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

relapsed into silence as he tried to bring another idea to the surface. He had not succeeded when Charteris came in.

“Jim,” he said, “you have my sympathy. It was an awfully near thing. But I’ve got something more solid than sympathy. I will take a seat.”

“Don’t rag, Charteris,” said Tony. “It’s much too serious.”

“Who’s ragging, you rotter? I say I have something more solid than sympathy, and instead of giving me an opening, as a decent individual would, by saying, ‘What?’ you accuse me of ragging. James, my son, if you will postpone your suicide for two minutes, I will a tale unfold. I have an idea.”

“Well?”

“That’s more like it. Now you are talking. We will start at the beginning. First, you want a pound. So do I. Secondly, you want it before next Tuesday. Thirdly, you haven’t it on you. How, therefore, are you to get it? As the song hath it, you don’t know, they don’t know, but⁠—now we come to the point⁠—I do know.”

“Yes?” said Jim and Tony together.

“It is a luminous idea. Why shouldn’t we publish a special number of The Glow Worm before the end of term?”

Jim was silent at the brilliance of the scheme. Then doubts began to harass him.

“Is there time?”

“Time? Yards of it. This is Saturday. We start tonight, and keep at it all night, if necessary. We ought to manage it easily before tomorrow morning. On Sunday we jellygraph it⁠—it’ll have to be a jellygraphed number this time. On Monday and Tuesday we sell it, and there you are.”

“How are you going to sell it? In the ordinary way at the shop?”

“Yes, I’ve arranged all that. All we’ve got to do is to write the thing. As the penalty for your sins you shall take on most of it. I’ll do the editorial, Welch is pegging away at the Sports account now, and I waylaid Jackson just before lockup, and induced him by awful threats to knock off some verses. So we’re practically published already.”

“It’s grand,” said Jim. “And it’s awfully decent of you chaps to fag yourselves like this for me. I’ll start on something now.”

“But can you raise a sovereign on one number?” asked Tony.

“Either that, or I’ve arranged with the shop to give us a quid down, and take all profits on this and the next number. They’re as keen as anything on the taking-all-profits idea, but I’ve kept that back to be used only in case of necessity. But the point is that Jim gets his sovereign in any case. I must be off to my editorial. So long,” and he went.

“Grand man, Charteris,” said Tony, as he leant back in his chair in search of a subject. “You’d better weigh in with an account of the burglary. It’s a pity you can’t give the realistic description you gave us. It would sell like anything.”

“Wouldn’t do to risk it.”

At that moment the door swung violently open, with Merevale holding on to the handle, and following it in its course. Merevale very rarely knocked at a study door, a peculiarity of his which went far towards shattering the nervous systems of the various inmates, who never knew when it was safe to stop work and read fiction.

“Ah, Thomson,” he said, “I was looking for you. The Headmaster wants to see you over at his House, if you are feeling well enough after your exertions. Very close thing, that mile. I don’t know when I have seen a better-run race on the College grounds. I suppose you are feeling pretty tired, eh?”

“I am rather, sir, but I had better see the Head. Will he be in his study, sir?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Jim took his cap and went off, while Merevale settled down to spend the evening in Tony’s study, as he often did when the term’s work was over, and it was no longer necessary to keep up the pretence of preparation.

Parker, the Head’s butler, conducted Jim into the presence.

“Sit down, Thomson,” said the Head.

Jim took a seat, and he had just time to notice that his namesake, Mr. Thompson, was also present, and that, in spite of the fact that his tie had crept up to the top of his collar, he was looking quite unnecessarily satisfied with himself, when he became aware that the Head was speaking to him.

“I hope you are not feeling any bad effects from your race, Thomson?”

Jim was half inclined to say that his effects were nil, but he felt that the quip was too subtle, and would be lost on his present audience, so he merely said that he was not. There was a rather awkward silence for a minute. Then the Head coughed, and said:

“Thomson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think it would be fairest to you to come to the point at once, and to tell you the reason why I wished to see you.”

Jim ran over the sins which shot up in his mind like rockets as he heard these ominous words, and he knew that this must be the matter of the Pavilion. He was, therefore, in a measure prepared for the Head’s next words.

“Thomson.”

“Yessir.”

“A very serious charge has been brought against you. You are accused of nothing less than this unfortunate burglary of the prizes for the Sports.”

“Yes, sir. Is my accuser Mr. Thompson?”

The Headmaster hesitated for a moment, and Mr. Thompson spoke. “That is so,” he said.

“Yes,” said the Head, “the accusation is brought by Mr. Thompson.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jim again, and this time the observation was intended to convey the meaning, “My dear, good sir, when you’ve known him as long as I have, you won’t mind what Mr. Thompson says or does. It’s a kind of way he’s got, and if he’s not under treatment for it, he ought to be.”

“I should like to hear from your own lips that the charge is groundless.”

“Anything to oblige,” thought Jim. Then aloud, “Yes, sir.”

“You say it is groundless?” This from Mr. Thompson.

“Yes, sir.”

“I must warn you, Thomson, that the evidence against you is very strong