a
private school. He kept on asking leading questions about pocket-money
and holidays, and wanted to know if my master allowed me to walk in the
streets in that waistcoat - a remark which cut me to the quick, 'that
waistcoat' being quite the most posh thing of the sort in Cambridge. He
then enquired after my studies; and, finally, when I saw him off at the
station, said that he had decided not to tip me, because he was afraid
that I was inclined to be extravagant. I was quite kind to him,
however, in spite of everything; but I was glad you had spoken to him
like a father. The recollection of it soothed me, though it seemed to
worry him. He talked a good deal about it. Glad you came off against
Rugborough. - Yours ever, _A. Venables_
VII
From Mr John Dalgliesh to Mr Philip Mortimer, of Penge:
Dear Sir - In reply to your letter of the 18th inst., I shall be happy
to recommend your son, Reginald, for the vacant post in the firm of
Messrs Van Nugget, Diomonde, and Mynes, African merchants. I have
written them to that effect, and you will, doubtless, receive a
communication from them shortly. - I am, my dear sir, yours faithfully,
_J. Dalgliesh_
VIII
From Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his father Major-General Sir
Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G.:
Dear Father - Uncle John writes, in answer to my apology, to say that no
apologies will meet the case; and that he has given his nomination in
that rotten City firm of his to a fellow called Mortimer. But rather a
decent thing has happened. There is a chap here I know pretty well, who
is the son of Lord Marmaduke Twistleton, and it appears that the dook
himself was down watching the Rugborough match, and liked my batting.
He came and talked to me after the match, and asked me what I was going
to do when I left, and I said I wasn't certain, and he said that, if I
hadn't anything better on, he could give me a place on his estate up in
Scotland, as a sort of land-agent, as he wanted a chap who could play
cricket, because he was keen on the game himself, and always had a lot
going on in the summer up there. So he says that, if I go up to the
'Varsity for three years, he can guarantee me the place when I come
down, with a jolly good screw and a ripping open-air life, with lots of