 Marriott walked into the senior day-room and, finding no one there, hurled his portmanteau down on the table with a bang. The noise brought William into the room. William was attached to Leicester's house, Beckford College, as a mixture of butler and boot-boy. He carried a pail of water in his hand. He had been engaged in cleaning up the house against the conclusion of the summer holidays, of which this was the last evening, by the simple process of transferring all dust, dirt, and other foreign substances from the floor to his own person. "'Hello, Marriott,' he said. "'Hello, William,' said Marriott. "'How are you? Still drogging along? That's a mercy. I say. Look here. I want a quiet word in season with the authorities. They must have known I was coming back this evening.' Of course they did. Why, they especially wrote and asked me. "'Well, where's the red carpet? Where's the awning? Where's the brass band that ought to have met me at the station? Where's anything?' I tell you what it is, William, my old companion. There's a bad time coming for the headmaster if he doesn't mind what he's doing. He must learn that life is stone, and life is earnest, William. Has Gethrin come back yet?' William, who had been gasping throughout this harangue for the intellectual pressure of Marriott's conversation, of which there was plenty, was generally too much for him, caught thankfully at the last remark as being the only intelligible one uttered up to the present date, and made answer. "'Mr. Gethrin, he's gone out to the field, Mr. Marriott, he came in half an hour ago.' "'Oh, right. Thanks. Goodbye, William. Give my respects to the cook, and mind you don't work too hard. Think what it would be if you developed heart disease. Awful! You mustn't do it, William.' Marriott vanished, and William, slightly dazed, went about his professional duties once more. Marriott walked into the grounds in search of Gethrin. Gethrin was the head of Leicesters this term. Vice Reynolds departed, and Marriott, who was second man up, shared a study with him. Leicesters had not a good name at Bechford, in spite of the fact that it was generally in the running for the cricket and football cups. The fact of the matter was that, with the exception of Gethrin, Marriott, a boy named Rhys, who kept wickets for the school eleven, and perhaps to others, Leicesters seniors were not a good lot. To the school in general, who gauged a fellow's character principally by his abilities in the cricket and football fields, it did seem a very desirable thing to be in Leicesters. They had been runners up for the house football cup that year, and this term might easily see the cricket cup fall to them. Amongst the few, however, it was known that the house was passing through an unpleasant stage in its career. A house is either good or bad. It is seldom that it can combine the advantages of both systems. Leicesters was bad. This was due partly to a succession of bad-head prefects, and partly to Leicester himself, who was well-meaning but weak. His spirit was willing, but his will was not spirited. When things went on that ought not to have gone on, he generally managed to avoid seeing them, and the things continued to go on. Altogether, unless Gethrin's rule should act as a tonic, Leicesters was in a bad way. The powers that be, however, were relying on Gethrin to affect some improvement. He was in the sixth, the first fifteen, and the first eleven. Also, a backbone was included in his anatomy, and if he made up his mind to a thing, that thing generally happened. The Reverend James Beckett, the headmaster of Beckford, had formed a very fair estimate of Gethrin's capabilities, and at the moment when Marriott was drawing the field for the missing one, that worthy was sitting in the headmaster's study with a cup in his right hand and a muffin, half-eaten, in his left, drinking in tea and wisdom simultaneously. The head was doing most of the talking. He had led up to the subject skillfully, and, once reached, he did not leave it. The text of his discourse was the degeneracy of Leicesters. Now you know, Gethrin, another muffin? Help yourself. You know Reynolds. Well, he was a capital boy in his way, capital, and I am sure we shall all miss him very much. But he was not a good head of house. He was weak, much too weak, too easy going. You must avoid that, Gethrin. Reynolds? And much more in the same vein. Gethrin left the room half an hour later, full of muffins and good resolutions. He met Marriott at the Five Scots. Where have you been to? asked Marriott. I've been looking for you all over the shop. I and my friend the headmaster, said Gethrin, have been having a quiet pot of tea between us. Really? And was he affable? Distinctly affable. You know, he asked me in, but I told him it wasn't good enough. I said that if he would consent to make his tea with water that wasn't two degrees below lukewarm, and to bring on his muffins cooked instead of raw, and to supply some butter to eat with them, I might look him up now and then. Otherwise, it couldn't be done at the price. What did he want you for, really? He was ragging me about the house. Quite right, too. You know, there's no doubt about it. Likeisters does want bucking up. We're going to get the cricket cup, said Marriott, for the defence. We may. If it wasn't for the houses in between. Schoolhouse and Jefferson's especially. And anyhow, that's not what I meant. The games are all right. It's the moral je ne sais quoi, so to speak, said Marriott. That'll be all right. Wait till we get at him. What I want to turn your great brain to now is this letter. He produced a letter from his pocket. Don't you bar chaps who show you their letters? He said, This was written by an aunt of mine. I don't want to inflict the whole lot on you. Just look at line four. You see what she says. A boy is coming to Mr Leicester's house this term, whom I particularly wish you to befriend. He is the son of a great friend of a friend of mine, and is a nice, bright little fellow, very jolly and full spirits. That means, interpolated Gathrin grimly, that he's up to his eyes in pure, undiluted cheek, and will want kicking after every meal before retiring to rest. Go on. His name is, well, that's the point. At this point, the manuscript becomes absolutely illegible. I have conjectured Percy, for the first name. It may be Richard, but I'll plunder on Percy. It's the surname that stumps me. Personally, I think it's Macau, though I trust it isn't, for the kids' sake. I shared the letter to my brother, the one who's at Oxford, and he swore it was Watson, but, on being pressed, hedged it with Sandis. You may as well contribute to a little bit. What do you make of it? Gathrin scrutinized the document with care. She begins with a D. You can see that. Well, next letter, A, or U. I see, of course. It's Duncan. Think so, said Mariette doubtfully. Well, let's go and ask the matron if she knows anything about him. Miss Jones. He said, when they had reached the house, have you on your list of new boys a sportsman of the name of Macau or Watson? I am also prepared to accept Sandis or Duncan. The Christian name is either Richard or Percy. There, that gives you a fairly wide field to choose from. There's a P. V. Wilson on the list, said the matron, after an inspection of that document. That must be the man, said Mariette. Thanks very much. I suppose he hasn't arrived yet. No, not yet. You two are the only ones so far. Oh, well, I suppose I shall have to see him when he does come. I'll come down for him later on. They strolled out onto the field again. In really the proposed Bucking Up of the House, said Mariette, it'll be rather a big job. Rather, I should think so. We ought to have a most fearfully sporting time. It's got to be done. The old man talked to me like several fathers. What did he say? Oh heaps of things. I know. Did he mention amongst other things that Reynolds was the worst idiot on the face of this so-called world? Something of the sort. So I should think. The late Reynolds was a perfect specimen of the gelatin back-boned worm. That's not my own, but it's the only description of him that really suits. Monk and Danvers and the mob in general used to do what they liked with him. Talking of Monk. When you embark on your tour of moral agitation, I should advise you to start with him. Yes, and Danvers, there isn't much to choose between them. It's a pity they're both such good bads. When you see a chap putting them through the slips like Monk does, you can't help thinking there must be something in him. So there is, said Mariette, and it's all bad. I bar the man. He's slimy. It's the only word for him. And he uses scent by the gallant. Thank goodness this is his last term. Is it really? I never heard that. Yes, he and Danvers are both leaving. Monk's going to Heidelberg to study German, and Danvers is going into his parterre's business in the city. I got that from Waterford. Waterford is another beast, said Getheryn thoughtfully. I suppose he's not leaving by any chance, or not that I know of. But he'll be nothing without Monk and Danvers. He's simply a sort of bottle washer to the firm. When they go, he'll collapse. Let's be strolling towards the house now, shall we? Hello, our only Reese. Hello, Reese. Hello, said the new arrival. Reese was a weird, silent individual whom everybody in the school knew up to a certain point, but very few beyond that point. His manner was exactly the same when talking to the smallest fag, as when addressing the headmaster. He rather gave one the impression that he was thinking of something a fortnight ahead, or trying to solve a chest problem without the aid of the board. In appearance, he was on the short side, and thin. He was in the sixth, and a conscientious worker. Indeed, he was only saved from being considered a swat, to use the vernacular, by the fact that from childhood's earliest hour he had been in the habit of keeping wicket like an angel. To a good wicket-keeper much may be forgiven. He handed Getheryn an envelope. Later, Bishop, he said, Getheryn was commonly known as the Bishop, owing to a certain sermon preached in the College Chapel some five years before in aid of the Church Missionary Society, in which the preacher had eluded at frequent intervals to another Getheryn, a bishop, who, it appeared, had a sea, and did much excellent work among the heathen at the back of beyond. Getheryn's friends and acquaintances who had been alternating between Ginger, Getheryn's hair being inclined to redness, and Snag, a name which utterly baffles the philologist, had welcomed the new name warmly, and it had stuck ever since, and, after all, there are considerably worse names by which one might be called. "'What the dickens?' he said, as he finished reading the letter. "'Tell us the worst,' said Marriott. "'You must read it out now, out of common decency, after rousing our expectations like that.' "'All right. It isn't private. It's from an aunt of mine. Seems to be a perfect glut of aunts,' said Marriott. "'What views has your representative got to air? Is she springing any jolly little fellow full of spirits on this happy community?' "'No, it's not that. It's only an uncle of mine who's coming down here. He's coming to-morrow, and I'm to meet him. The uncanny part of it is, that I've never heard of him before in my life.' "'That reminds me of a story I heard,' began Rhys slowly. Rhys's observations were not frequent, but when they came, did so for the most part in anecdotal shape. Somebody was constantly doing something which reminded him of something he had heard somewhere, from somebody. The unfortunate part of it was that he exuded these reminiscences at such a leisurely rate of speed, that he was rarely known to succeed in finishing any of them. He resembled those serial stories which appear in papers designed at a moderate price to fill an obvious void and which break off abruptly at the third chapter, owing to the premature decease of the said periodicals. On this occasion Marriott cut in with a few sage remarks on the subject Uncle's as a class. "'Uncles,' he said, are tricky. "'You never know where you've got them. You think they're going to come out strong with a sovereign, and they make it a shilling without a blush?' An uncle of mine once gave me a three-penny bit. If it hadn't been that I didn't wish to hurt his feelings, I should have flung it at his feet. Also, I particularly wanted throppence at the moment. "'Is your uncle likely to do his duty, Bishop?' "'I tell you, I don't know the man. Never heard of him. I thought I knew every uncle on the list, but I can't place this one. However, I suppose I shall have to meet him. "'Rather,' said Marriott, as they went into the house, we should always strive to be kind, even to the very humblest, on the off-chance, you know. The unknown may have struck a rich in sheep or something, out in Australia. Most uncles come from Australia. Or he may be the boss of some trust and wallowing in dollars. He may be anything. Let's go and brew, Bishop. Come on, Rhys.' "'I don't mind watching you two eat,' said Gethron, but I can't join in myself. I have assimilated three pounds odd of the head magisterial muffins already this afternoon. Don't mind me, though.' They went upstairs to Marriott's study, which was also Gethron's. Two in a study was the rule at Beckford, though there were recluses who lived alone and seemed to enjoy it. When the festive board had ceased to groan and the cake, which Marriott's mother had expected to last a fortnight, had been reduced to a mere wreck of its former self, the thought of his aunt's friend's friend's son returned to Marriott, and he went down to investigate, returning shortly afterwards unaccompanied but evidently full of news. "'Well,' said Gethron, "'hasn't he come?' "'A little,' said Marriott, "'just a little. "'I went down to the fag's room, "'and when I opened the door, "'I noticed a certain weird stillness in the atmosphere. "'There is usually a row going on "'that you could cut with a knife. "'I looked about. "'The room was apparently empty, "'and then I observed a quaint object on the horizon. "'Do you know one Skinner by any chance?' "'My dear chap,' said Gethron. "'Skinner was a sort of juvenile Professor Moriarty "'and a pollion of crime. "'He reeked of crime. "'He reveled in his wicked deeds. "'If a dormitory prefect was kept awake at night "'by some diabolically ingenious contrivance "'for combining the minimum of risk "'with the maximum of noise, "'then it was Skinner who had engineered the thing. "'Again, did a master, "'playing nervously forward on a bat-pitch "'at the nets to Gosling the school fast-bowler, "'receive the ball gaspingly in the small ribs "'and look around to see who was that rocious laugh "'which had greeted the performance? "'He would observe a couple yards away, "'Skinner, deep in conversation "'with some friend of equally villainous aspect. "'In short, in a word, the only adequate word, "'he was Skinner.' "'Well?' said Rhys. "'Skinner,' proceeded Moriarty, "'was seated in a chair, "'bleeding freely into a rather dirty pocket-anchive. "'His usual genial smile was hampered by a cut lip, "'and his right eye was blackened "'in the most graceful and pleasing manner. "'I made tender inquiries, "'but could get nothing from him except grunts. "'So I departed, and just outside the door, "'I met young Lee, and got the facts out of him. "'It appears that P. V. Wilson, "'my aunt's friend's friend's son, "'entered the fags-room at four-fifteen. "'At four-fifteen-and-a-half, punctually, "'Skinner was observed to be trying to rag him. "'Apparently, the great Percy has no sense of humour. "'For at four-seventeen, he got tired of it, "'and hit Skinner crisply in the right eyeball, "'blacking the same as per illustration. "'The subsequent fight raged gorelly for five minutes odd, "'and then Wilson, who seems to be "'a professional pugilist in disguise, "'landed what my informant describes "'as three corkers on his opponent's proboscis. "'Skinner's reply was to sit down heavenly on the floor, "'and give him to understand that the fight was over, "'and that, for the next day or two, "'his face would be closed for alterations and repairs. "'Wilson, thereupon, harangued the company "'in well-chosen terms, tried to get Skinner "'to shake hands, but failed, "'and finally took the entire crew out to the shop, "'where they made pigs of themselves at his expense. "'I have spoken.' "'And that's the kid you've got to look after,' said Reese, after a pause. "'Yes,' said Marriott, "'what I maintain is, that I require a kid built on those lines "'to look after me. "'But you ought to go down and see Skinner's eye sometime. "'It's a beautiful bit of work.'" End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Introduce us an unusual uncle. On the following day at nine o'clock, the term formally began. There is nothing of Black Monday about the first day of term at a public school. Black Monday is essentially a private school institution. At Beckford, the first day of every term was a half holiday. During the morning, a feeble pretense of work was kept up, but after lunch, the school was free to do as it pleased and to go where it liked. The nets were put up for the first time, and the school professional emerged at last from his winter retirement with his, "'Come right out to him, sir, right forward,' which had helped so many Beckford cricketers to do their duty by the school and the field. There was one net for the elect, the remnants of last year's eleven, and the probables for this season, and half a dozen more for lesser lights. At the first net, Norris was batting to the bowling of Gosling, a long, thin dayboy, Gethrin, and the professional, as useful a trio as any school batsman could wish for. Norris was captain of the team this year, a sound, stylish bat with a stroke after the manner of titlesly between cover and mid-off, which used to make Miles the professional almost weep with joy. But today he had evidently not quite got into form. Twice in successive balls Gosling knocked his leg stump out of the ground with yorkers, and the ball after that Gethrin upset his middle with a beauty. Hattrick Norris shouted Gosling, "'Can't see him a bit today, bold Bishop!' A second teaser from Gethrin had almost got through his defense. The Bishop was undoubtedly a fine bowler, without being quite so fast as Gosling. He nevertheless contrived to work up a very considerable speed when he wished to, and there was always something in every ball he bolded made it necessary for the batsman to watch it all the way. In matches against other schools, it was generally Gosling who took the wickets. The batsman were bothered by his pace. But when the MCC or the incogniti came down, bring seasoned countrymen who knew what fast bowling really was, and rather preferred it on the hold to slow, then Gethrin was called upon. Most Becfortians who did not play cricket on the first day of term went on the river. A few rode bicycles or strolled out into the country in couples. But the majority amongst whom on this occasion was Merritt, sallied to the water and hired boats. Merritt was one of the six old cricket colors. The others were Norris, Gosling, Gethrin, Rhys, and Pringle of the schoolhouse, who formed the foundation of this year's 11. He was not an ornamental bat, but stood quite alone in the matter of tall hitting. Twenty minutes of Merritt when informed would often completely alter the course of a match. He had been given his colors in the previous year for making exactly a hundred and sixty-one minutes against the Authentix when the rest of the team had contributed ninety-eight. The Authentix made a hundred and eighty-four so that the school just won and the story of how there were five men out in the deep for him and how he put the slow bowler over their heads and over the ropes eight times in three overs had passed into a school legend. But today other things than cricket occupied his attention. He had run Wilson to earth and was engaged in making his acquaintance, according to instructions received. Are you Wilson? he asked. P. V. Wilson. Wilson confirmed the charge. My name's Marion. Does that convey any significance to your young mind? Oh yes, my Mater knows somebody who knows your aunt. It is a true bill. And she said you would look after me. I know you won't have time, of course. I expect I shall have time to give you all the looking after you'll require. It won't be much from all I've heard. Was all that true about you and young Skinner? Wilson grinned. I did have a bit of a row with a chap called Skinner, he admitted. So Skinner seems to think, said Marriott. What was it all about? Oh, he made an ass of himself, said Wilson vaguely. Marriott, not it. He would. I know the man. I shouldn't think you'd have much trouble with Skinner in the future. By the way, I've got you for a fag this term. You don't have to do much in the summer, just rot about, you know, and go to the shop for biscuits and things, that's all. And within limits, of course, you'll get the run of the study. I see, said Wilson, gratefully, the prospect was pleasant. Oh yes, and it's your privilege to pipe-claim my cricket boots occasionally before first matches. You'll like that. Can you steer a boat? I don't think so, I never tried. It's easy enough, I'll tell you what to do. Anyhow, you probably won't steer any worse than I row, so let's go and get a boat out, and I'll try and think of a few more words of wisdom for your benefit. At the next, Norris had finished his innings, and Pringo was batting in his stead. Gethron had given up his ball to Baines, who bowed slow leg breaks and was the most probable of the probables above mentioned. He went to where Norris was taking off his pads and began to talk to him. Norris was the head of Jefferson's house, and he and the bishop were very good friends in a casual sort of way. If they did not see one another for a couple of days, neither of them broke his heart. Whenever on the other hand they did meet, they were always glad and always had plenty to talk about. Most school friendships are of that description. You were sending down some rather hot stuff, said Norris, as Gethron sat down beside him, and began to inspect Pringo's performance with a critical eye. I did feel rather fit, said he, but I don't think half those that got you would have taken wickets in a match. You aren't informed yet. I tell you what it is, bishops, said Norris. I believe I'm going to be a rank failure this season. Being captain does put one off. Don't be an idiot, man. How can you possibly tell after one day's play at the Nets? I don't know. I feel so beastly anxious somehow. I feel as if I was personally responsible for every match lost. It was all right last year when John Brown was captain. Good old John. Do you remember his running you out in the Charchester match? Don't, said Gethron, pathetically. The only time I've ever felt as if I really was going to make that century. By Jove, see that drive? Pringle seems all right. Yes, you know, he'll simply walk into his blue when he goes up to the varsity. What do you think of Banes? What, to be rather useful on his wicket? Jefferson thinks he's good. Mr. Jefferson looked after the school crooked. Yes, I believe he rather fancies him, said Morris. Says he ought to do some big things if we get any rain. Hello, Pringle. Are you coming out? You'd better go in, then, Bishop. All right, thanks. Oh, by Jove, though, I forgot. I can't. I've got to go down to the station to meet an uncle of mine. What's he coming up today for? Why didn't he wait till we got a match of sorts on? I don't know. The man's probably a lunatic. Anyhow, I shall have to go and meet him, and I shall just do it comfortably if I go and change now. Oh, right you are. Sammy, do you want a knock? Samuel Wilberforce Gosling, known to his friends and admirers as Sammy, replied that he did not. All he wanted now, he said, was a drink, or possibly two drinks and a jolly good rest in the shade somewhere. Gosling was one of those rare individuals who cultivate bowling at the expense of batting, a habit the reverse of what usually obtains in schools. Nora submitted the justice of his claims and sent in a second eleven-man baker, a member of his own house in Pringle's place. Pringle and Gosling adjourned to the school shop for a refreshment. Gethron walked with them as far as the gate, which opened on the road, where most of the boarding houses stood, and then branched off in the direction of Lichesters. The change in everyday costume took him a quarter of an hour at the end of which period he left the house and began to walk down the road in the direction of the station. It was an hour's easy walking between Horton, the nearest station to Beckford and the college. Gethron, who was rather tired after his exertions at the Nets, took it very easily, and when he arrived at his destination the church clock was striking for. Is the 356 in yet, he asked of the solitary porter who ministered to the needs of the traveller at Horton Station? Just to come in and now, sir, said the porter, adding in a sort of inspired frenzy, Horton, Horton Station, Horton, and ringing a bell with immense enthusiasm and vigor. Gethron strolled to the gate, where the stationmaster's son stood at the receipt of custom to collect the tickets. His uncle was to arrive by this train, and if he did so arrive, must of necessity, pass this way before leaving the platform. The train panted in, pulled up, whistled, and puffed out again, leaving three people behind it. One of these was a woman of sixty, approximately, the second a small girl of ten, the third a young gentleman in a top hat and eatens, who carried a bag and looked as if he had seen the hollowness of things, for his face wore a bored, supercilious look. His uncle had evidently not arrived, unless he had come disguised as an old woman, an act of which Gethron refused to believe him capable. He inquired as to the next train that was expected to arrive from London. The stationmaster's son was not sure, but would ask the porter, whose name it appeared was Johnny. Johnny gave the correct answer without an effort. Seven-thirty it was, sir, except on Saturdays, when it was eight o'clock. Thanks said the bishop, dashed the man he might at least have wired. He registered a silent wish concerning the uncle who had brought him a long three miles out of his way, with nothing to show at the end of it, and was just turning to leave the station, when the top had its small boy, who had been hovering round the group during the conversation, addressed winged words to him. These were the winged words. I say, are you looking for somebody? The bishop stared at him as a naturalist stares at a novel species of insect. Yes, he said. Why? It's your name, Gethron. This affair thought the bishop was beginning to assume an uncanny aspect. How the dickens did you know that, he said. Oh, then you are, Gethron. That's all right. I was told you were going to be here to meet this train. Glad to make your acquaintance. My name's Farney. I'm your uncle, you know. My what, gurgled bishop? Your uncle. UN, UN, CLE, Coal, Uncle. Fact, I assure you. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 A Prefect's Uncle This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. A Prefect's Uncle by P. G. Woodhouse. 1881-1975. Chapter 3. The Uncle Makes Himself At Home But dash it, said Gethron, when he had finished gasping. That must be rot. Not a bit, said the self-possessed youth. Your mater was my elder sister. You'll find it works out all right. Look here. A, the daughter of B and C, marries. No. Look here. I was born when you were four, see? Then the demoralized bishop remembered. He had heard of his juvenile uncle. But the tales had made little impression upon him. Till now they had not crossed one another's tracks. Oh, all right, said he. I'll take your word for it. You seem to have been getting up this subject. Yes, thought you might want to know about it. I say, how far is it to Beckford? And how do you get there? Up till now, Gethron had scarcely realized that his uncle was actually coming to the school for good. These words brought the fact home to him. Oh Lord, he said, are you coming to Beckford? The thought of having his footsteps perpetually dogged by an uncle four years younger than himself and manifestly a youth with a fine taste in cheek was not pleasant. Of course, said his uncle, what did you think I was going to do? Camp out on the platform? What house are you in? Leicesters? The worst had happened. The bitter cup was full. The iron neatly inserted in Gethron's soul. In his most pessimistic moments, he had never looked forward to the coming term so gloomily as he did now. His uncle noted his lack of enthusiasm and attributed it to anxiety on behalf of himself. What's up, he asked, isn't Leicester all right? Is Leicester a beast? No, he's a perfectly decent sort of man. It's a good enough house. At least it will be this term. I was only thinking of something. I see. Well, how do you get to the place? Walk, it isn't far. How far? Three miles. The porter said four. It may be four, I never measured it. Well, how the dickens do you think I'm going to walk four miles with luggage? I wish you wouldn't rot. And before Gethron could quite realize that he, the head of Leicester's, the second best bowler in the school and the best center three-quarter the school had had for four seasons, had been requested in a peremptory manner by a youth of fourteen, a mere kid not to rot. The offender was talking to a cab man out of the reach of retaliation. Gethron became more convinced every minute that this was no ordinary kid. This man says, observed Farnie, returning to Gethron, that he'll drive me up to the college for seven bob. As it's a short four miles, and I've only got two boxes, it seems to me that he's doing himself fairly well. What do you think? Nobody ever gives more than four bob, said Gethron. I told you so, said Farnie to the cab man. You are a belly swindler, he added admiringly. Look here began the cab man in a pained voice. Oh dry up, said Farnie. Want to lift, Gethron? The words were spoken not so much as from equal to equal as in a tone of airy patronage which made the bishop's blood boil. But as he intended to instill a few words of wisdom into his uncle's mind, he did not refuse the offer. The cab man, apparently accepting the situation, as one of those slings and arrows of outrageous fortune which no man can hope to escape, settled down on the box, clicked up his horse, and drove on towards the college. What sort of a hole is Beckford asked Farnie after the silence had lasted some time? I find it good enough, personally, said Gethron. If you'd let us know earlier that you are coming, we'd have had the place done up a bit for you. This, of course, was feeble, distinctly feeble, but the bishop was not feeling himself. The essay in sarcasm left the would-be victim entirely uncrushed. He should have shrunk and withered up, or at the least have blushed. But he did nothing of the sort. He merely smiled in his supercilious way until the bishop felt very much inclined to spring upon him and throw him out of the cab. There was another pause. Farnie began Gethron at last. Um, doesn't it strike you that for a kid like you, you've got a good deal of edge on? asked Gethron. Farnie effected a masterly counter-stroke. He pretended not to be able to hear. He was sorry, but would the bishop mind repeating his remark? Eh, what, he said? Very sorry, but this cab's making such a row. I say, Cabby, why don't you sign the pledge and save your money up to buy a new cab? Eh? Oh, sorry, I wasn't listening. Now, inasmuch as the whole virtue of the wretched little kid like you, argument, lies in the crisp dispatch with which it is delivered, Gethron began to find, on repeating his observation for the third time, that there was not quite so much in it as he had thought. He prudently elected to change his style of attack. It doesn't matter, he said wearily, as Farnie opened his mouth to demand a fourth encore. It wasn't anything important. Now, look here, I just want to give you a few tips about what to do when you get to the call. To start with, you'll have to take off that white tie you've got on. Black and dark blue are the only sorts allowed here. How about yours then? Gethron was wearing a somewhat sweet thing in brown and yellow. Mine happens to be a first eleven tie. Oh, well, as a matter of fact, you know, I was going to take off my tie. I always do, especially at night. It's a sort of habit I've got into. Not quite so much of your beastly cheek, please, said Gethron. Right ho, said Farnie cheerfully, and silence, broken only by the shrieking of the cab wheels, brooded once more over the cab. Then Gethron, feeling that perhaps it would be a shame to jump too severely on a new boy on his first day at a large public school, began to think of something conciliatory to say. Look here, he said. You'll get on all right at Beckford, I expect. You'll find Leicester's a fairly decent sort of house. Anyhow, you needn't be afraid you'll get bullied. There's none of that sort of thing at school nowadays. Really? Yes, and there's another thing I ought to warn you about. Have you brought much money with you? About fourteen pounds, I fancy, said Farnie carelessly. Fourteen what, said the amazed bishop, pounds? Or sovereigns, said Farnie, each worth twenty shillings, you know? For a moment Gethron's only feeling was one of unmixed envy. Previously he had considered himself passing rich on thirty shillings a term. He had heard legends, of course, of individuals who come to school bursting with bullion, but never before had he set eyes upon such and one. But after a time it began to dawn upon him that for a new boy at a public school, and especially at such a house as Leicester's, had become under the rule of the late Reynolds and his predecessors, there might be such a thing as having too much money. How the deuce did you get all that, he asked. My pater gave it me, he's absolutely cracked on the subject of pocket money. Sometimes he doesn't give me a sue, and sometimes he'll give me whatever I ask for. But you don't mean to say you had the cheek to ask for fourteen quid. I asked for fifteen, got it too, I've spent a pound of it. I said I wanted to buy a bike. You can get a jolly good bike for five quid about, so you see I scoop ten pounds what? This ingenious, if slightly unscrupulous, feet gave Gethron an insight into his uncle's character, which up till now he had lacked. He began to see that the moral advice with which he had primed himself would be out of place. Evidently this youth could take quite good care of himself on his own account. Still, even a budding Professor Moriarty would be none the worse for being warned against Gethron's bet noir monk, so the bishop proceeded to deliver that warning. Well, he said, you seem to be able to look out for yourself all right, I must say, but there is one tip I really can give you. And a beast with a green complexion and an oily smile comes up and calls you old chap, and wants you to swear eternal friendship, tell him it's not good enough, squash him. Thanks, Sudfarny, who is this genial merchant? Chap called monk, you'll recognize him by the smell of scent. When you find the place smelling like an Eau de Cologne factory, you'll know monks somewhere near you. Don't you have anything to do with him? You seem to dislike the gentleman. I bar the man, but that isn't why I'm giving you the tip, to steer clear of him. There are dozens of chaps I bar, who haven't an ounce of vice in them. And there are one or two chaps who have got tons, monks one of them. A fellow called Danvers is another. Also a beast of the name of Waterford. There are some others as well, but those are the worst of the lot. By the way, I forgot to ask, have you ever been to school before? Yes, said Farny, in the dreamy voice of one who recalls memories from the misty past. I was at Harrow before I came here, and at Wellington before I went to Harrow, and at Clifton before I went to Wellington. Gathron gasped. Anywhere before you went to Clifton, he inquired. Only private schools. The recollection of the platitudes which he had been delivering, under the impression that he was talking to an entirely raw beginner, made Gathron feel slightly uncomfortable. What must this wanderer, who had seen men in cities, have thought of his harangue? Why did you leave Harrow? asked he. Sacked, was the laconic reply. Have you ever, asks a modern philosopher, gone upstairs in the dark, and trodden on the last step when it wasn't there? That sensation and the one Gathron felt at this unexpected revelation were identical, and the worst of it was that he felt the keenest desire to know why Harrow had seen fit to dispense with the presence of his uncle. Why he began? I mean, he went on hardly. Why did you leave Wellington? Sacked, said Farny again, with the monotonous persistence of a Solomon eagle. Gathron felt at this juncture much as the unfortunate gentleman in Punch must have felt, when, having finished a humorous story, the point of which turned upon squinting and red noses, he suddenly discovered that his host enjoyed both those peculiarities. He struggled manfully with his feelings for a time. Sacked urged him to discontinue his investigations and talk about the weather. Curiosity insisted upon knowing further details. Just as the struggle was at its height, Farny came unexpectedly to the rescue. It may interest you, he said, to know that I was not sacked from Clifton. Gathron, with some difficulty, refrained from thanking him for the information. I never stop at a school long, said Farny. If I don't get sacked, my father takes me away after a couple of terms. I went to four private schools before I started on the public schools. My pater took me away from the first two because he thought the drains were bad, the third because they wouldn't teach me shorthand, and the fourth because he didn't like the headmaster's face. I worked off those schools in a year and a half. Having finished this piece of autobiography, he relapsed into silence, leaving Gathron to recollect various tales he had heard of his grandfather's eccentricity. The silence lasted until the college was reached, when the matron took charge of Farny, and Gathron went off to tell Marriott of these strange happenings. Marriott was amused, nor did he attempt to conceal the fact. When he had finished laughing, which was not for some time, he favored the bishop with a very sound piece of advice. If I were you, he said, I should try and hush this affair up. It's all fearfully funny, but I think you'd enjoy life more if nobody knew this kid was your uncle. To see the head of the house going about, with a juvenile uncle in his wake, might amuse the chap's rather, and you might find it harder to keep order. I won't let it out, and nobody else knows, apparently. Go and square the kid. Oh, I say, though, what's his name? If it's Gathron, you're done, unless you like to swear he's a cousin. No, his name's Farny, thank goodness. That's all right, then. Go and talk to him. Gathron went to the junior study. Farny was holding forth to a knot of fags at one end of the room. His audience appeared to be amused at something. I say, Farny, said the bishop, half a second. Farny came out, and Gathron proceeded to inform him that all things considered, and proud as he was of the relationship, it was not absolutely essential that he should tell everybody that he was his uncle. In fact, it would be rather better on the whole if he did not. Did he follow? Farny begged to observe that he did follow, but that to his sorrow the warning came too late. I'm very sorry, he said, I hadn't the least idea you wanted the thing kept dark. How was I to know? I've just been telling it to some of the chaps in there. Awfully decent chaps. They seem to think it rather funny. Anyhow, I'm not ashamed of the relationship, not yet, at any rate. For a moment Gathron seemed about to speak. He looked fixedly at his uncle as he stood framed in the doorway, a cheerful column of cool, calm, concentrated cheek. Then, as if realizing that no words that he knew could do justice to the situation, he raised his foot in silence and booted his own flesh and blood with marked emphasis. After which ceremony he went, still without a word, upstairs again. As for Farny, he returned to the junior-day room whistling down south in a soft but cheerful key and solidified his growing popularity with doles of food from a hamper which he had brought with him. Finally, on retiring to bed and being pressed by the rest of his dormitory for a story, he embarked upon the history of a certain Pollock and an individual referred to throughout the day as Paro Man, the former of whom caused the latter to be decapitated and was ever afterwards haunted by his head which appeared to him all day and every day, not accepting Sundays and bank holidays, in an upside-down position and wearing a horrible grin. In the end, Pollock very sensibly committed suicide with ghastly details and the dormitory thanked Farny in a subdued and chastened manner and tried with small success to go to sleep. In short, Farny's first evening at Beckford had been quite a triumph. 4. Pringle Makes a Sporting Offer Estimating it roughly, it takes a new boy at a public school about a week to find his legs and shed his skin of newness. The period is, of course, longer in the case of some and shorter in the case of others. Both Farny and Wilson had made themselves at home immediately. In the case of the latter, directly the Skinner episode had been noised abroad, and it was discovered, in addition, that he was a promising bat. Public opinion recognized that here was a youth out of the common run of new boys, and the lower fourth, the form in which he had been placed on arrival took him to its bosom as an equal. Farny's case was exceptional. A career at Harrow, Clifton, and Wellington, however short and abruptly terminated, gives one some sort of grip on the way public school life is conducted. At an early date, moreover, he gave signs of what almost amounted to genius in the indoor game department. Now, success in the field is a good thing, and undoubtedly makes for popularity. But if you desire to command the respect and admiration of your fellow beings to a degree stretched almost to the point of idolatry, make yourself proficient in the art of whiling away the hours of afternoon school. Before Farny's arrival, his form, the upper fourth, with the best intentions in the world, had not been skillful raggers. They had ragged in an intermittent, once-a-week sort of way. When, however, he came on the scene, he introduced a welcome element of science into the sport. As witnessed the following, Mr. Strudwick, the regular master of the form, happened on one occasion to be away for a couple of days, and a stop-gap was put in his place. The name of the stop-gap was Mr. Somerville Smith. He and Farny exchanged an unspoken declaration of war almost immediately. The first round went in Mr. Smith's favor. He contrived to catch Farny in the act of performing some ingenious breach of the piece, and, it being a Wednesday and a half holiday, sent him into extra lesson. On the following morning, more by design than accident, Farny upset an ink pot. Mr. Smith observed icily that, unless the stain was wiped away before the beginning of afternoon school, there would be trouble. Farny observed to himself that there would be trouble in any case, for he had hit upon the central idea for the most colossal rag that, in his opinion, ever was. After morning school, he gathered the form around him and disclosed his idea. The floor of the form room, he pointed out, was some dozen inches below the level of the door. Would it not be a pleasant and profitable notion, he asked, to flood the floor with water to the depth of those dozen inches? On the wall outside the form room hung a row of buckets placed there in case of fire, and the lavatory was not too far off for practical purposes. Mr. Smith had bitten him wash the floor. It was obviously his duty to do so. The form thought so too. For a solid hour, thirty weary but enthusiastic reprobates labored without ceasing, and by the time the bell rang, all was prepared. The floor was one still silent pool. Two caps and a few notebooks floated sluggishly on the surface, relieving the picture of any tendency to monotony. The form crept silently to their places along the desks. As Mr. Smith's footsteps were heard approaching, they began to beat vigorously upon the desks, with the result that Mr. Smith, quickening his pace, dashed into the form room at a hard gallop. The immediate results were absolutely satisfactory, and, if matters subsequently, when Mr. Smith, having changed his clothes, returned with the headmaster, did get somewhat warm for the thirty criminals, they had the satisfying feeling that their duty had been done, and a hearty and unanimous vote of thanks was passed to Farny. From which it will be seen that master Reginald Farny was managing to extract more or less enjoyment out of his life at Beckford. Another person who was enjoying life was Pringle of the schoolhouse. The key note of Pringle's character was superiority. At an early period of his life, he was still unable to speak at the time his grandmother had died. This is probably the sole reason why he had never taught that relative to suck eggs. Had she lived, her education in that direction must have been taken in hand. Baffled in this, Pringle had turned his attention to the rest of the human race. He had a rooted conviction that he did everything a shade better than anybody else. This belief did not make him arrogant at all, and certainly not offensive, for he was exceedingly popular in the school. But still there were people who thought that he might occasionally draw the line somewhere. Watson, the ground man for example, thought so when Pringle primed him with advice on the subject of preparing a wicket. And Langdale, who had been captain of the team five years before, had thought so most decidedly, and had not hesitated to say so when Pringle, then in his first term and age twelve, had stood behind the first eleven net, and requested him peremptorily to keep them down, sir, keep them down. Indeed the great man had very nearly had a fit on that occasion, and was want afterwards to attribute to the effects of the shock, so received a sequence of three ducks, which befell him in the next three matches. In short, in every department of life, Pringle's advice was always, and generally unsought, at everybody's disposal. To round the position off neatly, it would be necessary to picture him as a total failure in the practical side of all the subjects in which he was so brilliant a theorist. Strangely enough, however, this was not the case. There were few better bats in the school than Pringle. Norris on his day was more stylish, and Marriott not infrequently made more runs, but for consistency Pringle was unrivaled. This was partly the reason why at this time he was feeling pleased with life. The school had played three matches up to date, and had won them all. In the first, an Oxford College team, containing several old Becfortians, had been met and routed, Pringle contributing thirty-one to a total of three hundred odd. But Norris had made a century, which had rather diverted the public eye from this performance. Then the school had played the Emirati, and had won again quite comfortably. This time his score had been forty-one, useful, but still not phenomenal. Then in the third match versus Charchester, one of the big school matches of the season, he had found himself. He ran up a hundred and twenty-three without a chance, and felt that life had little more to offer. That had been only a week ago, and the glow of satisfaction was still pleasantly warm. It was while he was gloating silently in his study over the bat, with which a grateful Field Sports Committee had presented him as a reward for this feat, that he became aware that Lorimer, his study companion, appeared to be in an entirely different frame of mind to his own. Lorimer was in the upper fifth, Pringle in the remove. Lorimer sat at the study table, knowing a pen in a feverish manner that told of an overwrought soul. Twice he uttered sounds that were obviously sounds of anguish, half groans and half grunts. Pringle laid down his bat and decided to investigate. What's up, he asked? Oh, this ballet poem thing, said Lorimer. Poem? Oh, ah, I know. Pringle had been in the upper fifth himself a year before, and he remembered that every summer term there descended upon that form a bad time. In the shape of a poetry prize. A certain Indian potentate, the Rajah of Seltzerpore, had paid a visit to the school some years back, and had left behind him on his departure certain monies in the local bank, which were to be devoted to providing the upper fifth with an annual prize for the best poem on a subject to be selected by the headmaster. Entrance was compulsory. The wily authorities knew very well that if it had not been, the entries for the prize would have been somewhat small. Why the upper fifth were so favored in preference to the sixth or remove is doubtful. Possibly it was felt that what with the Jones history, the Smith Latin verse, the Robinson Latin prose, and the Devere Crespigny Greek verse, and other trophies open only to members of the remove and sixth, those two forms had enough to keep them occupied as it was. At any rate, to the upper fifth the prize was given, and every year, three weeks after the commencement of the summer term, the bad time arrived. Can't you get on, asked Pringle? No. What's the subject? Death of Dido. Something to be got out of that, surely? Wish you'd tell me what? Heap of things. Such as what? Can't see anything myself? I call it perfectly indecent, dragging the good lady out of her well-earned tomb at this time of day. I've looked her up in the Dictionary of Antiquities, and it appears that she committed suicide some years ago. Body-snatching, I call it. What do I want to know about her? What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba, murmured Pringle? Hecuba, said Lorimer, looking puzzled. What's Hecuba got to do with it? I was only quoting, said Pringle, with gentle superiority. Well, I wish instead of quoting rot, you'd devote your energies to helping me with these beastly verses. How on earth shall I begin? You might adopt my quotation. What's Dido got to do with me or I to do with Dido? I rather like that. Jam it down. Then you go on in a sort of ragtime meter, in the Coondrum Major's style. Besides, you see, the beauty of it is that you administer a wholesome snub to the examiner right away. Makes him sit up at once. Put it down. Lorimer bit off another quarter of an inch of his pen. You needn't be an ass, he said shortly. My dear chap, said Pringle, enjoying himself immensely. What on earth is the good of my offering you suggestions if you won't take them? Lorimer said nothing. He bit off another mouthful of penholder. Well, anyway, resumed Pringle, I can't see why you're so keen on the business. Put down anything. The beaks never make a fuss about these special exams. It isn't the beaks I care about, said Lorimer, in an injured tone of voice, as if someone had been insinuating that he had committed some crime. Only my people are rather keen on my doing well in this exam. Why this exam, particularly? Oh, I don't know. My grandfather or someone was a bit of a pro-adverse in his day, I believe, and they think it ought to run in the family. Pringle examined the situation in all its aspects. Can't you get along, he inquired at length? Not an inch. Pity, I wish we could swap places. So do I, for some things, to start with, I shouldn't mind having made that century of yours against Charchester. Pringle beamed. The least hint that his fellow man was taking him at his own valuation always made him happy. Thanks, he said. No, but what I meant was that I wished I was in for this poetry prize. I bet I could turn out a rattling good screed. Why, last year I almost got the prize. I sent in fearfully hot stuff. Think so, said Lorimer doubtfully, in answer to the rattling good screed passage of Pringle's speech. Well, I wish you'd have a shot. You might as well. What, really? How about the prize? Oh, hang the prize. We'll have to chance that. I thought you were keen on getting it. Oh, no. Second or third will do me all right and satisfy my people. They only want to know for certain that I've got the poetic aphelitis, all right. Will you take it on? All right. Thanks, awfully. I say, Lorimer, said Pringle after a pause. Yes? Are your people coming down for the OB's match? The old Beckfordian's match was the great function of the Beckford Cricket season. The headmaster gave a garden party. The school band played. The school choir sang. And sisters, cousins, aunts, and parents flocked to the school in platoons. Yes, I think so, said Lorimer. Why? Is your sister coming? Oh, I don't know. A brother's utter lack of interest in his sister's actions is a weird and wonderful thing for an outsider to behold. Well, look here. I wish you'd get her to come. We could give them tea in here and have rather a good time, don't you think? All right. I'll make her come. Look here, Pringle. I believe you're rather gone on Mabel. This was Lorimer's vulgar way. Don't be an ass, said Pringle, with a laugh which should have been careless, but was in reality merely feeble. She's quite a kid. Miss Mabel Lorimer's exact age was fifteen. She had brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile which disclosed to view a dimple. There are worse things than a dimple. Distinctly so indeed. When ladies of fifteen possess dimples, mere man becomes but as a piece of damp blotting paper. Pringle was seventeen and a half and consequently too old to take note of such frivolous attributes. But all the same, he had a sort of vague, sketchy impression that it would be pleasanter to run up a lively sentry against the obese with Miss Lorimer as a spectator than in her absence. He felt pleased that she was coming. I say about this poem, said Lorimer, dismissing the subject which manifestly bored him, and returning to one which was of vital interest. You're sure you can write fairly decent stuff. It's no good sending in stuff that'll turn the examiner's hair gray. Can you turn out something really decent? Pringle said nothing. He smiled gently as who should observe I and Shakespeare. A Prefect's Uncle by P. G. Woodhouse Chapter 5 Farney Gets Into Trouble It was perhaps only natural that Farney, having been warned so strongly of the inadvisability of having anything to do with Monk, should for that very reason be attracted to him. Nobody ever wants to do anything except what they are not allowed to do. Otherwise there is no explaining the friendship that arose between them. Jack Monk was not an attractive individual. He had a slack mouth and a shifty eye, and his complexion was the sort which friends would have described as olive, enemies with more truth as dirty green. These defects would have mattered little, of course, in themselves. There's many a bilious countenance, so to speak, covers a warm heart. With Monk, however, appearances were not deceptive. He looked a bad lot, and he was one. It was on the second morning of term that the acquaintance ship began. Monk was coming downstairs from his study with Danvers, and Farney was leaving the fag's day room. See that kid, said Danvers, that's the chap I was telling you about, Gethron's uncle you know. Not really. Let's cultivate him. I say, old chap, don't walk so fast. Farney, rightly concluding that the remark was addressed to him, turned and waited, and the three strolled over to the school buildings together. They would have made an interesting study for the observer of human nature. The two seniors, fancying that they had to deal with a small boy just arrived at his first school, and in the grip of that strange lost feeling which attacks the best of new boys for a day or so after their arrival. And Farney, on the other hand, watching every move as perfectly composed and at home as a youth should be with the experience of three public schools to back him up. When they arrived at the school gates, Monk and Danvers turned to go in the direction of their form room, the remove, leaving Farney at the door of the upper fourth. At this point a small comedy took place. Monk, after feeling hastily in his pockets, requested Danvers to lend him five shillings until next Saturday. Danvers knew this request of old, and he knew the answer that was expected of him. By replying that he was sorry, but he had not got the money, he gave Farney, who was still standing at the door, his cue to offer to supply the deficiency. Most new boys, they had grasped this fact from experience, would have felt it an honor to oblige a senior with a small loan. As Farney made no signs of doing what was expected of him, Monk was obliged to resort to the somewhat cruder course of applying for the loan in person. He applied. Farney, with the utmost willingness, brought to light a handful of money, mostly gold. Monk's eye gleamed approval, and he stretched forth an itching palm. Danvers began to think that it would be rash to let a chance like this slip. Ordinarily, the tacit agreement between the pair was that only one should borrow at a time lest confidence should be destroyed in the victim. But here was surely an exception, a special case. With a young gentleman so obviously a man of coin as Farney, the rule might well be broken for once. While you're about it, Farney old man, he said carelessly, you might let me have a bob or two if you don't mind. Five bobbles see me through to Saturday all right? Do you mean tomorrow, inquired Farney, looking up from his heap of gold? No, Saturday week. Let you have it back by then at the latest. Make a point of it. How would a quid do? Ripping, said Danvers ecstatically. Same here, assented Monk. Then that's all right, said Farney briskly. I thought perhaps you mightn't have had enough. You've got a quid, I know Monk, because I saw you haul one out at breakfast. And Danvers has got one too, because he offered to toss you for it in the study afterwards. And besides, I couldn't lend you anything in any case, because I've only got about fourteen quid myself. With which parting shot he retired, wrapped in gentle thought into his form room, and from the noise which ensued immediately upon his arrival, the shrewd listener would have deduced quite correctly that he had organized and taken the leading part in a general rag. Monk and Danvers proceeded upon their way. You got rather left there, old chap, said Monk at length. I like that, replied the outraged Danvers. How about you then? It seemed to me you got rather left too. Monk compromised. Well, anyhow, he said we shan't get much out of that, kid. Little beast, said Danvers complainingly, and they went on into their form room in silence. I saw your young relative in earnest conversation with friend Monk this morning, said Marriott, later on in the day to Gethron. I thought you were going to give him the tip in that direction. So I did, said the bishop wherely, but I can't always be looking after the little brute. He only does it out of sheer cussedness, because I've told him not to. It stands to reason that he can't like Monk. You remind me of the psalmist and the wicked man, sir name unknown, said Marriott. You can't see the good side of Monk. There isn't one. No, he's only got two sides, a bad side and a worse side, which he sticks on on the strength of being fairly good at games. I wonder if he's going to get his first this season. He's not a bad bat. I don't think he will. He is a good bat, but there are heaps better in the place. I say, I think I shall give young Farny the tip once more, and let him take it or leave it. What do you think? He'll leave it, said Marriott with conviction. Nor was he mistaken. Farny listened with enthusiasm to his nephew's second excursus on the Monk topic, and though he said nothing, was apparently convinced. On the following afternoon, Monk Danvers, Waterford and he hired a boat and went up the river together. Gethron and Marriott, steered by Wilson, who was rapidly developing into a useful coxswain, got an excellent view of them moored under the shade of a willow, drinking ginger beer, and apparently on the best of terms with one another and the world in general. In a brief but moving speech, the bishop finally excommunicated his erring relative. For all I care, he concluded, he can do what he likes in future, I shan't stop him. No, said Marriott, I don't think you will. For the first month of his school life, Farny behaved, except in his choice of companions, much like an ordinary junior. He played cricket moderately well, did his share of compulsory fielding at the first 11 net, and went for frequent river excursions with Monk Danvers and the rest of the mob. At first, the other juniors of the house were inclined to resent this extending of the right hand of fellowship to owners of studies and second-eleven men, and attempted to make Farny see the sin and folly of his ways. But nature had endowed that youth with a fund of vitriolic repartee. When Millett, one of Leicester's juniors, evolved some laborious sarcasm on the subject of Farny's swell friends, Farny, in a series of three remarks, reduced him, figuratively speaking, to a small and palpitating spot of Greece. After that, his actions came in for no further or at any rate no outspoken comment. Given six pence a week and no more, Farny might have survived an entire term without breaking any serious school rule. But when, after buying a bicycle from Smith of Markham's, he found himself with eight pounds to his name in solid cash and the means of getting far enough away from the neighborhood of the school to be able to spend it much as he liked, he began to do strange and risky things in his spare time. The great obstacle to illicit enjoyment at Beckford was the four o'clock roll call on half holidays. There were other obstacles such as half holiday games and so forth, but these could be avoided by the exercise of a little judgment. The penalty for non-appearance at a half holiday game was a fine of six pence. Constant absence was likely in time to lead to a more or less thrilling interview with the captain of Cricket, but a very occasional attendance was enough to stave off this disaster. And as for the six pence, to a man of means like Farny, it was a mere nothing. It was a bad system and it was a wonder under the circumstances how Beckford produced the elevens it did. But it was the system and Farny availed himself of it to the full. The obstacle of roll call, he managed also to surmount. Some reckless and penniless friend was generally willing for a consideration to answer his name for him. And so, most Saturday afternoons would find Farny leaving behind him the flanneled fools at their various wickets and speeding out into the country on his bicycle in the direction of the village of Biddlehampton where mine host of the cow and cornflower in addition to other refreshment for man and beast advertised that ping-pong and billiards might be played on the premises. It was not the former of these games that attracted Farny. He was no pinger, nor was he a pongster. But for billiards he had a decided taste, a genuine taste, not the pumped up affectations sometimes displayed by boys of his age. Considering his age, he was a remarkable player. Later on in life it appeared likely that he would have the choice of three professions open to him. Namely, professional billiard player, billiard marker, and billiard sharp. At each of the three he showed distinct promise. He was not lured to the green cloth by monk or danvers. Indeed, if there had been any luring to be done, it is probable that he would have done it and not they. Neither monk nor danvers was in his confidence in the matter. Billiards is not a cheap amusement. By the end of his sixth week, Farny was reduced to a single pound. A sum which, for one of his tastes, was practically poverty. And just at the moment, when he was least able to bear up against it, fate dealt him one of its nastiest blows. He was playing a fifty, up against a friendly but unskillful farmer at the cow and cornflower. Better look out, he said, as his opponent effected a somewhat rustic stroke. You'll be cutting the cloth in a second. The farmer grunted, missed by inches, and retired, leaving the red ball in the jaws of the pocket, and Farny with three to make to win. It was an absurdly easy stroke, and the bishop's uncle took it with an absurd amount of conceit and carelessness. Hardly troubling to aim, he struck his ball. The cue slid off in one direction, the ball rolled sluggishly in another. And when the cue had finished its run, the smooth green surface of the table was marred by a jagged and unsightly cut. There was another young man gone wrong. To say that the farmer laughed would be to express the matter feebly, that his young opponent, who had been irritating him unspeakably since the beginning of the game with advice and criticism, should have done exactly what he had cautioned him, the farmer, against a moment before, struck him as being the finest example of poetic justice he had ever heard of, and he signalized his appreciation of the same by nearly dying of apoplexy. The marker expressed an opinion that Farny had been and gone and done it. Air, he said, inserting a finger in the cut to display its dimensions, look here, this'll mean a new cloth, young fellow me lad. That's what this'll mean. That'll be three pound wheel trouble you for, if you please. Farny produced his soul remaining sovereign. All I've got, he said, I'll leave my name and address. Don't you trouble, young fellow me lad? said the marker, who appeared to be a very aggressive and unpleasant sort of character altogether, with meaning. I know your name and I know your address. Today, fortnight, at the very latest, if you please, you don't want me to have to go to your master about it. Now, do your what say? No, farewell then. Today, fortnight, is the time and you remember it. What was left of Farny then rode slowly back to Beckford. Why he went to Monk on his return, probably he could not have explained himself. But he did go, and having told his story in full, wound up by asking for a loan of two pounds. Monk's first impulse was to refer him back to a previous interview when matters had been the other way about. That small affair of the pound on the second morning of the term. Then there flashed across his mind certain reasons against this move. At present, Farny's attitude towards him was unpleasantly independent. He made him understand that he went about with him from choice and that there was to be nothing of the patron and dependent about their alliance. If he were to lend him the two pounds now, things would alter. And to have got a complete hold over master Reginal Farny, Monk would have paid more than two pounds. Farny had the intelligence to carry through anything, however risky, and there were many things which Monk would have liked to do. But owing to the risks involved, shirked doing for himself. Besides, he happened to be in funds just now. Well, look here old chap, he said. Let's have strict business between friends. If you'll pay me back four quid at the end of term, you shall have the two pounds. How does that strike you? It struck Farny, as it would have struck most people, that if this was Monk's idea of strict business, there were the makings of no ordinary financier in him. But to get his two pounds, he would have agreed to anything, and the end of term seemed a long way off. The awkward part of the billiard playing episode was that the punishment for it, if detected, was not expulsion, but flogging. And Farny resembled the lady in the Inglesby legends who didn't mind death, but who couldn't stand pinching. He didn't mind expulsion, he was used to it, but he could not stand flogging. That'll be all right, he said, and the money changed hands. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 A Prefect's Uncle This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Rita Butchos. A Prefect's Uncle by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter 6 And Stays There I say, said Baker of Jeffsons, excitedly, some days later, reeling into the study which he shared with Norris, have you seen the team the MCC's bringing down? At nearly every school, there is a type of youth who ask this question on the morning of the MCC match. Norris was engaged in putting the finishing touches to a snow-white pair of cricket boots. No, hello, where did you raise that sporter? Let's have a look. But Baker proposed to conduct this business in person. It is ten times more pleasant to administer a series of shocks to a friend than to sit by and watch him administering them to himself. He retained the sportsman, and began to read out the team. Thought Middlesex had a match, said Norris, as Baker paused dramatically to let the name of a world-famed professional sink in. No, they don't play sorry till Monday. Well, if they've got an important match like sorry on Monday, said Norris disgustedly, what on earth do they let their best man come down here to-day for and fag himself out? Baker suggested gently that if anybody was going to be fagged out at the end of the day, it would, in all probability, be the Beckford Bowlers, and not a man who, as he was careful to point out, had run up a century a mere three days ago against Yorkshire, and who was apparently at that moment at the very top of his form. Well, said Norris, he might crock himself or anything, rank bad policy, I call it. Anybody else? Baker resumed his reading. A string of unknowns ended in another celebrity. Blackwell, said Norris, not O.T. Blackwell. It says A.T., but, went on Baker brightening up again, they always get the initials wrong in the papers, certain to be O.T. By the way, I suppose you saw that he made eighty-three against Knott's the other day? Norris tried to comfort himself by observing that Knott's couldn't bowl for toffee. Last week too, said Baker, he made a hundred and forty-six not out against Malvern for the gentleman of Warwickshire, they couldn't get him out. He concluded with Unction. In spite of the fact that he himself was playing in the match today, and might under the circumstances reasonably look forward to a considerable dose of leather hunting, the task of announcing the bad news to Norris appeared to have a most elevating effect on his spirits. That's nothing extra special, said Norris, in answer to the last item of information, the Malvern wickets like a billiard table. Our wickets aren't bad either at this time of year, said Baker, and I heard rumours that they had got a record one ready for this match. It seems to me, said Norris, that what I'd better do, if we want to bat it all today, is to win the toss, though Sammy and the Bishop and Baines ought to be able to get any ordinary side out, all right? Only this isn't an ordinary side. It's a sort of improved county team. They've got about four men who might come off, but the MCC sometimes have a bit of a tail. We ought to have a look in if we win the toss. Hope so, said Baker. I doubt it, though. At a quarter to eleven, the school always went out in a body to inspect the pitch. After the wicket had been described by experts in hushed whispers as looking pretty good, the bell rang, and all who were not playing for the team, with the exception of the lucky individual who had obtained for himself the post of scorer, strolled back towards the blocks. Monk had come out with Waterford, but seeing Farny ahead and walking alone, he quitted Waterford and attached himself to the genial Reginald. He wanted to talk business. He had not found the speculation of the two pounds of very profitable one. He had advanced the money under the impression that Farny, by accepting it, was practically selling his independence. And there were certain matters in which Monk was largely interested, connected with the breaking of bounds and the purchase of contraband goods, which he would have been exceedingly glad to have performed by deputy. He had fancied that Farny would have taken over these jobs as part of his debt, but he had mistaken his man. On the very first occasion, when he had attempted to put on the screw, Farny had flatly refused to have anything to do with what he proposed. He said that he was not Monk's fag, a remark which had the merit of being absolutely true. All this, combined with a slight sinking of his own funds, induced Monk to take steps towards recovering the loan. I say, Farny, old chap, hello. I say, do you remember my lending you two quid some time ago? You don't give me much chance of forgetting it, said Farny. Monk smiled. He could afford to be generous towards such witticisms. I want it back, he said. All right, you'll get it at the end of term. I want it now. Why, awfully hard-up, old chap? You aren't, said Farny. You've got three pounds, twelve and six pence, half penny. If you'll keep counting your money in public, you can't blame a chap for knowing how much you've got. Monk, slightly disconcerted, changed his plan of action. He abandoned skirmishing tactics. Never mind that, he said. The point is that I want that four pounds. I'm going to have it, too. I know, at the end of term. I'm going to have it now. You can have a pound of it now. Not enough. I don't see how you expect me to raise any more. If I could, do you think I should have borrowed it? You might chuck rotting for a change. Now look here, old chap, said Monk. I should think you'd rather raise that tin somehow than have it get about that you'd been playing pills at some pub out of bounds. What? Farny, for one of the few occasions on record, was shaken out of his usual sang foie. Even in his easy coat of morality there had always been one crime which was an anathema, the sort of thing no fellow could think of doing. But it was obviously at this that Monk was hinting. Good Lord, man, he cried. You don't mean to say you're thinking of sneaking. Why, the fellows would boot you round the field. You couldn't stay in the place a week. There are heaps of ways, said Monk, in which a thing can get about without anyone actually telling the beaks. At present, I've not told a soul. But, you know, if I let it out to anyone, they might tell someone else, and so on. And if everybody knows a thing, the beaks generally get hold of it sooner or later. You'd much better let me have that four-quid old chap. Farny capitulated. All right, he said, I'll get it somehow. Thanks awfully old chap, said Monk, so long. In all Beckford, there was only one person who was in the least degree likely to combine the two qualities necessary for the extraction of Farny from his difficulties. These qualities were, in the first place, ability. In the second place, willingness to advance him, free of security, the four pounds he required. The person whom he had in his mind was Gethron. He had reasoned the matter out step by step during the second half of morning school. Gethron, though he had, as Farny knew, no overwhelming amount of affection for his uncle, might, in a case of great need, prove blood to be thicker, as per advertisement, than water. But, he reflected, he must represent himself as in danger of expulsion rather than flogging. He had an uneasy idea that if the bishop were to discover that all he stood to get was a flogging, he would remark with enthusiasm that, as far as he was concerned, the good work might go on. Expulsion was different. To save a member of his family from expulsion, he might think it worthwhile to pass round the hat amongst his wealthy acquaintances. If four plutocrats with four sovereigns were to combine, Farny, by their united efforts, would be saved. And he rather liked the notion of being turned into a sort of limited liability company, like the Duke of Plazatoro, at a pound a share. It seemed to add a certain dignity to his position. To Gethron's study, therefore, he went directly school was over. If he had reflected, he might have known that he would not have been there while the match was going on. But his brain, fatigued with his recent calculations, had not noted this point. The study was empty. Most people, on finding themselves in a strange and empty room, are seized with a desire to explore the same, and observe from internal evidence what manner of man is the owner. Nowhere does character come out so clearly as in the decoration of one's private den. Many a man, at present respected by his associates, would stand forth unmasked at his true worth, could the world but look into his room. For there they would see that he was so lost, to every sense of shame, as to cover his books with brown paper, or deck his walls with oleographs, presented with the Christmas numbers, both of which habits argue a frame of mind fit for murderers, stratagems, and spoils. Let no such man be trusted. The Bishop's study, which Farney now proceeded to inspect, was not of this kind. It was a neat study, arranged with not a little taste. There were photographs of teams with the college arms on their plain oak frames, and photographs of relations in frames which tried to look, and for the most part succeeded in looking, as if they had not cost four pins, three farthings at a Christmas bargain sale. There were snapshots of various moving incidents in the careers of the Bishop and his friends. Marriott, for example, as he appeared when carried to the pavilion, after that sensational sentry against the authentic. Robertson of Blakers winning the quarter mile. John Brown, Norris's predecessor in the captaincy, and one of the four best batsmen Bechford had ever had, batting at the nets. Norris taking a skier on the boundary in last year's MCC match, the Bishop himself going out to bat in the Charchester match, and many more of the same sort. All these Farney observed with considerable interest, but as he moved towards the bookshelf, his eye was caught by an object more interesting still. It was a cash box, simple and unornamental, but undoubtedly a cash box, and as he took it up, it rattled. The key was in the lock. In a boarding house at a public school, it is not, as a general rule, absolutely necessary to keep one's valuables always hermetically sealed. The difference between moom and tomb is so very rarely confused by the occupants of such an establishment that one is apt to grow careless, and every now and then accidents happen. An accident was about to happen now. It was at first without any motive except curiosity that Farney opened the cash box. He merely wished to see how much there was inside, with a view to ascertaining what his prospects of negotiating alone with his relative were likely to be. When, however, he did see, other feelings began to take the place of curiosity. He counted the money. There were ten sovereigns, one half sovereign, and a good deal of silver. One of the institutions at Beckford was a mission. The school, by more or less voluntary contributions, supported a species of home somewhere in the wilds of Kennington. No one knew exactly what or where this home was, but all paid their subscriptions as soon as possible in the term and tried to forget about it. Gethron collected not only for Lyster's house, but also for the sixth form, and was, consequently, if only by proxy, a man of large means. Too large, Farney thought. Surely four pounds to be paid back probably almost at once would not be missed. Why shouldn't he— Hello? Farney spun round. Wilson was standing in the doorway. Hello, Farney, said he. What are you playing at in here? What are you, retorted Farney politely? Come to fetch a book. Marriott said I might. What are you up to? Oh, shut up, said Farney. Why shouldn't I come here if I like? Matter of fact, I came to see Gethron. He isn't here, said Wilson, luminously. You don't mean to say you've noticed that already. You've got an eye like a hawk, Wilson. I was just taking a look round if you really want to know. Well, I shouldn't advise you to let Marriott catch you mucking his study up. Seen a book called Round the Red Lamp? Oh, here it is. Coming over to the field? Not just yet. I want to have another look round. Don't you wait, though? Oh, all right. And Wilson retired with his book. Now, though Wilson at present suspected nothing, not knowing of the existence of the cash box, Farney felt that when the money came to be missed and inquiries were made as to who had been in the study and when, he would recall the interview. Two courses, therefore, remained open to him. He could leave the money altogether, or he could take it and leave himself, in other words, run away. In the first case, there would, of course, remain the chance that he might induce Gethron to lend him the four pounds, but this had never been more than a forlorn hope. And in the light of the possibilities opened out by the cash box, he thought no more of it. The real problem was, should he or should he not take the money from the cash box? As he hesitated, the recollection of Munch's veiled threats came back to him, and he wavered no longer. He opened the box again, took out the contents, and dropped them into his pocket. While he was about it, he thought he might as well take all as only a part. Then he wrote two notes, one to the bishop, he placed on top of the cash box, the other he placed with four sovereigns on the table in Munch's study. Finally, he left the room, shut the door carefully behind him, and went to the yard at the back of the house where he kept his bicycle. The workings of the human mind, and especially of the young human mind, are peculiar. It never occurred to Farney that a result equally profitable to himself and decidedly more convenient for all concerned, with the possible exception of Munch, might have been arrived at if he had simply left the money in the box and run away without it. However, as the poet says, you can't think of everything. While LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, for more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Prefects Uncle by P. J. Wodehouse, Chapter 7 The Bishop Goes for a Ride The MCC match opened auspiciously. Norris, for the first time that season, won the toss. Tom Brown, we read, in a similar position, with the usual liberality of young hands, put his opponents in first. Norris was not so liberal. He may have been young, but he was not so young as that. The sun was shining on as true a wicket as has ever been prepared when he cried heads, and the coin, after rolling for some time and diminishing circles, came to a standstill with the dragon under most. And Norris returned to the pavilion and formed his gratified team that, all things considered, he rather thought that they would bat, and he would be obliged if Baker would get on his pads and come in first with him. The MCC men took the field. O.T. Blackwell, by the way, had shrunk into a mere brother of the century-making A.T., and the two schoolhouse representatives followed them. An amateur of lengthy frame took the ball, a man of pace to judge from the number of slips. Norris asked for two leg, an obliging umpire informant that he had got two leg. The long bowler requested short slip to stand finer, swung his arm as if to see the machinery still work, and dashed widely towards the crease. The match had begun. There are a few pleasanter or more thrilling moments in one school career than the first over of a big match. Pleasant, that is to say, if you are actually looking on. To have to listen to a match being started from the interior of a form room is, of course, maddening. You hear the sound of bat-meeting ball, followed by distant clapping. Somebody has scored. But who, and what, may be a fore, or may be a mere single. More important still, it may be the other side batting after all. Some miscreant has possibly lifted your best bowler into the road. The suspense is awful. It ought to be a school rule that the captain of the team should send a message round the form room, stating briefly and lucently the result of the toss. Then one would know where one was. As it is, the entire form is dependent on the man sitting under the window. The form master turns to ride on the blackboard. The only hope of the form shoots up like a rocket, gazes earnestly in the direction of the pavilion, and falls back with a thud into his seat. They haven't started yet. He informs the rest in a stage whisper. Silence, says the form master, and the whole business must be gone through again, with the added disadvantage that the master now has his eye fixed coldly on the individual near the window. Your only link with the outer world. Various masters have various methods under such circumstances. One more than excellent man used to close his book and remark, I think will make up a little party to watch this match. In the form, gasping its thanks crowded to the windows. Another, the exact antithesis of this great and good gentleman, on seeing a boy taking fitful glasses through the window, would observe acidly. You were perfect liberty, Jones, to watch the match if you cared to. But if you do, you will come in the afternoon to make up the time you waste. And as all that could be seen from that particular window as one of the umpires and a couple of fieldsmen, Jones would reluctantly elect to reserve himself, and for the present to turn his attention to Euripides again. You were one of the team and watched the match from the pavilion. You escape these trials, but there are others. In the first few overs of a school match, every ball looks to the spectators like taking a wicked. The fiendish ingenuity of the slow boulder, and the lightning speed of the fast man at the other end, make one feel positively ill. When the first ten has gone up on the scoring board, matters begin to write themselves. Today ten went up quickly. The fast man's first ball was outside the off stump in a half folly, and Norris, whatever the state of his nerves at the time, never forgot his forward drive. Before the bowler had recovered his balance, the ball was halfway to the ropes. The umpire waved a large hand towards the pavilion. The bowler looked annoyed, and the school inside the form rooms asked itself feverishly what had happened, and which side it was that was applauding. Having bowled his first ball too far up, the MCC man, on the principle of anything for a change, now put in a very short one. Norris, a new man after that drive, steered it through the slips, and again the umpire waved his hand. The rest of the over was more quiet. The last ball went for four buys, and then it was Baker's turn to face the slow man. Baker was a steady, plodding bat. He played five balls gently to mid-on, and glanced the six for a single to leg. With a fast bowler who had not yet got his length, he was more vigorous, and seceded in cutting him twice for two. With thirty up for no wickets, the school began to feel more comfortable, but at forty-three Baker was shattered by the man of pace, and retired with twenty to his credit. Gethrin came in next, but it was not to be his day out with the bat. The fast bowler, who was now bowling excellently, sent down one rather wide of the off-stump. The bishop made most of his runs from off-balls, and he had a go at this one. It was rising when he hid it, and it went off his bat like a flash. In a school match it would have been a boundary, but today there was unusual talent in the slips. The man from Middlesex darted forward and sideways. He took the ball one-handed, two inches from the ground, and received the applause which followed the effort with a rather bored look, as if he were saying, My good sirs, why make a fuss over these trifles? The bishop walked slowly back to the pavilion, feeling that his luck was out, and Pringle came in. A boy of Pringle's character is exactly the right person to go in, in an emergency like the present one. Two wickets had fallen in two balls, and the fast bowler was swelling visibly with determination to do the hat trick. But Pringle never went in, oppressed by the fear of getting out. He had a serene and boundless confidence in himself. The fast man trod a yorker. Pringle came down hard on it, and forced the ball past the bowler for a single. Then he and Norris settled down to a lengthy stand. I do like seeing Pringle bat, said Gosling. He always gives you the idea that he's doing your personal favor by knocking your bowling about. Oh, well hit! Pringle had cut a full pitch from the slow bowler to the ropes. Marriott, who had been silent and apparently in pain for some minutes, now gave out the following homemade effort. A dashing young sportsman named Pringle, on breaking his duck with a single, observe with a smile, just notice my style, how science with vigor I mingle. Little thing of my own, he added, quoting England's greatest librettist. I call it heart foam. I shall not publish it. Oh, run it out! Both Pringle and Norris were evidently in form. Norris was now not far from his fifty, and Pringle looked as if he might make anything. The century was up, and a run later Norris off drove the slow bowler's assessor for three, reaching his fifty by the stroke. Must be fairly warm work fielding today, said Rhys. By Joe, said Gethron, I forgot. I left my white hat in the house. Any of you chaps like to fetch it? There were no offers. Gethron got up. Marriott, you slacker, come over to the house. My good sir, I'm in next. Why don't you wait till the fellas come out of school and send a kid for it? He probably wouldn't know where to find it. I don't know where it is myself. No, I shall go, but there's no need to fag about it yet. Hello. Norris is out. Norris had stopped a straight one with his leg. He made fifty-one in his best manner in the school, leaving the form rooms at the exact moment when the fatal ball was being bold. We're just in time to applaud him and realize what they had missed. Gethron's desire for his hat was not so pressing as to make him deprive himself of the pleasure of seeing Marriott at the wickets. Marriott ought to do something special today. Unfortunately, after he had played out one over and hit two fours off it, the luncheon interval began. It was therefore not for half an hour that the bishop went at last in search of the missing headgear. As luck would have it, the hat was on the table, so that whatever chance he might have had of overlooking the note which his uncle had left for him on the empty cash box disappeared. The two things caught his eye simultaneously. He opened the note and read it. It is not necessary to transcribe the note in detail. It was no masterpiece of literary skill, but it had this merit that it was not vague. Reading it, one grasped its meaning immediately. The bishop's first feeling was that the bottom had dropped out of everything suddenly. Surprise was not the word. It was the arrival of the absolutely unexpected. Then he began to consider the position. Farne must be brought back. That was plain, and he must be brought back at once before anyone could get to hear of what had happened. Gethron had the very strongest objections to his uncle, considered purely as a human being, but the fact remained that he was his uncle and the bishop had equally strong objections to any member of his family being mixed up in a business of this description. Having settled that point, he went on to the next. How was he to be brought back? He could not have gone far, for he could not have been gone much more than half an hour. Again, from his knowledge of his uncle's character, he deduced that he had in all probability not gone to the nearest station, Horton. At Horton one had to wait hours at a time for a train. Farne must have made his way on his bicycle straight for the junction, Anfield, fifteen miles off by a good road. The train left Anfield for London at 3.30. It's now a little past two. On a bicycle he could do it easily and get back with his prize by about five if he rode hard. In that case all would be well. Only three of the school wickets had fallen and the pitch was playing as true as concrete. Besides, there was Pringle still in at one end, well set, and surely Marriott and Jennings and the rest of them would manage to stay in till five. They couldn't help it. All they had to do was to play forward to everything and they must stop in. He himself had got out, it was true, but that was simply a regrettable accident. Not one man in a hundred would have caught that catch. Though with luck he ought easily to be able to do the distance and get back in time to go out with the rest of the team to field. He ran downstairs and out of the house. On his way to the bicycle shed he stopped and looked towards the field, part of which could be seen from where he stood. The match had begun again. The fast bowler was just commencing his run. He saw him tear up to the crease and deliver the ball. What happened then he could not see owing to the trees which stood between him and the school grounds, but he heard the crack of ball meeting fat and a great howl of applause went up from the invisible audience. Boundary, apparently. Yes, that was the umpire's signaling. Evidently a long stand was going to be made. He would have oceans of time for his ride. Norse wouldn't dream of declaring the innings closed before five o'clock at the earliest, and no bowler could take seven wickets in the time on such a pitch. He hauled his bicycle from the shed and rode off at racing speed in the direction of Ionfield. End of Chapter 7