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

wondered at the cause. He was soon enlightened.

“Hullo, Jim,” said he. “What’s up with you this morning? Feeling chippy?”

“No. No, I’m all right. I’m in a beastly hole though. I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“Weigh in, then. We’ve got plenty of time before school.”

“It’s about this Aldershot business. How on earth did you manage to lick Allen like that? I thought he was a cert.”

“Yes, so did I. The ’ole thing there, as Dawkins ’ud say, was, I knocked him out. It’s the sort of thing that’s always happening. I wasn’t in it at all except during the second round, when I gave him beans rather in one of the corners. My aunt, it was warm while it lasted. First round, I didn’t hit him once. He was better than I thought he’d be, and I knew from experience he was pretty good.”

“Yes, you look a bit bashed.”

“Yes. Feel it too. But what’s the row with you?”

“Just this. I had a couple of quid on Allen, and the rotter goes and gets licked.”

“Good Lord. Whom did you bet with?”

“With Allen himself.”

“Mean to say Allen was crock enough to bet against himself? He must have known he was miles better than anyone else in. He’s got three medals there already.”

“No, you see his bet with me was only a hedge. He’d got five to four or something in quids on with a chap in his House at Rugby on himself. He wanted a hedge because he wasn’t sure about his ankle being all right. You know he hurt it. So I gave him four to one in half-sovereigns. I thought he was a cert., with apologies to you.”

“Don’t mention it. So he was a cert. It was only the merest fluke I managed to out him when I did. If he’d hung on to the end, he’d have won easy. He’d been scoring points all through.”

“I know. So The Sportsman says. Just like my luck.”

“I can’t see what you want to bet at all for. You’re bound to come a mucker sooner or later. Can’t you raise the two quid?”

“I’m broke except for half-a-crown.”

“I’d lend it to you like a shot if I had it, of course. But you don’t find me with two quid to my name at the end of term. Won’t Allen wait?”

“He would if it was only him. But this other chap wants his oof badly for something and he’s leaving and going abroad or something at the end of term. Anyhow, I know he’s keen on getting it. Allen told me.”

Tony pondered for a moment. “Look here,” he said at last, “can’t you ask your pater? He usually heaves his money about pretty readily, doesn’t he?”

“Well, you see, he wouldn’t send me two quid off the reel without wanting to know all about it, and why I couldn’t get on to the holidays with five bob, and I’d either have to fake up a lot of lies, which I’m not going to do⁠—”

“Of course not.”

“Or else I must tell him I’ve been betting.”

“Well, he bets himself, doesn’t he?”

“That’s just where the whole business slips up,” replied Jim, prodding the table with a pen in a misanthropic manner. “Betting’s the one thing he’s absolutely down on. He got done rather badly once a few years ago. Believe he betted on Orme that year he got poisoned. Anyhow he’s always sworn to lynch us if we made fools of ourselves that way. So if I asked him, I’d not only get beans myself, besides not getting any money out of him, but Allen would get scalped too, which he wouldn’t see at all.”

“Yes, it’s no good doing that. Haven’t you any other source of revenue?”

“Yes, there’s just one chance. If that doesn’t come off, I’m done. My pater said he’d give me a quid for every race I won at the Sports. I got the half yesterday all right when you were up at Aldershot.”

“Good man. I didn’t hear about that. What time? Anything good?”

“Nothing special. 2⁠–⁠7 and three-fifths.”

“That’s awfully good. You ought to pull off the mile, too, I should think.”

“Yes, with luck. Drake’s the man I’m afraid of. He’s done it in 4⁠–⁠48 twice during training. He was second in the half yesterday by about three yards, but you can’t tell anything from that. He sprinted too late.”

“What’s your best for the mile?”

“I have done 4⁠–⁠47, but only once. 4⁠–⁠48’s my average, so there’s nothing to choose between us on paper.”

“Well, you’ve got more to make you buck up than he has. There must be something in that.”

“Yes, by Jove. I’ll win if I expire on the tape. I shan’t spare myself with that quid on the horizon.”

“No. Hullo, there’s the bell. We must buck up. Going to Charteris’ gorge tonight?”

“Yes, but I shan’t eat anything. No risks for me.”

“Rusks are more in your line now. Come on.”

And, in the excitement of these more personal matters, Tony entirely forgot to impart the news of the Pavilion burglary to him.

III An Unimportant Byproduct

The news, however, was not long in spreading. Robinson took care of that. On the way to school he overtook his friend Morrison, a young gentleman who had the unique distinction of being the rowdiest fag in Ward’s House, which, as any Austinian could have told you, was the rowdiest house in the School.

“I say, Morrison, heard the latest?”

“No, what?”

“Chap broke into the Pav. last night.”

“Who, you?”

“No, you ass, a regular burglar. After the Sports prizes.”

“Look here, Robinson, try that on the kids.”

“Just what I am doing,” said Robinson.

This delicate reference to Morrison’s tender years had the effect of creating a disturbance. Two School House juniors, who happened to be passing, naturally forsook all their other aims and objects and joined the battle.

“What’s up?” asked one of them, dusting himself hastily as they stopped to take breath. It was always his habit to take up any business that might attract his attention, and ask