Mike, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse [e books for reading txt] 📗
- Author: Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
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“We’ll risk it,” said Mike.
Jellicoe giggled in the background; the drama in the atmosphere
appealed to him. His was a simple and appreciative mind.
“Come on, you chaps,” cried Spiller suddenly.
There was an inward rush on the enemy’s part, but Mike had been
watching. He grabbed Spiller by the shoulders and ran him back against
the advancing crowd. For a moment the doorway was blocked, then the
weight and impetus of Mike and Spiller prevailed, the enemy gave back,
and Mike, stepping into the room again, slammed the door and locked
it.
“A neat piece of work,” said Psmith approvingly, adjusting his tie at
the looking-glass. “The preliminaries may now be considered over, the
first shot has been fired. The dogs of war are now loose.”
A heavy body crashed against the door.
“They’ll have it down,” said Jellicoe.
“We must act, Comrade Jackson! Might I trouble you just to turn that
key quietly, and the handle, and then to stand by for the next
attack.”
There was a scrambling of feet in the passage outside, and then a
repetition of the onslaught on the door. This time, however, the door,
instead of resisting, swung open, and the human battering-ram
staggered through into the study. Mike, turning after re-locking the
door, was just in time to see Psmith, with a display of energy of
which one would not have believed him capable, grip the invader
scientifically by an arm and a leg.
Mike jumped to help, but it was needless; the captive was already
on the window-sill. As Mike arrived, Psmith dropped him on to the
flowerbed below.
Psmith closed the window gently and turned to Jellicoe. “Who was our
guest?” he asked, dusting the knees of his trousers where they had
pressed against the wall.
“Robinson. I say, you are a chap!”
“Robinson, was it? Well, we are always glad to see Comrade Robinson,
always. I wonder if anybody else is thinking of calling?”
Apparently frontal attack had been abandoned. Whisperings could be
heard in the corridor.
Somebody hammered on the door.
“Yes?” called Psmith patiently.
“You’d better come out, you know; you’ll only get it hotter if you
don’t.”
“Leave us, Spiller; we would be alone.”
A bell rang in the distance.
“Tea,” said Jellicoe; “we shall have to go now.”
“They won’t do anything till after tea, I shouldn’t think,” said Mike.
“There’s no harm in going out.”
The passage was empty when they opened the door; the call to food was
evidently a thing not to be treated lightly by the enemy.
In the dining-room the beleaguered garrison were the object of general
attention. Everybody turned to look at them as they came in. It was
plain that the study episode had been a topic of conversation.
Spiller’s face was crimson, and Robinson’s coat-sleeve still bore
traces of garden mould.
Mike felt rather conscious of the eyes, but Psmith was in his element.
His demeanour throughout the meal was that of some whimsical monarch
condescending for a freak to revel with his humble subjects.
Towards the end of the meal Psmith scribbled a note and passed it to
Mike. It read: “Directly this is over, nip upstairs as quickly as you
can.”
Mike followed the advice; they were first out of the room. When they
had been in the study a few moments, Jellicoe knocked at the door.
“Lucky you two cut away so quick,” he said. “They were going to try
and get you into the senior day-room and scrag you there.”
“This,” said Psmith, leaning against the mantelpiece, “is exciting,
but it can’t go on. We have got for our sins to be in this place for a
whole term, and if we are going to do the Hunted Fawn business all the
time, life in the true sense of the word will become an impossibility.
My nerves are so delicately attuned that the strain would simply reduce
them to hash. We are not prepared to carry on a long campaign—the thing
must be settled at once.”
“Shall we go down to the senior day-room, and have it out?” said Mike.
“No, we will play the fixture on our own ground. I think we may take
it as tolerably certain that Comrade Spiller and his hired ruffians
will try to corner us in the dormitory to-night. Well, of course, we
could fake up some sort of barricade for the door, but then we should
have all the trouble over again to-morrow and the day after that.
Personally I don’t propose to be chivvied about indefinitely like
this, so I propose that we let them come into the dormitory, and see
what happens. Is this meeting with me?”
“I think that’s sound,” said Mike. “We needn’t drag Jellicoe into it.”
“As a matter of fact—if you don’t mind—” began that man of peace.
“Quite right,” said Psmith; “this is not Comrade Jellicoe’s scene at
all; he has got to spend the term in the senior day-room, whereas we
have our little wooden ch�let to retire to in times of stress.
Comrade Jellicoe must stand out of the game altogether. We shall be
glad of his moral support, but otherwise, ne pas. And now, as
there won’t be anything doing till bedtime, I think I’ll collar this
table and write home and tell my people that all is well with their
Rupert.”
UNPLEASANTNESS IN THE SMALL HOURS
Jellicoe, that human encyclopaedia, consulted on the probable
movements of the enemy, deposed that Spiller, retiring at ten, would
make for Dormitory One in the same passage, where Robinson also had a
bed. The rest of the opposing forces were distributed among other and
more distant rooms. It was probable, therefore, that Dormitory One
would be the rendezvous. As to the time when an attack might be
expected, it was unlikely that it would occur before half-past eleven.
Mr. Outwood went the round of the dormitories at eleven.
“And touching,” said Psmith, “the matter of noise, must this business
be conducted in a subdued and sotto voce manner, or may we let
ourselves go a bit here and there?”
“I shouldn’t think old Outwood’s likely to hear you—he sleeps miles
away on the other side of the house. He never hears anything. We often
rag half the night and nothing happens.”
This appears to be a thoroughly nice, well-conducted establishment.
What would my mother say if she could see her Rupert in the midst of
these reckless youths!”
“All the better,” said Mike; “we don’t want anybody butting in and
stopping the show before it’s half started.”
“Comrade Jackson’s Berserk blood is up—I can hear it sizzling. I
quite agree these things are all very disturbing and painful, but it’s
as well to do them thoroughly when one’s once in for them. Is there
nobody else who might interfere with our gambols?”
“Barnes might,” said Jellicoe, “only he won’t.”
“Who is Barnes?”
“Head of the house—a rotter. He’s in a funk of Stone and Robinson;
they rag him; he’ll simply sit tight.”
“Then I think,” said Psmith placidly, “we may look forward to a very
pleasant evening. Shall we be moving?”
Mr. Outwood paid his visit at eleven, as predicted by Jellicoe,
beaming vaguely into the darkness over a candle, and disappeared
again, closing the door.
“How about that door?” said Mike. “Shall we leave it open for them?”
“Not so, but far otherwise. If it’s shut we shall hear them at it when
they come. Subject to your approval, Comrade Jackson, I have evolved
the following plan of action. I always ask myself on these occasions,
‘What would Napoleon have done?’ I think Napoleon would have sat in a
chair by his washhand-stand, which is close to the door; he would have
posted you by your washhand-stand, and he would have instructed
Comrade Jellicoe, directly he heard the door-handle turned, to give
his celebrated imitation of a dormitory breathing heavily in its
sleep. He would then–-”
“I tell you what,” said Mike, “how about tying a string at the top of
the steps?”
“Yes, Napoleon would have done that, too. Hats off to Comrade Jackson,
the man with the big brain!”
The floor of the dormitory was below the level of the door. There were
three steps leading down to it. Psmith lit a candle and they examined
the ground. The leg of a wardrobe and the leg of Jellicoe’s bed made
it possible for the string to be fastened in a satisfactory manner
across the lower step. Psmith surveyed the result with approval.
“Dashed neat!” he said. “Practically the sunken road which dished the
Cuirassiers at Waterloo. I seem to see Comrade Spiller coming one of
the finest purlers in the world’s history.”
“If they’ve got a candle–-”
“They won’t have. If they have, stand by with your water-jug and douse
it at once; then they’ll charge forward and all will be well. If they
have no candle, fling the water at a venture—fire into the brown!
Lest we forget, I’ll collar Comrade Jellicoe’s jug now and keep it
handy. A couple of sheets would also not be amiss—we will enmesh the
enemy!”
“Right ho!” said Mike.
“These humane preparations being concluded,” said Psmith, “we will
retire to our posts and wait. Comrade Jellicoe, don’t forget to
breathe like an asthmatic sheep when you hear the door opened; they
may wait at the top of the steps, listening.”
“You are a chap!” said Jellicoe.
Waiting in the dark for something to happen is always a trying
experience, especially if, as on this occasion, silence is essential.
Mike found his thoughts wandering back to the vigil he had kept with
Mr. Wain at Wrykyn on the night when Wyatt had come in through the
window and found authority sitting on his bed, waiting for him. Mike
was tired after his journey, and he had begun to doze when he was
jerked back to wakefulness by the stealthy turning of the door-handle;
the faintest rustle from Psmith’s direction followed, and a slight
giggle, succeeded by a series of deep breaths, showed that Jellicoe,
too, had heard the noise.
There was a creaking sound.
It was pitch-dark in the dormitory, but Mike could follow the invaders’
movements as clearly as if it had been broad daylight. They had opened
the door and were listening. Jellicoe’s breathing grew more asthmatic;
he was flinging himself into his part with the whole-heartedness of the
true artist.
The creak was followed by a sound of whispering, then another creak.
The enemy had advanced to the top step…. Another creak…. The
vanguard had reached the second step…. In another moment–-
CRASH!
And at that point the proceedings may be said to have formally opened.
A struggling mass bumped against Mike’s shins as he rose from his
chair; he emptied his jug on to this mass, and a yell of anguish
showed that the contents had got to the right address.
Then a hand grabbed his ankle and he went down, a million sparks
dancing before his eyes as a fist, flying out at a venture, caught him
on the nose.
Mike had not been well-disposed towards the invaders before, but now
he ran amok, hitting out right and left at random. His right missed,
but his left went home hard on some portion of somebody’s anatomy. A
kick freed his ankle and he staggered to his feet. At the same moment
a sudden increase in the general volume of noise spoke eloquently of
good work that was being put in
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