The Psmith Omnibus. P. G. Wodehouse

Jackson was an understanding sort of man, who treated his sons as companions. From time to time, however, breezes were apt to ruffle the placid sea of good fellowship. Mike's end-of-term report was an unfailing wind raiser; indeed, on the arrival of Mr. Blake's sarcastic resume of Mike's shortcomings at the end of the previous term, there had been something not unlike a typhoon. It was on this occasion that Mr. Jackson had solemnly declared his intention of removing Mike from Wrykyn unless the critics became more flattering; and Mr. Jackson was a man of his word.

      It was with a certain amount of apprehension, therefore, that Jackson entered the study.

      "Come in, Mike," said his father, kicking the waste-paper basket; "I want to speak to you."

      Mike, skilled in omens, scented a row in the offing. Only in moments of emotion was Mr. Jackson in the habit of booting the basket.

      There followed an awkward silence, which Mike broke by remarking that he had carted a half volley from Saunders over the on-side hedge that morning.

      "It was just a bit short and off the leg stump, so I stepped out--may I bag the paper knife for a jiffy? I'll just show--"

      "Never mind about cricket now," said Mr. Jackson; "I want you to listen to this report."

      "Oh, is that my report, Father?" said Mike, with a sort of sickly interest, much as a dog about to be washed might evince in his tub.

      "It is," replied Mr. Jackson in measured tones, "your report; what is more, it is without exception the worst report you have ever had."

      "Oh, I say!" groaned the record-breaker.

      "'His conduct,'" quoted Mr. Jackson, "'has been unsatisfactory in the extreme, both in and out of school.'"

      "It wasn't anything really. I only happened--"

      Remembering suddenly that what he had happened to do was to drop a cannonball (the school weight) on the form-room floor, not once, but on several occasions, he paused.

      "'French bad; conduct disgraceful--'"

      "Everybody rags in French."

      "'Mathematics bad. Inattentive and idle.'"

      "Nobody does much work in Math."

      "'Latin poor. Greek, very poor.'"

      "We were doing Thucydides, Book Two, last term--all speeches and doubtful readings, and cruxes and things--beastly hard! Everybody says so."

      "Here are Mr. Appleby's remarks: 'The boy has genuine ability, which he declines to use in the smallest degree.'"

      Mike moaned a moan of righteous indignation.

      "'An abnormal proficiency at games has apparently destroyed all desire in him to realize the more serious issues of life.' There is more to the same effect."

      Mr. Appleby was a master with very definite ideas as to what constituted a public-school master's duties. As a man he was distinctly pro-Mike. He understood cricket, and some of Mike's strokes on the off gave him thrills of pure aesthetic joy; but as a master he always made it his habit to regard the manners and customs of the boys in his form with an unbiased eye, and to an unbiased eye Mike in a form room was about as near the extreme edge as a boy could be, and Mr. Appleby said as much in a clear firm hand.

      "You remember what I said to you about your report at Christmas, Mike?" said Mr. Jackson, folding the lethal document and replacing it in its envelope.

      Mike said nothing; there was a sinking feeling in his interior.

      "I shall abide by what I said."

      Mike's heart thumped.

      "You will not go back to Wrykyn next term."

      Somewhere in the world the sun was shining, birds were twittering; somewhere in the world lambkins frisked and peasants sang blithely at their toil (flat, perhaps, but still blithely), but to Mike at that moment the sky was black, and an icy wind blew over the face of the earth.

      The tragedy had happened, and there was an end of it. He made no attempt to appeal against the sentence. He knew it would be useless, his father, when he made up his mind, having all the unbending tenacity of the normally easygoing man.

      Mr. Jackson was sorry for Mike. He understood him, and for that reason he said very little now.

      "I am sending you to Sedleigh," was his next remark.

      Sedleigh! Mike sat up with a jerk. He knew Sedleigh by name--one of those schools with about a hundred boys which you never hear of except when they send up their gym team to Aldershot, or their Eight to Bisley. Mike's outlook on life was that of a cricketer, pure and simple. What had Sedleigh ever done? What were they ever likely to do? Whom did they play? What Old Sedleighan had ever done anything at cricket? Perhaps they didn't even _play_ cricket!

      "But it's an awful hole," he said blankly.

      Mr. Jackson could read Mike's mind like a book. Mike's point of view was plain to him. He did not approve of it, but he knew that in Mike's place and at Mike's age he would have felt the same. He spoke dryly to hide his sympathy.

      "It is not a large school," he said, "and I don't suppose it could play Wrykyn at cricket, but it has one merit--boys work there. Young Barlitt won a Balliol scholarship from Sedleigh last year." Barlitt was the vicar's son, a silent, spectacled youth who did not enter very largely into Mike's world. They had met occasionally at tennis parties, but not much conversation had ensued. Barlitt's mind was massive, but his topics of conversation were not Mike's.

      "Mr. Barlitt speaks very highly of Sedleigh," added Mr. Jackson.

      Mike said nothing, which was a good deal better than saying what he would have liked to have said.

      2

      SEDLEIGH

      The train, which had been stopping everywhere for the last half hour, pulled up again, and Mike, seeing the name of the station, got up, opened the door, and hurled a bag out on to the platform in an emphatic and vindictive manner. Then he got out himself and looked about him.

      "For the school, sir?" inquired the solitary porter, bustling up, as if he hoped by sheer energy to deceive the traveler into thinking that Sedleigh station was staffed by a great army of porters.

      Mike nodded. A somber nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812, and said, "So you're back from Moscow, eh?" Mike was feeling thoroughly jaundiced. The future seemed wholly gloomy. And, so far from attempting to make the best of things, he had set himself deliberately to look on the dark side. He thought, for instance, that he had never seen a more repulsive porter, or one more obviously incompetent than the man who had attached himself with a firm grasp to the handle of the bag as he strode off in the direction of the luggage van. He disliked his voice, his appearance, and the color of his hair. Also the boots he wore. He hated the station, and the man who took his ticket.

      "Young gents at the school, sir," said the porter, perceiving from Mike's _distrait_ air that the boy was a stranger to the place, "goes up in the bus mostly. It's waiting here, sir. Hi, George!"

      "I'll walk, thanks," said Mike frigidly.

      "It's a goodish step, sir."

      "Here you are."

      "Thank you, sir. I'll send up your luggage by the bus, sir. Which 'ouse was it you was going to?"

      "Outwood's."

      "Right, sir. It's straight on up this road to the school. You can't miss it, sir."

      "Worse luck," said Mike.

      He walked off up the road, sorrier for himself than ever. It was such absolutely