 CHAPTER XVI One moment said Mr. Lowry, might I ask what is the subject of the poem? Death of Dito, said the headmaster, good hackney, evergreen subject, mellow with years. Go on, Wells. Mr. Wells began. Queen of Tyre, ancient Tyre, will-home mistress of the wave, Mr. Lowry, who had sunk back into the recesses of his chair, and an attitude of attentive repose, sat up suddenly with a start. What, he cried? Hello, said Mr. Wells, has the beauty of the work come home to you already. You notice, he said, as he repeated the couplet, that flaws began to appear in the gem right from the start. It was rash of Mr. Lorimer to attempt such a difficult meter. Plucky but rash, he should have stuck to blank verse. Tyre you notice, two syllables to rhyme with, deny her, in line three. What did fortune ere deny her? Were not all her warriors brave? The last line seems to me distinctly weak. I don't know how it strikes you. You're hypercritical, Wells, said the head. Now for a boy, I consider that a very good beginning. What do you say, Lowry? I err. Oh, I think I am hardly a judge. To resume, said Mr. Morimer, Wells, he resumed and ran through the remaining verses of the poem with comments. When he had finished, he remarked that, in his opinion, a whiff of fresh air would not hurt him. The headmaster would excuse him. He would select another of those excellent cigars and smoke it out of doors. By all means, said the head. I think I won't join you myself, but perhaps Lowry will. No, thank you. I think I will remain. Yes, I think I will remain. Mr. Wells walked jauntily out of the room. When the door had shut, Mr. Lowry coughed nervously. Now the cigar, Lowry? I err. No, thank you. I want to ask you a question. What is your candid opinion of those verses Mr. Wells was reading just now? The headmaster laughed. I don't think Wells treated them quite fairly. In my opinion, they were distinctly promising, for a boy in the upper fifth, you understand. Yes, on the whole they showed distinct promise. They were mine, said Lowry. Yours? I don't understand. How were they yours? I wrote them. Every word of them. You wrote them, but my dear Lowry, I don't wonder that you're surprised. From my own part I am amazed, simply amazed. How the boy, I don't even remember his name, contrived to get a hold of them, I have not the slightest conception. But that he did so contrive is certain. The poem is word for word, literally word for word, the same as one which I wrote when I was at Cambridge. You don't say so. Yes, it can hardly be a coincidence. Hardly said the head. Are you certain of this? Perfectly certain. I'm not eager to claim the authorship, I can assure you. Especially after Mr. Wells very outspoken criticisms. But there is nothing else to be done. The poem appeared more than a dozen years ago in a small book called The Dark Horse. Ah, something in the white novel style, I suppose. No, Sid Mr. Lowry, sharply no, certainly not. They were serious poems, tragical most of them. I had them collected and published them at my own expense, very much at my own expense. I used to pseudonym, I am thankful to say, and as far as I could ascertain the total sale amounted to eight copies. I have never felt the very slightest inclination to repeat the performance. But how this boy managed to see the book is more than I can explain. He can hardly have bought it, the price was half a guinea, and there is certainly no copy in the school library. The thing is a mystery. A mystery that must be solved, said the headmaster. The fact remains that he did see the book, and it is very serious. Wholesale plagiarism of this description should be kept for the school magazine. It should not be allowed to spread to poetry prizes. I must see Lorimer about this tomorrow. Perhaps he can throw some light upon the matter. When in the course of morning school next day the school porter entered the upper fifth form room and informed Mr. Sims, who was engaged in trying to draw the beauties of Plautas' colloquial style into the upper fifth brain, that the headmaster wished to see Lorimer. Lorimer's conscience was so abnormally good that for the life of him he could not think why he had been sent for. As far as he could remember, there was no possible way in which the authorities could get at him. If he had been in the habit of smoking out of bounds and lonely fields and deserted barns, he might have felt uneasy. But whatever his failings, that was not one of them. Could not be anything about bounds because he had been so busy with cricket that he had no time to break them this term. He walked into the presence, glowing with conscious ruptitude, and no sooner was he inside than the headmaster with three simple words took every particle of starch out of his anatomy. "'Sit down, Lorimer,' he said. There are many ways of inviting a person to see himself. That genial take a pew of one's equal inspires confidence. The raucous sit-down in front of the frenzied pit when you stand up to get her better view of the stage is not so pleasant. But worst of all is the icy sit-down of the annoyed headmaster. In his mouth the words take to themselves new and sinister meanings. They seem to accuse you of nameless crimes, and to warn you that anything you may say will be used against you as evidence. "'Why have I sent for you, Lorimer?' Then asked he questioned that, and a very favorite one of the reverend Mr. Beckett, headmaster of Beckford. In nine cases out of ten the person addressed, paralyzed with nervousness, would give himself away upon the instant and confess everything. Lorimer, however, was saved by the fact that he had nothing to confess. He stifled an inclination to reply, because the woodpecker would peck her, or words to that effect, and maintained a pallet silence. "'Have you ever heard of a book called The Dark Horse?' Lorimer. Lorimer began to feel that the conversation was too deep for him. After opening and the conventional judge then placed the black cap on his head-manner, his assailant had suddenly begun to babble lightly of sporting literature. He began to entertain doubts of the headmaster's sanity. It would not have had it greatly to his mystification if the head had gone on to insist that he was the Emperor of Peru, and worked solely by electricity. The headmaster, for his part, was also surprised. He had worked for dismay, conscious guilt, confessions in the like, instead of blank amazement. He too began to have his doubts. Had Mr. Lowry been mistaken, it was not likely, but it was barely possible, in which case the interview had better be brought to an abrupt start until he had made inquiries. The situation was at a deadlock. Fortunately at this point half-past twelve struck, and the bell rang for the end of morning school. The situation was saved, and the tension relaxed. You may go, Lorimer, said the head. I will send for you later. He swept out of the room, and Lorimer raced over to the house to inform Pringle that the headmaster had run suddenly mad and should by rights be equipped with a straight waistcoat. He never saw such a man, he said, hold me out of school in the middle of a plowtice lesson, dumps me down in a chair, and then ask me if I've read some weird sporting novel or other. Sporting novel? My dear man. Well it sounded like it from the title. The title? Oh! What's up? Pringle had leaped to his feet as if he had suddenly discovered that he was sitting on something red hot. His normal air of superior calm had vanished. He was breathless with excitement. A sudden idea had struck him with the force of a bullet. What was the title he asked you if you'd read the book of? He demanded incoherently. The derby winner. Pringle sat down again, relieved. Oh! Are you certain? No, of course it wasn't that. I was only ragging. The real title was The Dark Horse. Hello, what's up now? Have you got him, too? What's up, I tell you, we're done for. Absolutely pipped. That's what's the matter. Hang it, man. Do give us a chance. Why can't you explain, and instead of sitting there talking like that, why are we done? What have we done anyway? The poem, of course, the prize poem. I forgot. I never told you. I hadn't time to write anything of my own. So I crypt it straight out of a book called The Dark Horse. Now do you see? Lorimer saw. He grasped the whole unpainted beauty of the situation in a flash, and for some moments it rendered him totally unfit for intellectual conversation. When he did speak, his observation was brief, but it teamed with condensed maning. It was the conversational parallel to the ox in the teacup. My aunt, he said. There'll be a row about this, said Pringle. What am I to say when he has me in this afternoon? He said he would. Let the whole thing out. No good trying to hush it up. He may let us down easy, if you're honest about it. It relieved Lorimer to hear Pringle talk about us. It meant that he was not to be left to bear the assault alone, which considering the whole trouble was, strictly speaking, Pringle's fault was only just. But how am I to explain? I can't reel off a long yarn. All about you did it all, and so on, it would be too low. I know, said Pringle. I've got it. Look here. On your way to the old man's room you pass the removed door. Well, when you pass, drop some money. I'll be certain to hear it, as I sit next to the door, and then I'll ask to leave the room and we'll go up together. Good man, Pringle, you're a genius. Thanks awfully. But as it happened, the crafty scheme was not found necessary. The blow did not fall till after lockup. Lorimer, being in the headmaster's house, it was possible to interview him without the fuss and advertisement and separable from a sending for during school. Just as he was beginning his night work, the butler came with a message that he was wanted in the headmaster's part of the house. It was only Mr. Lorimer, as the master wished to see, said the butler, as Pringle rose to accompany his companion in crime. That's all right, said Pringle. The headmaster's always glad to see me. I've got a standing invitation. He'll understand. At first, when he saw where he had only sent for one, the headmaster did not understand at all and said so. He had prepared to annihilate Lorimer, hip and thigh, where he was now convinced that his blank astonishment at the mention of the dark horse during their previous interview had been, in the words of the bard, a mere veneer, a while of guile. Since the morning, he had seen Mr. Lowry again and had with his own eyes compared the two poems, the printed and the written. The author, by special request, having hunted up a copy of that valuable work, the dark horse, from the depths of a cupboard in his rooms. His astonishment melted before Pringle's explanation, which was brief and clear, and gave way to righteous wrath. In well-chosen terms, he harangued the two criminals. Finally, he parlorated. There's only one point which tells in your favor. You have not attempted concealment. Pringle nudged Lorimer surreptitiously at this. And I may add that I believe that as you say, you did not desire actually to win the prize by underhand means. But I cannot overlook such an offense. It is serious, most serious. You will both of you go into extra lesson for the remaining Saturdays of the term. Extra lesson meant that instead of taking a half holiday on Saturday, like an ordinary law abiding individual, you treat it the day as if it were a full school day and worked from two till four under the eye of the headmaster. Taking into consideration everything, the punishment was not an extraordinarily severe one, for there were only two more Saturdays to the end of term. And the sentence made no mention of the Wednesday half holidays. But in effect, it was serious indeed. It meant that neither Pringle nor Lorimer would be able to play in the final house match against flychesters, which was fixed to begin on the next Saturday at two o'clock. Among the rules governing the house matches was one to the effect that no house might start a match with less than 11 men, nor might the 11 be changed during the progress of the match, a rule framed by the headmaster, not wholly without an eye to emergencies like the present. Thank goodness, said Pringle, that there aren't any more first matches. It's bad enough, though, by Jove, as it is. I suppose it's occurred to you that this cuts us out of playing in the final. Lorimer said the point had not escaped his notice. I wish he observed with simple pathos that I'd got the rajah of salt support here now. I'd strangle him. I wonder if the old man realizes that he's done his own house out of the cup. Wouldn't care if he did. Still, it's a sickening nuisance. Flychesters are assert now. Absolute cert, said Lorimer. Bands can't do all the bowling, especially on a hard wicket. And there's nobody else, as for our batting and fielding. Don't, said Pringle gloomily. It's too awful. On the following Saturday, Flychesters ran up a total in their first innings, which put the issue out of doubt and finished off the game on the Monday by beating the schoolhouse by six wickets. End of chapter 16. A disputed authorship. Chapter 17 of 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. A Prefect's Uncle by P.G. Wodehouse. Chapter 17, The Winter Term. It was the first day of the winter term. The bishop, as he came back by express, could not help feeling that, after all, life considered as an institution had its points. Things had mended steadily during the last weeks of the term. He had kept up his end as head of the house perfectly. The internal affairs of Lester's were going as smoothly as oil. And there was the cricket cup to live up to. Nothing pulls a house together more than beating all comers in the field, especially against odds, as Lester's had done. And then Monk and Danvers had left. That had set the finishing touch to a good term's work. The mob were no longer a power in the land. Waterford remained, but a subdued, benevolent Waterford, with a wonderful respect for law and order. Yes, as far as the house was concerned, Getheryn felt no apprehensions. As regarded the school at large, things were bound to come right in time. A school has very little memory. And in the present case, the bishop, being second man in the 15, had unusual opportunities of writing himself in the eyes of the multitude. In the winter term, cricket is forgotten. Football is the only game that counts. And to round off the whole thing, when he entered his study, he found a letter on the table. It was from Farny, and revealed two curious and interesting facts. Firstly, he had left, and Beckford was to know him no more. Secondly, this was even more remarkable. He possessed a conscience. Dear Getheryn, ran the letter. I'm writing to tell you, my father is sending me to a school in France, so I shall not come back to Beckford. I am sorry about the MCC match, and I enclosed the four pounds you lent me. I utterly bar the idea of going to France. It's beastly, yours truly are Farny. The money mentioned was in the shape of a cheque, signed by Farny Sr. Getheryn was distinctly surprised that all this time remorse like a warm eye the bud should have been feeding upon his uncle's de-masque cheek, as it were he had never suspected. His relatives demeanour since the MCC match had, it is true, been considerably toned down, but this he had attributed to natural causes, not unnatural ones like conscience. As for the four pounds, he had set it down as a bad debt. To get it back was like coming suddenly into an unexpected fortune. He began to think that there must have been some good in Farny after all, though he was feigned to admit that without the aid of a microscope, the human eye might well have been excused for failing to detect it. His next thought was that there was nothing now to prevent him telling the whole story to Reese and Marriott. Reese, if anybody, deserved to have his curiosity satisfied, the way in which he had abstained from questions at the time of the episode had been nothing short of magnificent. Reese must certainly be told. Neither Reese nor Marriott had arrived at the moment. Both were in the habit of returning at the latest possible hour, except at the beginning of the summer term. The bishop determined to reserve his story until the following evening. Accordingly, when the steady kettle was hissing on the etna and Wilson was crouching in front of the fire, making toast in his own inimitable style, he embarked upon his narrative. I say, Marriott, hello. Do you notice a subtle change in me this term? Does my expressive purple eye gleam more brightly than of your? It does, exactly so. I feel awfully bucked up. You know that kid Farny has left? I thought I missed his merry prattle. What's happened to him? Gone to a school in France somewhere. Jolly for France. Awfully. But the point is that now he's gone, I can tell you about that MCC match affair. I know you want to hear what really did happen that afternoon. Marriott pointed significantly at Wilson, whose back was turned. Oh, that's all right, said Getheryn. Wilson, yes? You mustn't listen. Try and think you're a piece of furniture. See? And if you do happen to overhear anything, you needn't go gassing about it. Follow? All right, said Wilson, and Getheryn told his tale. Jove, he said as he finished, that's a relief. It's something to have got that off my chest. I do bar keeping a secret. But I say, said Marriott. Well? Well, it was beastly good of you to do it, and that sort of thing, I suppose. I see that all right. But, my dear man, what a rotten thing to do. A kid like that, a little beast who simply cried out for sacking. Well, at any rate, it's over now. You need to jump on me. I acted from the best motives. That's what my grandfather, Farnie's pattern, you know, always used to say when he got at me for anything in the happy days of my childhood. Don't sit there looking like a beastly churchward in U.S. Buck up and take an intelligent interest in things. No, but really Bishop, said Marriott. You must treat this seriously. You'll have to let the other chaps know about it. How? Put it up on the notice board? This is to certify that Mr. Allen Getheryn of Leicester's house, Beckford, is dismissed without a stain on his character. You ask, how can I let them know? I seem to see myself doing the boy hero style of things. My friends, you wronged me. You wronged me very grievously. But I forgive you. I put up with your cruel scorn. I endured it. I stilled myself against it. And now I forgive you profusely, every one of you. Let us embrace. It wouldn't do. You must see that much. Don't be a goat. Is that toast done yet, Wilson? Wilson exhibited several pounds of the article in question. Good, said the Bishop. You're a great man, Wilson. You can make a small selection of those biscuits, and if you bag all the sugar ones, I'll slay you. And then you can go quietly downstairs and rejoin your sorrowful friends. And don't you go telling them what I've been saying? Rather not, said Wilson. He made his small selection and retired. The Bishop turned to Maria again. I shall tell Rhys because he deserves it. And I rather think I shall tell Gosling and Pringle. Nobody else, though. What's the good of it? Everybody will forget the whole thing by next season. How about Norris, asked Maria. Now there you have touched the spot. I can't possibly tell Norris myself. My natural pride is too enormous. Descended from a primordial atomic globule, you know, like Puba. And I shook hands with the Duke once. The man Norris and I, I regret to say, had something of a row on the subject last term. We parted with mutual expressions of hate and haven't spoken since. What I should like would be for somebody else to tell them all about it. Not you. It would look too much like a put-up job. So don't you go saying anything. Swear. Why not? Because you mustn't. Swear. Let me hear you swear by the bones of your ancestors. All right. I call it awful rot, though. Can't be helped. Painful but necessary. Now I'm going to tell Rhys, though I don't expect he'll remember anything about it. Rhys never remembers anything beyond his last meal. Idiot, said Marriot after him as the door closed. I don't know, though, he added to himself. And pouring himself out another cup of tea, he pondered deeply over the matter. Rhys heard the news without a motion. You're a good sort, Bishop, he said. I knew something of the kind must have happened. It reminds me of a thing that happened to. Yes, it is rather like it isn't it, said the Bishop. By the way, talking about stories, a chap I met in the holidays told me a ripper. You see, the chap and his brother, he discoursed fluently for some 20 minutes. Rhys sighed softly, but made no attempt to resume his broken narrative. He was used to this sort of thing. It was a fortnight later, and Marriot and the Bishop were once more seated in their study waiting for Wilson to get tea ready. Wilson may toast in the foreground. Marriot was in football clothes, rubbing his shin gently where somebody had kicked it in the scratch game that afternoon. After rubbing for a few moments in silence, he spoke suddenly. You must tell Norris, he said. It's all wrought. I can't. Then I shall. No, don't. You swore you wouldn't. Well, but look here. I just want to ask you one question. What sort of a time did you have in that scratch game tonight? Beastly. I touched the ball exactly four times. If I wasn't so awfully ornamental, I don't see what would be the use of my turning out at all. I'm no practical good to the team. Exactly. That's just what I wanted to get at. I don't mean your remark about your being ornamental, but about your never touching the ball, until you explain matters to Norris, you never will get a decent pass. Norris and you are a rattling good pair of center threes, but if he never gives you a pass, I don't see how we could expect to have any combination in the first. It's no good my slinging out the ball if the centers stick to it like glue directly, they get it and refuse to give it up. It's simply sickening. Mariet played half for the first 15 and his soul was in the business. But my dear chap said, Getheryn, you don't mean to tell me that a man like Norris would purposely rot up the first combination because he happened to have had a row with the other center. He's much too decent a fellow. No, I don't mean that exactly. What he does is this. I've watched him, he gets the ball, he runs with it till his man is on him and then he thinks of passing. You're backing him up. He sees you and says to himself, I can't pass to that cat, meaning me, meaning you. Thanks awfully. Don't mention it. I'm merely quoting his thoughts as deduced by me. He says, I can't pass to that, well, individual if you prefer it, or somebody else. So he hesitates and gets tackled or else slings the ball wildly out to somebody who can't possibly get to it. It's simply infernal. And we play the nomads tomorrow too. Something must be done. Somebody ought to tell him. Why doesn't Argenial Skipper assert his authority? He's a forward you see and doesn't get an opportunity of noticing it. I can't tell him, of course. I've not got my colors. You're assert for them. Hope so. Anyway, I've not got them yet and Norris has so I can't very well go slanging him to Hill, sort of thing rude people would call side. Well, I'll look out tomorrow and if it's as bad as you think, I'll speak to Hill. It's a beastly thing to have to do. Beastly, agreed Barriot. It's got to be done though. We can't go through the season without any combination in the three-quarter line, just to spare Norris's feelings. It's a pity though, said the bishop, because Norris is a ripping good sort of chap, really. I wish we hadn't had that bust up last term. End of chapter 17, the winter term. Chapter 18 of 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. A Prefect's Uncle by P.G. Wodehouse. Chapter 18, The Bishop Scores. At this point, Wilson finished the toast and went out. As he went, he thought over what he had just heard. Marriot and Gathron frequently talked the most important school politics before him. They had discovered at an early date that he was a youth of discretion who could be trusted not to reveal state secrets. But matters now seemed to demand such a revelation. It was a serious thing to do, but there was nobody else to do it, and it obviously must be done. So by a simple process of reasoning, he ought to do it. Half an hour had to elapse before the bell rang for lockup. There was plenty of time to do the whole thing and get back to the house before the door was closed. He took his cap and trotted off to Jefferson's. Norris was alone in his study when Wilson knocked at the door. He seemed surprised to see his visitor. He knew Wilson well by sight. He'd been captain of the first 11 and Wilson a distinctly promising junior bat. But this was the first time he had ever exchanged a word of conversation with him. Hello, he said, putting down his book. Oh, I say Norris began Wilson nervously. Can I speak to you for a minute? All right, go ahead. After two false starts, Wilson at last managed to get the thread of his story. He did not mention Marriott's remarks on football subjects, but confined himself to the story of Farny and the bicycle ride, as he had heard it from Gethron on the second evening of the term. So that's how it was, you see, he concluded. It was a long silence. Wilson sat nervously on the edge of his chair and Norris stared thoughtfully into the fire. So shall I tell him it's all right? asked Wilson at last. Tell who what's all right? asked Norris politely. Oh, er, Gethron, you know, replied Wilson, slightly disconcerted. He had had a sort of idea that Norris would have rushed out of the room, sprinted over to Lichesters and flung himself on the bishop's bosom in an agony of remorse. He appeared to be taking things altogether too coolly. No said Norris, don't tell him anything. I shall have lots of chances of speaking to him myself if I want to. It isn't as if we were never going to meet again. You better cut out now, there is the bell just going. Good night. Good night, Norris. Oh, and I say, said Norris, as Wilson opened the door. I meant to tell you some time ago, if you buck up next cricket season, it's quite possible that you'll get colors of some sort. You might bear that in mind. I will, said Wilson fervently. Good night, Norris, thanks awfully. The Nomads brought down a reasonably hot team against Beckford as a general rule for the school had a reputation in the football world. They were a big lot this year. Their forwards were capable and when after the school fullback had returned the ball into touch on the halfway line, the line out had resulted in a handball and a scrum. They prove that appearances were not deceptive. They broke through in a solid mass. The Beckford forwards never somehow seemed to get together properly in the first scrum of the big match and rushed the ball down the field. Norris fell on it. Another hastily formed scrum and the Nomads front rank was off again. 10 yards near the school line, there was another halt. Granger, the Beckford fullback whose specialty was the stopping of Russia's had curled himself neatly around the ball. Then the school forwards awoke to a sense of their responsibilities. It was time they did for Beckford was now penned up well within its own 25 line and the Nomad halves were appealing pathetically to their forwards to let the ball out for goodness sake. But the forwards fancy to combine rush was the thing to play. For a full minute, they pushed the school pack towards their line and then some rash enthusiast kicked the shade too hard. The ball dribbled out of the scrum on the school side and Marriott punted into the touch. You must let it out, you men, said the aggrieved halfbacks. Marriott's kick had not brought much relief. The visitors were still inside the Beckford 25 line and now that their forwards had realized the sin and folly of trying to rush the ball through, matters became decidedly warm for the school outsides. Norris and Gethran in the center and Granger it back performed prodigies of tackling. The wing three quarter hovered nervously about feeling that their time might come at any moment. The Nomad attack was concentrated on the extreme right. Phillips, the international was officiating for them as wing three quarters on that side and they played to him. If he once got the ball, he would take a considerable amount of stopping, but the ball never managed to arrive. Norris and Gethran stuck to their men closer than brothers. A prolonged struggle on the goal line is a great spectacle. That is why purely in the opinion of the present scribe, rugby is such a much better game than association. You don't get that sort of thing in soccer, but such struggles generally end in the same way. The Nomads were now within a couple of yards of the school line was a question of time. In three minutes, the whistle would blow for half time and the school would be saved. But in those three minutes, the thing happened. For the first time in the match, the Nomad forwards healed absolutely cleanly. Hitherto the ball had always remained long enough in the scrum to give Merritt and Wogan the school halves. Time to get round and on to their men before they could become dangerous. But this time the ball was in and out again in a moment. The Nomad half who was taking the scrum picked it up and was over the line before Merritt realized that the ball was out at all. The school lining the ropes along the touch line applaud it politely but feebly as was their custom when the enemy scored. The kick was a difficult one. The man had got over in the corner and failed. The referee blew his whistle for half time. The team sucked lemons and the Beckford forwards tried to explain to Hill the captain why they never got that ball in the scrums. Hill having observed bitterly as he did in every match when the school did not get 30 points in the first half that he would chuck the whole lot of them out next Saturday. The game recommenced. Beckford started on the second half with three points against them. But with both win, what there was of it and slope in their favor, three points especially in a club match where one's opponents may reasonably be expected to suffer from lack of training and combination is not an overwhelming score. Beckford was hopeful and determined. To record all the fluctuations of the game for the next 35 minutes is unnecessary. Copies of the Beckfordian containing a full report, Cramwood details and written in the most polished English may still be had from the editor at the modest price of six pence. Suffice it to say that two minutes from the kickoff, the Nomads increased the score with a goal from the mark. And almost immediately afterwards, Marriott gave the school there first score with a neat drop kick. It was about five minutes from the end of the game and the Nomads still led when the event of the afternoon took place. The Nomad forwards had brought the ball down the ground with one of their combined dribbles and a scrum had been formed on the Beckford 25 line. The visitors healed as usual. The half who was taking the scrum whipped the ball out in the direction of his colleague. But before it could reach him, Wogan had intercepted the pass and was off down the field through the enemy's three quarter line with only the back in front of him and with Norris in close attendance followed by Gethron. There's nothing like an intercepted pass for adding a dramatic touch to a close game. A second before it had seemed as though the school must be beaten for though they would probably have kept the enemy out for the few minutes that remained, they could never have worked the ball down the field by ordinary give and take play. And now, unless Wogan shamefully bungled what he had begun so well, victory was certain. There was a danger though. Wogan might in his excitement of the moment try to get past the back and score himself instead of waiting until the back was on him and then passing to Norris. The school on the touch line shrieked their applause, but there was a note of anxiety as well. A slight reputation which Wogan had earned for playing a selfish game spring up before their eyes. Would he pass or would he run himself if the latter of the odds were anything against his seceding? But everything went right. Wogan arrived at the back, drew that gentleman's undivided attention to himself and then slung the ball out to Norris, the model of what a pass ought to be. Norris made no mistake about it. Then the remarkable thing happened. The bishop, having backed Norris up for 50 yards at full speed, could not stop himself at once. His impetus carried him on when all need for expenditure of energy had come to an end. It was just slowing down, leaving Norris to complete the thing alone. When to his utter amazement, he found the ball in his hands. Norris had passed to him. With a clear run in, in the nearest foaming yards to the rear, Norris had passed. It was certainly weird, but his first duty was to score. There must be no mistake about the scoring. Afterward he could do any thinking that might be required. He shot at express speed over the line and placed the ball in the exact center of the white line which joined the post. Then he walked back to where Norris was waiting for him. Good man said Norris, that was awfully good. His tone was friendly. He spoke as he had been accustomed to speak before the MCC match. Catherine took his cue from him. It was evident that for reasons at present unexplained, Norris wished for peace. In such being the case, the bishop was only too glad to oblige him. No, he said, it was jolly good of you to let me in like that, why you'd only got to walk over. Oh, I don't know. I might have slipped or something. Anyhow, I thought I'd better pass. What price, Beckford, combination? The homemade article, eh? Rather, said the bishop. Oh, by the way, said Norris, I was talking to young Wilson yesterday evening or rather he was talking to me. Decent kid, isn't he? He was telling me about Farny, the MCC match, you know, and so on. Oh, said the bishop, he began to see how things had happened. Yes, said Norris, hello, that gives us the game. A roar of applause from the touchline greeted the successful attempt of Hill to convert Catherine's try into the necessary goal. The referee performed a solo on the whistle and immediately afterwards another as if as if as an encore. No side, he said pensively. The school had won by two points. That's all right, said Norris. I say, can you come and have tea in my study when you've changed? Some of the fellows are coming. I've asked Reese and Maria and Pringle said he'd turn up too. It'll be rather a tight fit, but we'll manage somehow. Right, said the bishop, thanks very much. Norris was correct, it was a tight fit, but then a study brew loses half its charm if there is room to breathe. It was a most enjoyable ceremony in every way. After the serious part of the meal was over and the time had arrived when it was found pleasanter to eat, wafer, biscuits, and muffins, the bishop obliged once more with a recital of his adventures on that distant day in the summer term. There were several comments when he had finished. The only one worth recording is Reese's. Reese's said it distinctly reminded him of a thing which had happened to a friend of a chap his brother had known at Sandhurst. End of chapter 18, end of a prefect's uncle by P.G. Wodehouse.