The Psmith Omnibus. P. G. Wodehouse

I fetch a book from my desk, sir?" asked Mike.

      "Very well--be quick, Jackson; we are busy."

      Being interrupted in one of his addresses to the Brigade irritated Mr. Downing.

      The muffled cries grew more distinct.

      "What ... is ... that ... noise?" shrilled Mr. Downing.

      "Noise, sir?" asked Mike, puzzled.

      "I think it's something outside the window, sir," said Stone helpfully.

      "A bird, I think, sir," said Robinson.

      "Don't be absurd!" snapped Mr. Downing. "It's outside the door. Wilson!"

      "Yes, sir?" said a voice "off."

      "Are you making that whining noise?"

      "Whining noise, sir? No, sir, I'm not making a whining noise."

      "What _sort_ of noise, sir?" inquired Mike, as many Wrykynians had asked before him. It was a question invented by Wrykyn for use in just such a case as this.

      "I do not propose," said Mr. Downing acidly, "to imitate the noise; you can all hear it perfectly plainly. It is a curious whining noise."

      "They are mowing the cricket field, sir," said the invisible Wilson. "Perhaps that's it."

      "It may be one of the desks squeaking, sir," put in Stone. "They do sometimes."

      "Or somebody's shoes, sir," added Robinson.

      "Silence! Wilson?"

      "Yes, sir?" bellowed the unseen one.

      "Don't shout at me from the corridor like that. Come in."

      "Yes, sir!"

      As he spoke the muffled whining changed suddenly to a series of tenor shrieks, and the India-rubber form of Sammy bounded into the room like an excited kangaroo.

      Willing hands had by this time deflected the clockwork rat from the wall to which it had been steering, and pointed it up the alleyway between the two rows of desks. Mr. Downing, rising from his place, was just in time to see Sammy with a last leap spring on his prey and begin worrying it.

      Chaos reigned.

      "A rat!" shouted Robinson.

      The twenty-three members of the Brigade who were not earnest instantly dealt with the situation, each in the manner that seemed proper to him. Some leaped onto forms, others flung books, all shouted. It was a stirring, bustling scene.

      Sammy had by this time disposed of the clockwork rat, and was now standing, like Marius, among the ruins barking triumphantly.

      The banging on Mr. Downing's desk resembled thunder. It rose above all the other noises till in time they gave up the competition and died away.

      Mr. Downing shot out orders, threats, and penalties with the rapidity of a Bren gun.

      "Stone, sit down! Donovan, if you do not sit down you will be severely punished. Henderson, one hundred lines for gross disorder! Windham, the same! Go to your seat, Vincent. What are you doing, Broughton-Knight? I will not have this disgraceful noise and disorder! The meeting is at an end; go quietly from the room, all of you. Jackson and Wilson, remain. _Quietly_, I said, Durand! Don't shuffle your feet in that abominable way."

      Crash!

      "Wolferstan, I distinctly saw you upset that blackboard with a movement of your hand--one hundred lines. Go quietly from the room, everybody."

      The meeting dispersed.

      "Jackson and Wilson, come here. What's the meaning of this disgraceful conduct? Put that dog out of the room, Jackson."

      Mike removed the yelling Sammy and shut the door on him.

      "Well, Wilson?"

      "Please, sir, I was playing with a clockwork rat--"

      "What business have you to be playing with clockwork rats?"

      "Then I remembered," said Mike, "that I had left my Horace in my desk, so I came in--"

      "And by a fluke, sir," said Wilson, as one who tells of strange things, "the rat happened to be pointing in the same direction, so he came in, too."

      "I met Sammy on the gravel outside and he followed me."

      "I tried to collar him, but when you told me to come in, sir, I had to let him go, and he came in after the rat."

      It was plain to Mr. Downing that the burden of sin was shared equally by both culprits. Wilson had supplied the rat, Mike the dog; but Mr. Downing liked Wilson and disliked Mike. Wilson was in the Fire Brigade, frivolous at times, it was true, but nevertheless a member. Also he kept wicket for the school. Mike was a member of the Archaeological Society, and had refused to play cricket.

      Mr. Downing allowed these facts to influence him in passing sentence.

      "One hundred lines, Wilson," he said. "You may go."

      Wilson departed with the air of a man who has had a great deal of fun, and paid very little for it.

      Mr. Downing turned to Mike. "You will stay in on Saturday afternoon, Jackson; it will interfere with your Archaeological studies, I fear, but it may teach you that we have no room at Sedleigh for boys who spend their time loafing about and making themselves a nuisance. We are a keen school; this is no place for boys who do nothing but waste their time. That will do, Jackson."

      And Mr. Downing walked out of the room. In affairs of this kind a master has a habit of getting the last word.

      10

      ACHILLES LEAVES HIS TENT

      They say misfortunes never come singly. As Mike sat brooding over his wrongs in his study, after the Sammy incident, Jellicoe came into the room, and, without preamble, asked for the loan of a pound.

      When one has been in the habit of confining one's lendings and borrowings to sixpences and shillings, a request for a pound comes as something of a blow.

      "What on earth for?" asked Mike.

      "I say, do you mind if I don't tell you? I don't want to tell anybody. The fact is, I'm in a beastly hole."

      "Oh, sorry," said Mike. "As a matter of fact, I do happen to have a quid. You can freeze on to it, if you like. But it's about all I have got, so don't be shy about paying it back."

      Jellicoe was profuse in his thanks, and disappeared in a cloud of gratitude.

      Mike felt that Fate was treating him badly. Being kept in on Saturday meant that he would be unable to turn out for Little Borlock against Claythorpe, the return match. In the previous game he had scored ninety-eight, and there was a lob bowler in the Claythorpe ranks whom he was particularly anxious to meet again. Having to yield a sovereign to Jellicoe--why on earth did the man want all that?--meant that, unless a carefully worded letter to his brother Bob at Oxford had the desired effect, he would be practically penniless for weeks.

      In a gloomy frame of mind he sat down to write to Bob, who was playing regularly for the Varsity this season, and only the previous week had made a century against Sussex, so might be expected to be in a sufficiently softened mood to advance the needful. (Which, it may be stated at once, he did, by return of post.)

      Mike was struggling with the opening sentences of this letter--he was never a very ready writer--when Stone and Robinson burst into the room.

      Mike put down his pen, and got up. He was in warlike mood, and welcomed the intrusion. If Stone and Robinson wanted