Mike, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse [e books for reading txt] 📗
- Author: Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
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congratulated him as he passed; and Mike noticed, with some surprise,
that, in place of the blushful grin which custom demands from the man
who is being congratulated on receipt of colours, there appeared on
his face a worried, even an irritated look. He seemed to have
something on his mind.
“Hullo,” said Mike amiably. “Got that letter?”
“Yes. I’ll show it you outside.”
“Why not here?”
“Come on.”
Mike resented the tone, but followed. Evidently something had happened
to upset Bob seriously. As they went out on the gravel, somebody
congratulated Bob again, and again Bob hardly seemed to appreciate
it.’
Bob led the way across the gravel and on to the first terrace. When
they had left the crowd behind, he stopped.
“What’s up?” asked Mike.
“I want you to read–-”
“Jackson!”
They both turned. The headmaster was standing on the edge of the
gravel.
Bob pushed the letter into Mike’s hands.
“Read that,” he said, and went up to the headmaster. Mike heard the
words “English Essay,” and, seeing that the conversation was
apparently going to be one of some length, capped the headmaster and
walked off. He was just going to read the letter when the bell rang.
He put the missive in his pocket, and went to his form-room wondering
what Marjory could have found to say to Bob to touch him on the raw to
such an extent. She was a breezy correspondent, with a style of her
own, but usually she entertained rather than upset people. No
suspicion of the actual contents of the letter crossed his mind.
He read it during school, under the desk; and ceased to wonder. Bob
had had cause to look worried. For the thousand and first time in her
career of crime Marjory had been and done it! With a strong hand she
had shaken the cat out of the bag, and exhibited it plainly to all
whom it might concern.
There was a curious absence of construction about the letter. Most
authors of sensational matter nurse their bomb-shell, lead up to
it, and display it to the best advantage. Marjory dropped hers into
the body of the letter, and let it take its chance with the other
news-items.
“DEAR BOB” (the letter ran),—
“I hope you are quite well. I am quite well. Phyllis has a cold,
Ella cheeked Mademoiselle yesterday, and had to write out ‘Little
Girls must be polite and obedient’ a hundred times in French. She
was jolly sick about it. I told her it served her right. Joe made
eighty-three against Lancashire. Reggie made a duck. Have you got
your first? If you have, it will be all through Mike. Uncle John
told Father that Mike pretended to hurt his wrist so that you could
play instead of him for the school, and Father said it was very
sporting of Mike but nobody must tell you because it wouldn’t be
fair if you got your first for you to know that you owed it to Mike
and I wasn’t supposed to hear but I did because I was in the room
only they didn’t know I was (we were playing hide-and-seek and I was
hiding) so I’m writing to tell you,
“From your affectionate sister
“Marjory.”
There followed a P.S.
“I’ll tell you what you ought to do. I’ve been reading a jolly good
book called ‘The Boys of Dormitory Two,’ and the hero’s an awfully
nice boy named Lionel Tremayne, and his friend Jack Langdale saves
his life when a beast of a boatman who’s really employed by Lionel’s
cousin who wants the money that Lionel’s going to have when he grows
up stuns him and leaves him on the beach to drown. Well, Lionel is
going to play for the school against Loamshire, and it’s the
match of the season, but he goes to the headmaster and says he wants
Jack to play instead of him. Why don’t you do that?
“M.
“P.P.S.—This has been a frightful fag to write.”
For the life of him Mike could not help giggling as he pictured what
Bob’s expression must have been when his brother read this document.
But the humorous side of the thing did not appeal to him for long.
What should he say to Bob? What would Bob say to him? Dash it all, it
made him look such an awful ass! Anyhow, Bob couldn’t do much.
In fact he didn’t see that he could do anything. The team was filled
up, and Burgess was not likely to alter it. Besides, why should he
alter it? Probably he would have given Bob his colours anyhow. Still,
it was beastly awkward. Marjory meant well, but she had put her foot
right in it. Girls oughtn’t to meddle with these things. No girl ought
to be taught to write till she came of age. And Uncle John had behaved
in many respects like the Complete Rotter. If he was going to let out
things like that, he might at least have whispered them, or looked
behind the curtains to see that the place wasn’t chock-full of female
kids. Confound Uncle John!
Throughout the dinner-hour Mike kept out of Bob’s way. But in a small
community like a school it is impossible to avoid a man for ever. They
met at the nets.
“Well?” said Bob.
“How do you mean?” said Mike.
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, is it all rot, or did you—you know what I mean—sham a crocked
wrist?”
“Yes,” said Mike, “I did.”
Bob stared gloomily at his toes.
“I mean,” he said at last, apparently putting the finishing-touch to
some train of thought, “I know I ought to be grateful, and all that. I
suppose I am. I mean it was jolly good of you—Dash it all,” he broke
off hotly, as if the putting his position into words had suddenly
showed him how inglorious it was, “what did you want to do if
for? What was the idea? What right have you got to go about
playing Providence over me? Dash it all, it’s like giving a fellow
money without consulting him.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever know. You wouldn’t have if only that ass
Uncle John hadn’t let it out.”
“How did he get to know? Why did you tell him?”
“He got it out of me. I couldn’t choke him off. He came down when you
were away at Geddington, and would insist on having a look at my arm,
and naturally he spotted right away there was nothing the matter with
it. So it came out; that’s how it was.”
Bob scratched thoughtfully at the turf with a spike of his boot.
“Of course, it was awfully decent–-”
Then again the monstrous nature of the affair came home to him.
“But what did you do it for? Why should you rot up your own
chances to give me a look in?”
“Oh, I don’t know…. You know, you did me a jolly good turn.”
“I don’t remember. When?”
“That Firby-Smith business.”
“What about it?”
“Well, you got me out of a jolly bad hole.”
“Oh, rot! And do you mean to tell me it was simply because of that–-?”
Mike appeared to him in a totally new light. He stared at him as if he
were some strange creature hitherto unknown to the human race. Mike
shuffled uneasily beneath the scrutiny.
“Anyhow, it’s all over now,” Mike said, “so I don’t see what’s the
point of talking about it.”
“I’m hanged if it is. You don’t think I’m going to sit tight and take
my first as if nothing had happened?”
“What can you do? The list’s up. Are you going to the Old Man to ask
him if I can play, like Lionel Tremayne?”
The hopelessness of the situation came over Bob like a wave. He looked
helplessly at Mike.
“Besides,” added Mike, “I shall get in next year all right. Half a
second, I just want to speak to Wyatt about something.”
He sidled off.
“Well, anyhow,” said Bob to himself, “I must see Burgess about it.”
WYATT IS REMINDED OF AN ENGAGEMENT
There are situations in life which are beyond one. The sensible man
realises this, and slides out of such situations, admitting himself
beaten. Others try to grapple with them, but it never does any good.
When affairs get into a real tangle, it is best to sit still and let
them straighten themselves out. Or, if one does not do that, simply to
think no more about them. This is Philosophy. The true philosopher is
the man who says “All right,” and goes to sleep in his arm-chair.
One’s attitude towards Life’s Little Difficulties should be that of
the gentleman in the fable, who sat down on an acorn one day, and
happened to doze. The warmth of his body caused the acorn to
germinate, and it grew so rapidly that, when he awoke, he found
himself sitting in the fork of an oak, sixty feet from the ground. He
thought he would go home, but, finding this impossible, he altered his
plans. “Well, well,” he said, “if I cannot compel circumstances to my
will, I can at least adapt my will to circumstances. I decide to
remain here.” Which he did, and had a not unpleasant time. The oak
lacked some of the comforts of home, but the air was splendid and the
view excellent.
To-day’s Great Thought for Young Readers. Imitate this man.
Bob should have done so, but he had not the necessary amount of
philosophy. He still clung to the idea that he and Burgess, in
council, might find some way of making things right for everybody.
Though, at the moment, he did not see how eleven caps were to be
divided amongst twelve candidates in such a way that each should have
one.
And Burgess, consulted on the point, confessed to the same inability
to solve the problem. It took Bob at least a quarter of an hour to get
the facts of the case into the captain’s head, but at last Burgess
grasped the idea of the thing. At which period he remarked that it was
a rum business.
“Very rum,” Bob agreed. “Still, what you say doesn’t help us out much,
seeing that the point is, what’s to be done?”
“Why do anything?”
Burgess was a philosopher, and took the line of least resistance, like
the man in the oak-tree.
“But I must do something,” said Bob. “Can’t you see how rotten it is
for me?”
“I don’t see why. It’s not your fault. Very sporting of your brother
and all that, of course, though I’m blowed if I’d have done it myself;
but why should you do anything? You’re all right. Your brother stood
out of the team to let you in it, and here you are, in it.
What’s he got to grumble about?”
“He’s not grumbling. It’s me.”
“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want your first?”
“Not like this. Can’t you see what a rotten position it is for me?”
“Don’t you worry. You simply keep on saying you’re all right. Besides,
what do you want me to do? Alter the list?”
But for the thought of those unspeakable outsiders, Lionel Tremayne
and his headmaster, Bob might have answered this question in the
affirmative; but he had the public-school boy’s terror of seeming to
pose or do anything theatrical. He would have done a good deal to put
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