ignore, for alluding to a matter which you and I had under advisement
yesterday--the matter of the vacant living of Steeple Mummery.'
'Yes?' said Augustine eagerly. 'Do I click?'
A spasm of pain passed across the bishop's face. He shook his head
sadly.
'Mulliner, my boy,' he said. 'You know that I look upon you as a son
and that, left to my own initiative, I would bestow this vacant living
on you without a moment's hesitation. But an unforeseen complication
has arisen. Unhappy lad, my wife has instructed me to give the post to
a cousin of hers. A fellow,' said the bishop bitterly, 'who bleats like
a sheep and doesn't know an alb from a reredos.'
Augustine, as was only natural, was conscious of a momentary pang of
disappointment. But he was a Mulliner and a sportsman.
'Don't give it another thought, Bish,' he said cordially. 'I quite
understand. I don't say I hadn't hopes, but no doubt there will be
another along in a minute.'
'You know how it is,' said the bishop, looking cautiously round to see
that the door was closed. 'It is better to dwell in a corner of the
housetop than with a brawling woman in a wide house. Proverbs xxi, 9.'
'A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are
alike. Proverbs xxvii, 15,' agreed Augustine.
'Exactly. How well you understand me, Mulliner.'
'Meanwhile,' said Augustine, holding up a letter, 'here's something
that calls for attention. It's from a bird of the name of Trevor
Entwhistle.'
'Indeed? An old schoolfellow of mine. He is now Headmaster of
Harchester, the foundation at which we both received our early
education. What does he say?'
'He wants to know if you will run down for a few days and unveil a
statue which they have just put up to Lord Hemel of Hempstead.'
'Another old schoolfellow. We called him Fatty.'
'There's a postscript over the page. He says he still has a dozen of
the '87 port.'
The bishop pursed his lips.
'These earthly considerations do not weigh with me so much as old
Catsmeat--as the Reverend Trevor Entwhistle seems to suppose. However,
one must not neglect the call of the dear old school. We will certainly
go.'
'We?'
'I shall require your company. I think you will like Harchester,
Mulliner. A noble pile, founded by the seventh Henry.'
'I know it well. A young brother of mine is there.'
'Indeed? Dear me,' mused the bishop, 'it must be twenty years and more
since I last visited Harchester. I shall enjoy seeing the old, familiar
scenes once again. After all, Mulliner, to whatever eminence we may
soar, howsoever great may be the prizes which life has bestowed upon
us, we never wholly lose our sentiment for the dear old school. It is
our Alma Mater, Mulliner, the gentle mother that has set our hesitating
footsteps on the--'
'Absolutely,' said Augustine.
'And, as we grow older, we see that never can we recapture the old,
careless gaiety of our school days. Life was not complex then,
Mulliner. Life in that halcyon period was free from problems. We were
not faced with the necessity of disappointing our friends.'
'Now listen, Bish,' said Augustine cheerily, 'if you're still worrying
about that living, forget it. Look at me. I'm quite chirpy, aren't I?'
The bishop sighed.
'I wish I had your sunny resilience, Mulliner. How do you manage it?'
'Oh, I keep smiling, and take the Buck-U-Uppo daily.'
'The Buck-U-Uppo?'
'It's a tonic my uncle Wilfred invented. Works like magic.'
'I must ask you to let me try it one of these days. For somehow,
Mulliner, I am finding life a little grey. What on earth,' said the
bishop, half to himself and speaking peevishly, 'they wanted to put up
a statue to old Fatty for, I can't imagine. A fellow who used to throw
inked darts at people. However,' he continued, abruptly abandoning
this train of thought, 'that is neither here nor there. If the Board
of Governors of Harchester College has decided that Lord Hemel of
Hempstead has by his services in the public weal earned a statue, it is
not for us to cavil. Write to Mr Entwhistle, Mulliner, and say that I
shall be delighted.'
* * * * *
Although, as he had told Augustine, fully twenty years had passed
since his last visit to Harchester, the bishop found, somewhat to his
surprise, that little or no alteration had taken place in the grounds,
buildings, and personnel of the school. It seemed to him almost
precisely the same as it had been on the day, forty-three years before,
when he had first come there as a new boy.
There was the tuck-shop where, a lissom stripling with bony elbows,
he had shoved and pushed so often in order to get near the counter
and snaffle a jam-sandwich in the eleven o'clock recess. There were
the baths, the fives courts, the football fields, the library, the
gymnasium, the gravel, the chestnut trees, all just as they had been
when the only thing he knew about bishops was that they wore bootlaces
in their hats.
The sole change that he could see was that on the triangle of turf
in front of the library there had been erected a granite pedestal
surmounted by a shapeless something swathed in a large sheet--the
statue to Lord Hemel of Hempstead which he had come down to unveil.
And gradually, as his visit proceeded, there began to steal over him an
emotion which defied analysis.
At first he supposed it to be a natural sentimentality. But, had it
been that, would it not have been a more pleasurable emotion? For his
feelings had begun to be far from unmixedly agreeable. Once, when
rounding a corner, he came upon the captain of football in all his
majesty, there had swept over him a hideous blend of fear and shame
which had made his gaitered legs wobble like jellies. The captain of
football doffed his cap respectfully, and the feeling passed as quickly
as it had come: but not so soon that the bishop had not recognized it.
It was exactly the feeling he had been wont to have forty-odd years ago
when, sneaking softly away from football practice, he had encountered
one in authority.
The bishop was puzzled. It was as if some fairy had touched him with
her wand, sweeping away the years and making him an inky-faced boy
again. Day by day this illusion grew, the constant society of the
Rev. Trevor Entwhistle doing much to foster it. For young Catsmeat
Entwhistle had been the bishop's particular crony at Harchester,
and he seemed to have altered his appearance since those days in no
way whatsoever. The bishop had had a nasty shock when, entering the
headmaster's study on the third morning of his visit, he found him
sitting in the headmaster's chair with the headmaster's cap and gown
on. It seemed to him that young Catsmeat, in order to indulge his
distorted sense of humour, was taking the most frightful risk. Suppose
the Old Man were to come in and cop him!
Altogether, it was a relief to the bishop when the day of the unveiling
arrived.
* * * * *
The actual ceremony, however, he found both tedious and irritating.
Lord Hemel of Hempstead had not been a favourite of his in their school
days, and there was something extremely disagreeable to him in being
obliged to roll out sonorous periods in his praise.
In addition to this, he had suffered from the very start of the
proceedings from a bad attack of stage fright. He could not help
thinking that he must look the most awful chump standing up there in
front of all those people and spouting. He half expected one of the
prefects in the audience to step up and clout his head and tell him not
to be a funny young swine.
However, no disaster of this nature occurred. Indeed, his speech was
notably successful.
'My dear Bishop,' said old General Bloodenough, the Chairman of the
College Board of Governors, shaking his hand at the conclusion of the
unveiling, 'your magnificent oration put my own feeble efforts to
shame, put them to shame, to shame. You were astounding!'
'Thanks awfully,' mumbled the bishop, blushing and shuffling his feet.
The weariness which had come upon the bishop as the result of the
prolonged ceremony seemed to grow as the day wore on. By the time he
was seated in the headmaster's study after dinner he was in the grip of
a severe headache.
The Rev. Trevor Entwhistle also appeared jaded.
'These affairs are somewhat fatiguing, bishop,' he said, stifling a
yawn.
'They are, indeed, Headmaster.'
'Even the '87 port seems an inefficient restorative.'
'Markedly inefficient. I wonder,' said the bishop, struck with an idea,
'if a little Buck-U-Uppo might not alleviate our exhaustion. It is
a tonic of some kind which my secretary is in the habit of taking.
It certainly appears to do him good. A livelier, more vigorous young
fellow I have never seen. Suppose we ask your butler to go to his room
and borrow the bottle? I am sure he will be delighted to give it to us.'
'By all means.'
The butler, dispatched to Augustine's room, returned with a bottle
half full of a thick, dark-coloured liquid. The bishop examined it
thoughtfully.
'I see there are no directions given as to the requisite dose,' he
said. 'However, I do not like to keep disturbing your butler, who has
now doubtless returned to his pantry and is once more settling down to
the enjoyment of a well-earned rest after a day more than ordinarily
fraught with toil and anxiety. Suppose we use our own judgement?'
'Certainly. Is it nasty?'
The bishop licked the cork warily.
'No. I should not call it nasty. The taste, while individual and
distinctive and even striking, is by no means disagreeable.'
'Then let us take a glassful apiece.'
The bishop filled two portly wine-glasses with the fluid, and they sat
sipping gravely.
'It's rather good,' said the bishop.
'Distinctly good,' said the headmaster.
'It sort of sends a kind of glow over you.'
'A noticeable glow.'
'A little more, Headmaster?'
'No, I thank you.'
'Oh, come.'
'Well, just a spot, bishop, if you insist.'
'It's rather good,' said the bishop.
'Distinctly good,' said the headmaster.
Now you, who have listened to the story of Augustine's previous
adventures with the Buck-U-Uppo, are aware that my brother Wilfred
invented it primarily with the object of providing Indian Rajahs with
a specific which would encourage their elephants to face the tiger of
the jungle with a jaunty sang-froid: and he had advocated as a medium
dose for an adult elephant a teaspoonful stirred up with its morning
bran-mash. It is not surprising, therefore, that after they had drunk
two wine-glassfuls apiece of the mixture the outlook on life of both
the bishop and the headmaster began to undergo a marked change.
Their fatigue had left them, and with it the depression which a
few moments before had been weighing on them so heavily. Both were
conscious of an extraordinary feeling of good cheer, and the odd
illusion of extreme youth which had been upon the bishop since his
arrival at Harchester was now more pronounced than ever. He felt a
youngish and rather rowdy fifteen.
'Where does your butler sleep, Catsmeat?' he asked, after a thoughtful
pause.
'I don't know. Why?'
'I was only thinking that it would be a lark to go and put a booby-trap
on his door.'
The headmaster's eyes glistened.
'Yes, wouldn't it!' he said.
They mused for a while. Then the headmaster uttered a deep chuckle.
'What are you giggling about?' asked the bishop.
'I was only thinking what a priceless ass you looked this afternoon,
talking all that rot about old Fatty.'
In spite of his cheerfulness, a frown passed over the bishop's fine
forehead.
'It went very much against the grain to speak in terms of eulogy--yes,
fulsome eulogy--of one whom we both know to have been a blighter of the
worst description. Where does Fatty get off, having statues put up to
him?'
'Oh well, he's an Empire builder, I suppose,' said the headmaster, who
was a fair-minded man.
'Just the sort of thing he would be,' grumbled the bishop. 'Shoving
himself forward! If ever there was a chap I barred, it was Fatty.'
'Me, too,' agreed the headmaster. 'Beastly laugh he'd got. Like glue
pouring out of a jug.'
'Greedy little beast, if you remember. A fellow in his house told me
he once ate three slices of brown boot-polish spread on bread after he
had finished the potted meat.'
'Between you and me, I always suspected him of swiping buns at the
school shop. I don't wish to make rash charges unsupported by true
evidence, but it always seemed to me extremely odd that, whatever time
of the term it was, and however hard up everybody else might be, you
never saw Fatty without his bun.'
'Catsmeat,' said the bishop, 'I'll tell you something about Fatty that
isn't generally known. In a scrum in the final House Match in the year
1888 he deliberately hoofed me on the shin.'
'You don't mean that?'
'I do.'
'Great Scott!'
'An ordinary hack on the shin,' said the bishop coldly, 'no fellow
minds. It is part of the give and take of normal social life. But when
a bounder deliberately hauls off and lets drive at you with the sole
intention of laying you out, it--well, it's a bit thick.'
'And those chumps of Governors have put up a statue to him!'
The bishop leaned forward and lowered his voice.
'Catsmeat.'
'What?'
'Do you know what?'
'No, what?'
'What we ought to do is to wait till twelve o'clock or so, till there's
no one about, and then beetle out and paint that statue blue.'
'Why not pink?'
'Pink, if you prefer it.'
'Pink's a nice colour.'
'It is. Very nice.'
'Besides, I know where I can lay my hands on some pink paint.'
'You do?'
'Gobs of it.'
'Peace be on thy walls, Catsmeat, and prosperity within thy palaces,'
said the bishop. 'Proverbs cxxxi, 6.'
* * * * *
It seemed to the bishop, as he closed the front door noiselessly behind
him two hours later, that providence, always on the side of the just,
was extending itself in its efforts to make this little enterprise of
his a success. All the conditions were admirable for statue-painting.
The rain which had been falling during the evening had stopped: and a
moon, which might have proved an embarrassment, was conveniently hidden
behind a bank of clouds.
As regarded human interference, they had nothing to alarm them. No
place in the world is so deserted as the ground of a school after
midnight. Fatty's statue might have been in the middle of the Sahara.
They climbed the pedestal, and, taking turns fairly with the brush,
soon accomplished the task which their sense of duty had indicated
to them. It was only when, treading warily lest their steps should
be heard on the gravel drive, they again reached the front door that
anything occurred to mar the harmony of the proceedings.
'What are you waiting for?' whispered the bishop, as his companion
lingered on the top step.
'Half a second,' said the headmaster in a muffled voice. 'It may be in
another pocket.'
'What?'
'My key.'
'Have you lost your key?'
'I believe I have.'
'Catsmeat,' said the bishop, with grave censure, 'this is the last time
I come out painting statues with you.'
'I must have dropped it somewhere.'
'What shall we do?'
'There's just a chance the scullery window may be open.'
But the scullery window was not open. Careful, vigilant, and faithful
to his trust, the butler, on retiring to rest, had fastened it and
closed the shutters. They were locked out.
But it has been well said that it is the lessons which we learn in our
boyhood days at school that prepare us for the problems of life in the
larger world outside. Stealing back from the mists of the past, there
came to the bishop a sudden memory.
'Catsmeat!'
'Hullo?'
'If you haven't been mucking the place up with alterations and
improvements, there should be a water-pipe round at the back, leading
to one of the upstairs windows.'
Memory had not played him false. There, nestling in the ivy, was the
pipe up and down which he had been wont to climb when, a pie-faced lad
in the summer of '86, he had broken out of this house in order to take
nocturnal swims in the river.
'Up you go,' he said briefly.
The headmaster required no further urging. And presently the two were
making good time up the side of the house.
It was just as they reached the window and just after the bishop had
informed his old friend that, if he kicked him on the head again, he'd
hear of it, that the window was suddenly flung open.
'Who's that?' said a clear young voice.
The headmaster was frankly taken aback. Dim though the light was,
he could see that the man leaning out of the window was poising in
readiness a very nasty-looking golf-club: and his first impulse was
to reveal his identity and so clear himself of the suspicion of being
the marauder for whom he gathered the other had mistaken him. Then
there presented themselves to him certain objections to revealing his
identity, and he hung there in silence, unable to think of a suitable
next move.
The bishop was a man of readier resource.
'Tell him we're a couple of cats belonging to the cook,' he whispered.
It was painful for one of the headmaster's scrupulous rectitude and
honesty to stoop to such a falsehood, but it seemed the only course to
pursue.
'It's all right,' he said, forcing a note of easy geniality into his
voice. 'We're a couple of cats.'
'Cat-burglars?'
'No. Just ordinary cats.'
'Belonging to the cook,' prompted the bishop from below.
'Belonging to the cook,' added the headmaster.
'I see,' said the man at the window. 'Well, in that case, right ho!'
He stood aside to allow them to enter. The bishop, an artist at heart,
mewed gratefully as he passed, to add verisimilitude to the deception:
and then made for his bedroom, accompanied by the headmaster. The
episode was apparently closed.
Nevertheless, the headmaster was disturbed by a certain uneasiness.
'Do you suppose he thought we really were cats?' he asked anxiously.
'I am not sure,' said the bishop. 'But I think we deceived him by the
nonchalance of our demeanour.'
'Yes, I think we did. Who was he?'
'My secretary. The young fellow I was speaking of, who lent us that
capital tonic.'
'Oh, then that's all right. He wouldn't give you away.'
'No. And there is nothing else that can possibly lead to our being
suspected. We left no clue whatsoever.'
'All the same,' said the headmaster thoughtfully, 'I'm beginning to
wonder whether it was in the best sense of the word judicious to have
painted that statue.'
'Somebody had to,' said the bishop stoutly.
'Yes, that's true,' said the headmaster, brightening.
* * * * *
The bishop slept late on the following morning, and partook of his
frugal breakfast in bed. The day, which so often brings remorse,
brought none to him. Something attempted, something done had earned a
night's repose: and he had no regrets--except that, now that it was
all over, he was not sure that blue paint would not have been more
effective. However, his old friend had pleaded so strongly for the pink
that it would have been difficult for himself, as a guest, to override
the wishes of his host. Still, blue would undoubtedly have been very
striking.
There was a knock on the door, and Augustine entered.
'Morning, Bish.'
'Good morning, Mulliner,' said the bishop affably. 'I have lain
somewhat late today.'
'I say, Bish,' asked Augustine, a little anxiously. 'Did you take a
very big dose of the Buck-U-Uppo last night?'
'Big? No. As I recollect, quite small. Barely two ordinary wine-glasses
full.'
'Great Scott!'
'Why do you ask, my dear fellow?'
'Oh, nothing. No particular reason. I just thought your manner seemed a
little strange on the water-pipe, that's all.'
The bishop was conscious of a touch of chagrin.
'Then you saw through our--er--innocent deception?'
'Yes.'
'I had been taking a little stroll with the headmaster,' explained the
bishop, 'and he had mislaid his key. How beautiful is Nature at night,
Mulliner! The dark, fathomless skies, the little winds that seem to
whisper secrets in one's ear, the scent of growing things.'
'Yes,' said Augustine. He paused. 'Rather a row on this morning.
Somebody appears to have painted Lord Hemel of Hempstead's statue last
night.'
'Indeed?'
'Yes.'
'Ah, well,' said the bishop tolerantly, 'boys will be boys.'
'It's a most mysterious business.'
'No doubt, no doubt. But, after all, Mulliner, is not all Life a
mystery?'
'And what makes it still more mysterious is that they found your
shovel-hat on the statue's head.'
The bishop started up.
'What!'
'Absolutely.'
'Mulliner,' said the bishop, 'leave me. I have one or two matters on
which I wish to meditate.'
He dressed hastily, his numbed fingers fumbling with his gaiters. It
all came back to him now. Yes, he could remember putting the hat on the
statue's head. It had seemed a good thing to do at the time, and he had
done it. How little we guess at the moment how far-reaching our most
trivial actions may be!
The headmaster was over at the school, instructing the Sixth Form
in Greek Composition: and he was obliged to wait, chafing, until
twelve-thirty, when the bell rang for the half-way halt in the day's
work. He stood at the study window, watching with ill-controlled
impatience, and presently the headmaster appeared, walking heavily like
one on whose mind there is a weight.
'Well?' cried the bishop, as he entered the study.
The headmaster doffed his cap and gown, and sank limply into a chair.
'I cannot conceive,' he groaned, 'what madness had me in its grip last
night.'
The bishop was shaken, but he could not countenance such an attitude as
this.
'I do not understand you, Headmaster,' he said stiffly. 'It was our
simple duty, as a protest against the undue exaltation of one whom we
both know to have been a most unpleasant school-mate, to paint that
statue.'
'And I suppose it was your duty to leave your hat on its head?'
'Now there,' said the bishop, 'I may possibly have gone a little too
far.' He coughed. 'Has that perhaps somewhat ill-considered action led
to the harbouring of suspicions by those in authority?'
'They don't know what to think.'
'What is the view of the Board of Governors?'
'They insist on my finding the culprit. Should I fail to do so, they
hint at the gravest consequences.'
'You mean they will deprive you of your headmastership?'
'That is what they imply. I shall be asked to hand in my resignation.
And, if that happens, bim goes my chance of ever being a bishop.'
'Well, it's not all jam being a bishop. You wouldn't enjoy it,
Catsmeat.'
'All very well for you to talk, Boko. You got me into this, you silly
ass.'
'I like that! You were just as keen on it as I was.'
'You suggested it.'
'Well, you jumped at the suggestion.'
The two men had faced each other heatedly, and for a moment it seemed
as if there was to be a serious falling-out. Then the bishop recovered
himself.
'Catsmeat,' he said, with that wonderful smile of his, taking the
other's hand, 'this is unworthy of us. We must not quarrel. We must put
our heads together and see if there is not some avenue of escape from
the unfortunate position in which, however creditable our motives, we
appear to have placed ourselves. How would it be--?'
'I thought of that,' said the headmaster. 'It wouldn't do a bit of
good. Of course, we might--'
'No, that's no use, either,' said the bishop.
They sat for a while in meditative silence. And, as they sat, the door
opened.
'General Bloodenough,' announced the butler.
'Oh, that I had wings like a dove. Psalm xlv, 6,' muttered the bishop.
His desire to be wafted from that spot with all available speed could
hardly be considered unreasonable. General Sir Hector Bloodenough,
V.C., K.C.I.E., M.V.O., on retiring from the army, had been for many
years, until his final return to England, in charge of the Secret
Service in Western Africa, where his unerring acumen had won for him
from the natives the soubriquet of Wah-nah-B'gosh-B'jingo--which,
freely translated, means Big Chief Who Can See Through The Hole In A
Doughnut.
A man impossible to deceive. The last man the bishop would have wished
to be conducting the present investigations.
The general stalked into the room. He had keen blue eyes, topped by
bushy white eyebrows: and the bishop found his gaze far too piercing to
be agreeable.
'Bad business, this,' he said. 'Bad business. Bad business.'
'It is, indeed,' faltered the bishop.
'Shocking bad business. Shocking. Shocking. Do you know what we found
on the head of that statue, eh? that statue, that statue? Your hat,
bishop. Your hat. Your hat.'