The Pothunters, P. G. Wodehouse [digital book reader .TXT] 📗

iced rain. These were taken as a matter of course, and the School counted it as something gained when they were spared the usual cutting east wind.

This year, however, occurred that invaluable exception which is so useful in proving rules. There was no gale, only a gentle breeze. The sun was positively shining, and there was a general freshness in the air which would have made a cripple cast away his crutches, and, after backing himself heavily both ways, enter for the Strangers’ Hundred Yards.

Jim had wandered off alone. He was feeling too nervous at the thought of the coming mile and all it meant to him to move in society for the present. Charteris, Welch, and Tony, going out shortly before lunch to inspect the track, found him already on the spot, and in a very low state of mind.

“Hullo, you chaps,” he said dejectedly, as they came up.

“Hullo.”

“Our James is preoccupied,” said Charteris. “Why this jaundiced air, Jim? Look at our other Thompson over there.”

“Our other Thompson” was at that moment engaged in conversation with the Headmaster at the opposite side of the field.

“Look at him,” said Charteris, “prattling away as merrily as a little che-ild to the Old Man. You should take a lesson from him.”

“Look here, I say,” said Jim, after a pause, “I believe there’s something jolly queer up between Thompson and the Old Man, and I believe it’s about me.”

“What on earth makes you think that?” asked Welch.

“It’s his evil conscience,” said Charteris. “No one who hadn’t committed the awful crime that Jim has, could pay the least attention to anything Thompson said. What does our friend Thucydides remark on the subject?⁠—

“Conscia mens recti, nec si sinit esse dolorem
Sed revocare gradum.

Very well then.”

“But why should you think anything’s up?” asked Tony.

“Perhaps nothing is, but it’s jolly fishy. You see Thompson and the Old ’Un pacing along there? Well, they’ve been going like that for about twenty minutes. I’ve been watching them.”

“But you can’t tell they’re talking about you, you rotter,” said Tony. “For all you know they may be discussing the exams.”

“Or why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings,” put in Charteris.

“Or anything,” added Welch profoundly.

“Well, all I know is that Thompson’s been doing all the talking, and the Old Man’s been getting more and more riled.”

“Probably Thompson’s been demanding a rise of screw or asking for a small loan or something,” said Charteris. “How long have you been watching them?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“From here?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go and join them? There’s nothing like tact. If you were to go and ask the Old Man why the whale wailed or something after that style it ’ud buck him up like a tonic. I wish you would. And then you could tell him to tell you all about it and see if you couldn’t do something to smooth the wrinkles from his careworn brow and let the sunshine of happiness into his heart. He’d like it awfully.”

“Would he!” said Jim grimly. “Well, I got the chance just now. Thompson said something to him, and he spun round, saw me, and shouted ‘Thomson.’ I went up and capped him, and he was starting to say something when he seemed to change his mind, and instead of confessing everything, he took me by the arm, and said, ‘No, no, Thomson. Go away. It’s nothing. I will send for you later.’ ”

“And did you knock him down?” asked Charteris.

“What happened?” said Welch.

“He gave me a shove as if he were putting the weight, and said again, ‘It’s no matter. Go away, Thomson, now.’ So I went.”

“And you’ve kept an eye on him ever since?” said Charteris. “Didn’t he seem at all restive?”

“I don’t think he noticed me. Thompson had the floor and he was pretty well full up listening to him.”

“I suppose you don’t know what it’s all about?” asked Tony.

“Must be this Pavilion business.”

“Now, my dear, sweet cherub,” said Charteris, “don’t you go and make an utter idiot of yourself and think you’re found out and all that sort of thing. Even if they suspect you they’ve got to prove it. There’s no sense in your giving them a helping hand in the business. What you’ve got to do is to look normal. Don’t overdo it or you’ll look like a swashbuckler, and that’ll be worse than underdoing it. Can’t you make yourself look less like a convicted forger? For my sake?”

“You really do look a bit off it,” said Welch critically. “As if you were sickening for the flu, or something. Doesn’t he, Tony?”

“Rather!” said that expert in symptoms. “You simply must buck up, Jim, or Drake’ll walk away from you.”

“It’s disappointing,” said Charteris, “to find a chap who can crack a crib as neatly as you can doubling up like this. Think how Charles Peace would have behaved under the circs. Don’t disgrace him, poor man.”

“Besides,” said Jim, with an attempt at optimism, “it isn’t as if I’d actually done anything, is it?”

“Just so,” said Charteris, “that’s what I’ve been trying to get you to see all along. Keep that fact steadily before you, and you’ll be all right.”

“There goes the lunch bell,” said Tony. “You can always tell Merevale’s bell in a crowd. William rings it as if he was doing it for his health.”

William, also known in criminal circles as the Moke, was the gentleman who served the house⁠—in a perpetual grin and a suit of livery four sizes too large for him⁠—as a sort of butler.

“He’s an artist,” agreed Charteris, as he listened to the performance. “Does it as if he enjoyed it, doesn’t he? Well, if we don’t want to spoil Merevale’s appetite by coming in at halftime, we might be moving.” They moved accordingly.

The Sports were to begin at two o’clock with a series of hundred yards races, which commenced with the “under twelve” (Cameron of Prater’s a warm man for this, said those who had means of knowing), and culminated at about