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THE GOLD BAT
by P. G. Wodehouse
1904
[Dedication]
To
THAT PRINCE OF SLACKERS,
HERBERT WESTBROOK
CONTENTS
Chapter
I THE FIFTEENTH PLACE
II THE GOLD BAT
III THE MAYOR'S STATUE
IV THE LEAGUE'S WARNING
V MILL RECEIVES VISITORS
VI TREVOR REMAINS FIRM
VII "WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE LEAGUE"
VIII O'HARA ON THE TRACK
IX MAINLY ABOUT FERRETS
X BEING A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
XI THE HOUSE-MATCHES
XII NEWS OF THE GOLD BAT
XIII VICTIM NUMBER THREE
XIV THE WHITE FIGURE
XV A SPRAIN AND A VACANT PLACE
XVI THE RIPTON MATCH
XVII THE WATCHERS IN THE VAULT
XVIII O'HARA EXCELS HIMSELF
XIX THE MAYOR'S VISIT
XX THE FINDING OF THE BAT
XXI THE LEAGUE REVEALED
XXII A DRESS REHEARSAL
XXIII WHAT RENFORD SAW
XXIV CONCLUSION
I
THE FIFTEENTH PLACE
"Outside!"
"Don't be an idiot, man. I bagged it first."
"My dear chap, I've been waiting here a month."
"When you fellows have _quite_ finished rotting about in front of
that bath don't let _me_ detain you."
"Anybody seen that sponge?"
"Well, look here"--this in a tone of compromise--"let's toss for it."
"All right. Odd man out."
All of which, being interpreted, meant that the first match of the
Easter term had just come to an end, and that those of the team who,
being day boys, changed over at the pavilion, instead of performing the
operation at leisure and in comfort, as did the members of houses, were
discussing the vital question--who was to have first bath?
The Field Sports Committee at Wrykyn--that is, at the school which
stood some half-mile outside that town and took its name from it--were
not lavish in their expenditure as regarded the changing accommodation
in the pavilion. Letters appeared in every second number of the
_Wrykinian_, some short, others long, some from members of the
school, others from Old Boys, all protesting against the condition of
the first, second, and third fifteen dressing-rooms. "Indignant" would
inquire acidly, in half a page of small type, if the editor happened to
be aware that there was no hair-brush in the second room, and only half
a comb. "Disgusted O. W." would remark that when he came down with the
Wandering Zephyrs to play against the third fifteen, the water supply
had suddenly and mysteriously failed, and the W.Z.'s had been obliged
to go home as they were, in a state of primeval grime, and he thought
that this was "a very bad thing in a school of over six hundred boys",
though what the number of boys had to do with the fact that there was
no water he omitted to explain. The editor would express his regret in
brackets, and things would go on as before.
There was only one bath in the first fifteen room, and there were on
the present occasion six claimants to it. And each claimant was of the
fixed opinion that, whatever happened subsequently, he was going to
have it first. Finally, on the suggestion of Otway, who had reduced
tossing to a fine art, a mystic game of Tommy Dodd was played. Otway
having triumphantly obtained first innings, the conversation reverted
to the subject of the match.
The Easter term always opened with a scratch game against a mixed team
of masters and old boys, and the school usually won without any great
exertion. On this occasion the match had been rather more even than the
average, and the team had only just pulled the thing off by a couple of
tries to a goal. Otway expressed an opinion that the school had played
badly.
"Why on earth don't you forwards let the ball out occasionally?" he
asked. Otway was one of the first fifteen halves.
"They were so jolly heavy in the scrum," said Maurice, one of the
forwards. "And when we did let it out, the outsides nearly always
mucked it."
"Well, it wasn't the halves' fault. We always got it out to the
centres."
"It wasn't the centres," put in Robinson. "They played awfully well.
Trevor was ripping."
"Trevor always is," said Otway; "I should think he's about the best
captain we've had here for a long time. He's certainly one of the best
centres."
"Best there's been since Rivers-Jones," said Clephane.
Rivers-Jones was one of those players who mark an epoch. He had been in
the team fifteen years ago, and had left Wrykyn to captain Cambridge
and play three years in succession for Wales. The school regarded the
standard set by him as one that did not admit of comparison. However
good a Wrykyn centre three-quarter might be, the most he could hope to
be considered was "the best _since_ Rivers-Jones". "Since"
Rivers-Jones, however, covered fifteen years, and to be looked on as
the best centre the school could boast of during that time, meant
something. For Wrykyn knew how to play football.
Since it had been decided thus that the faults in the school attack did
not lie with the halves, forwards, or centres, it was more or less
evident that they must be attributable to the wings. And the search for
the weak spot was even further narrowed down by the general verdict
that Clowes, on the left wing, had played well. With a beautiful
unanimity the six occupants of the first fifteen room came to the
conclusion that the man who had let the team down that day had been the
man on the right--Rand-Brown, to wit, of Seymour's.
"I'll bet he doesn't stay in the first long," said Clephane, who was
now in the bath, _vice_ Otway, retired. "I suppose they had to try
him, as he was the senior wing three-quarter of the second, but he's no
earthly good."
"He only got into the second because he's big," was Robinson's opinion.
"A man who's big and strong can always get his second colours."
"Even if he's a funk, like Rand-Brown," said Clephane. "Did any of you
chaps notice the way he let Paget through that time he scored for them?
He simply didn't attempt to tackle him. He could have brought him down
like a shot if he'd only gone for him. Paget was running straight along
the touch-line, and hadn't any room to dodge. I know Trevor was jolly
sick about it. And then he let him through once before in just the same
way in the first half, only Trevor got round and stopped him. He was
rank."
"Missed every other pass, too," said Otway.
Clephane summed up.
"He was rank," he said again. "Trevor won't keep him in the team long."
"I wish Paget hadn't left," said Otway, referring to the wing
three-quarter who, by leaving unexpectedly at the end of the Christmas
term, had let Rand-Brown into the team. His loss was likely to be felt.
Up till Christmas Wrykyn had done well, and Paget had been their scoring
man. Rand-Brown had occupied a similar position in the second fifteen.
He was big and speedy, and in second fifteen matches these qualities
make up for a great deal. If a man scores one or two tries in nearly
every match, people are inclined to overlook in him such failings as
timidity and clumsiness. It is only when he comes to be tried in
football of a higher class that he is seen through. In the second
fifteen the fact that Rand-Brown was afraid to tackle his man had
almost escaped notice. But the habit would not do in first fifteen
circles.
"All the same," said Clephane, pursuing his subject, "if they don't
play him, I don't see who they're going to get. He's the best of the
second three-quarters, as far as I can see."
It was this very problem that was puzzling Trevor, as he walked off the
field with Paget and Clowes, when they had got into their blazers after
the match. Clowes was in the same house as Trevor--Donaldson's--and
Paget was staying there, too. He had been head of Donaldson's up to
Christmas.
"It strikes me," said Paget, "the school haven't got over the holidays
yet. I never saw such a lot of slackers. You ought to have taken thirty
points off the sort of team you had against you today."
"Have you ever known the school play well on the second day of term?"
asked Clowes. "The forwards always play as if the whole thing bored
them to death."
"It wasn't the forwards that mattered so much," said Trevor. "They'll
shake down all right after a few matches. A little running and passing
will put them right."
"Let's hope so," Paget observed, "or we might as well scratch to Ripton
at once. There's a jolly sight too much of the mince-pie and Christmas
pudding about their play at present." There was a pause. Then Paget
brought out the question towards which he had been moving all the time.
"What do you think of Rand-Brown?" he asked.
It was pretty clear by the way he spoke what he thought of that player
himself, but in discussing with a football captain the capabilities of
the various members of his team, it is best to avoid a too positive
statement one way or the other before one has heard his views on the
subject. And Paget was one of those people who like to know the
opinions of others before committing themselves.
Clowes, on the other hand, was in the habit of forming his views on his
own account, and expressing them. If people agreed with them, well and
good: it afforded strong presumptive evidence of their sanity. If they
disagreed, it was unfortunate, but he was not going to alter his
opinions for that, unless convinced at great length that they were
unsound. He summed things up, and gave you the result. You could take
it or leave it, as you preferred.
"I thought he was bad," said Clowes.
"Bad!" exclaimed Trevor, "he was a disgrace. One can understand a chap
having his off-days at any game, but one doesn't expect a man in the
Wrykyn first to funk. He mucked five out of every six passes I gave
him, too, and the ball wasn't a bit slippery. Still, I shouldn't mind
that so much if he had only gone for his man properly. It isn't being
out of practice that makes you funk. And even when he did have a try at
you, Paget, he always went high."
"That," said Clowes thoughtfully, "would seem to show that he was
game."
Nobody so much as smiled. Nobody ever did smile at Clowes' essays in
wit, perhaps because of the solemn, almost sad, tone of voice in which
he delivered them. He was tall and dark and thin, and had a pensive
eye, which encouraged the more soulful of his female relatives to
entertain hopes that he would some day take orders.
"Well," said Paget, relieved at finding that he did not stand alone in
his views on Rand-Brown's performance, "I must say I thought he was
awfully bad myself."
"I shall try somebody else next match," said Trevor. "It'll be rather
hard, though. The man one would naturally put in, Bryce, left at
Christmas, worse luck."
Bryce was the other wing three-quarter of the second fifteen.
"Isn't there anybody in the third?" asked Paget.
"Barry," said Clowes briefly.
"Clowes thinks Barry's good," explained Trevor.
"He _is_ good," said Clowes. "I admit he's small, but he can
tackle."
"The question is, would he be any good in the first? A chap might do
jolly well for the third, and still not be worth trying for the first."
"I don't remember much about Barry," said Paget, "except being collared
by him when we played Seymour's last year in the final. I certainly
came away with a sort of impression that he could tackle. I thought he
marked me jolly well."
"There you are, then," said Clowes. "A year ago Barry could tackle
Paget. There's no reason for supposing that he's fallen off since then.
We've seen that Rand-Brown _can't_ tackle Paget. Ergo, Barry is
better worth playing for the team than Rand-Brown. Q.E.D."
"All right, then," replied Trevor. "There can't be any harm in trying
him. We'll have another scratch game on Thursday. Will you be here
then, Paget?"
"Oh, yes. I'm stopping till Saturday."
"Good man. Then we shall be able to see how he does against you. I wish
you hadn't left, though, by Jove. We should have had Ripton on toast,
the same as last term."
Wrykyn played five schools, but six school matches. The school that
they played twice in the season was Ripton. To win one Ripton match
meant that, however many losses it might have sustained in the other
matches, the school had had, at any rate, a passable season. To win two
Ripton matches in the same year was almost unheard of. This year there
had seemed every likelihood of it. The match before Christmas on the
Ripton ground had resulted in a win for Wrykyn by two goals and a try
to a try. But the calculations of the school had been upset by the
sudden departure of Paget at the end of term, and also of Bryce, who
had hitherto been regarded as his understudy. And in the first Ripton
match the two goals had both been scored by Paget, and both had been
brilliant bits of individual play, which a lesser man could not have
carried through.
The conclusion, therefore, at which the school reluctantly arrived, was
that their chances of winning the second match could not be judged by
their previous success. They would have to approach the Easter term
fixture from another--a non-Paget--standpoint. In these circumstances
it became a serious problem: who was to get the fifteenth place?
Whoever played in Paget's stead against Ripton would be certain, if the
match were won, to receive his colours. Who, then, would fill the
vacancy?
"Rand-Brown, of course," said the crowd.
But the experts, as we have shown, were of a different opinion.
II
THE GOLD BAT
Trevor did not take long to resume a garb of civilisation. He never
wasted much time over anything. He was gifted with a boundless energy,
which might possibly have made him unpopular had he not justified it by
results. The football of the school had never been in such a
flourishing condition as it had attained to on his succeeding to the
captaincy. It was not only that the first fifteen was good. The
excellence of a first fifteen does not always depend on the captain.
But the games, even down to the very humblest junior game, had woken up
one morning--at the beginning of the previous term--to find themselves,
much to their surprise, organised going concerns. Like the immortal
Captain Pott, Trevor was "a terror to the shirker and the lubber". And
the resemblance was further increased by the fact that he was "a
toughish lot", who was "little, but steel and india-rubber". At first
sight his appearance was not imposing. Paterfamilias, who had heard his
son's eulogies on Trevor's performances during the holidays, and came
down to watch the school play a match, was generally rather
disappointed on seeing five feet six where he had looked for at least
six foot one, and ten stone where he had expected thirteen. But then,
what there was of Trevor was, as previously remarked, steel and
india-rubber, and he certainly played football like a miniature
Stoddart. It was characteristic of him that, though this was the
first match of the term, his condition seemed to be as good as
possible. He had done all his own work on the field and most of
Rand-Brown's, and apparently had not turned a hair. He was one of
those conscientious people who train in the holidays.
When he had changed, he went down the passage to Clowes' study. Clowes was
in the position he frequently took up when the weather was good--wedged
into his window in a sitting position, one leg in the study, the other
hanging outside over space. The indoor leg lacked a boot, so that it was
evident that its owner had at least had the energy to begin to change.
That he had given the thing up after that, exhausted with the effort, was
what one naturally expected from Clowes. He would have made a splendid
actor: he was so good at resting.
"Hurry up and dress," said Trevor; "I want you to come over to the
baths."
"What on earth do you want over at the baths?"
"I want to see O'Hara."
"Oh, yes, I remember. Dexter's are camping out there, aren't they? I
heard they were. Why is it?"
"One of the Dexter kids got measles in the last week of the holidays,
so they shunted all the beds and things across, and the chaps went back
there instead of to the house."
In the winter term the baths were always boarded over and converted
into a sort of extra gymnasium where you could go and box or fence when
there was no room to do it in the real gymnasium. Socker and stump-cricket
were also largely played there, the floor being admirably suited to such
games, though the light was always rather tricky, and prevented heavy
scoring.
"I should think," said Clowes, "from what I've seen of Dexter's
beauties, that Dexter would like them to camp out at the bottom of the
baths all the year round. It would be a happy release for him if they
were all drowned. And I suppose if he had to choose any one of them for
a violent death, he'd pick O'Hara. O'Hara must be a boon to a
house-master. I've known chaps break rules when the spirit moved
them, but he's the only one I've met who breaks them all day long
and well into the night simply for amusement. I've often thought of
writing to the S.P.C.A. about it. I suppose you could call Dexter an
animal all right?"
"O'Hara's right enough, really. A man like Dexter would make any fellow
run amuck. And then O'Hara's an Irishman to start with, which makes a
difference."
There is usually one house in every school of the black sheep sort,
and, if you go to the root of the matter, you will generally find that
the fault is with the master of that house. A house-master who enters
into the life of his house, coaches them in games--if an athlete--or,
if not an athlete, watches the games, umpiring at cricket and
refereeing at football, never finds much difficulty in keeping order.
It may be accepted as fact that the juniors of a house will never be
orderly of their own free will, but disturbances in the junior day-room
do not make the house undisciplined. The prefects are the criterion.
If you find them joining in the general "rags", and even starting
private ones on their own account, then you may safely say that it is
time the master of that house retired from the business, and took to
chicken-farming. And that was the state of things in Dexter's. It was
the most lawless of the houses. Mr Dexter belonged to a type of master
almost unknown at a public school--the usher type. In a private school
he might have passed. At Wrykyn he was out of place. To him the whole
duty of a house-master appeared to be to wage war against his house.
When Dexter's won the final for the cricket cup in the summer term of
two years back, the match lasted four afternoons--four solid afternoons
of glorious, up-and-down cricket. Mr Dexter did not see a single ball of
that match bowled. He was prowling in sequestered lanes and broken-down
barns out of bounds on the off-chance that he might catch some member of
his house smoking there. As if the whole of the house, from the head to
the smallest fag, were not on the field watching Day's best bats collapse
before Henderson's bowling, and Moriarty hit up that marvellous and
unexpected fifty-three at the end of the second innings!
That sort of thing definitely stamps a master.
"What do you want to see O'Hara about?" asked Clowes.
"He's got my little gold bat. I lent it him in the holidays."
A remark which needs a footnote. The bat referred to was made of gold,
and was about an inch long by an eighth broad. It had come into
existence some ten years previously, in the following manner. The
inter-house cricket cup at Wrykyn had originally been a rather
tarnished and unimpressive vessel, whose only merit consisted in the
fact that it was of silver. Ten years ago an Old Wrykinian, suddenly
reflecting that it would not be a bad idea to do something for the
school in a small way, hied him to the nearest jeweller's and purchased
another silver cup, vast withal and cunningly decorated with filigree
work, and standing on a massive ebony plinth, round which were little
silver lozenges just big enough to hold the name of the winning house
and the year of grace. This he presented with his blessing to be
competed for by the dozen houses that made up the school of Wrykyn, and
it was formally established as the house cricket cup. The question now
arose: what was to be done with the other cup? The School House, who
happened to be the holders at the time, suggested disinterestedly that
it should become the property of the house which had won it last. "Not
so," replied the Field Sports Committee, "but far otherwise. We will
have it melted down in a fiery furnace, and thereafter fashioned into
eleven little silver bats. And these little silver bats shall be the
guerdon of the eleven members of the winning team, to have and to hold
for the space of one year, unless, by winning the cup twice in
succession, they gain the right of keeping the bat for yet another
year. How is that, umpire?" And the authorities replied, "O men of
infinite resource and sagacity, verily is it a cold day when _you_
get left behind. Forge ahead." But, when they had forged ahead, behold!
it would not run to eleven little silver bats, but only to ten little
silver bats. Thereupon the headmaster, a man liberal with his cash,
caused an eleventh little bat to be fashioned--for the captain of the
winning team to have and to hold in the manner aforesaid. And, to
single it out from the others, it was wrought, not of silver, but of
gold. And so it came to pass that at the time of our story Trevor was
in possession of the little gold bat, because Donaldson's had won the
cup in the previous summer, and he had captained them--and,
incidentally, had scored seventy-five without a mistake.
"Well, I'm hanged if I would trust O'Hara with my bat," said Clowes,
referring to the silver ornament on his own watch-chain; "he's probably
pawned yours in the holidays. Why did you lend it to him?"
"His people wanted to see it. I know him at home, you know. They asked
me to lunch the last day but one of the holidays, and we got talking
about the bat, because, of course, if we hadn't beaten Dexter's in the
final, O'Hara would have had it himself. So I sent it over next day
with a note asking O'Hara to bring it back with him here."
"Oh, well, there's a chance, then, seeing he's only had it so little
time, that he hasn't pawned it yet. You'd better rush off and get it
back as soon as possible. It's no good waiting for me. I shan't be
ready for weeks."
"Where's Paget?"
"Teaing with Donaldson. At least, he said he was going to."
"Then I suppose I shall have to go alone. I hate walking alone."
"If you hurry," said Clowes, scanning the road from his post of
vantage, "you'll be able to go with your fascinating pal Ruthven. He's
just gone out."
Trevor dashed downstairs in his energetic way, and overtook the youth
referred to.
Clowes brooded over them from above like a sorrowful and rather
disgusted Providence. Trevor's liking for Ruthven, who was a
Donaldsonite like himself, was one of the few points on which the two
had any real disagreement. Clowes could not understand how any person
in his senses could of his own free will make an intimate friend of
Ruthven.
"Hullo, Trevor," said Ruthven.
"Come over to the baths," said Trevor, "I want to see O'Hara about
something. Or were you going somewhere else."
"I wasn't going anywhere in particular. I never know what to do in
term-time. It's deadly dull."
Trevor could never understand how any one could find term-time dull.
For his own part, there always seemed too much to do in the time.
"You aren't allowed to play games?" he said, remembering something
about a doctor's certificate in the past.
"No," said Ruthven. "Thank goodness," he added.
Which remark silenced Trevor. To a person who thanked goodness that he
was not allowed to play games he could find nothing to say. But he
ceased to wonder how it was that Ruthven was dull.
They proceeded to the baths together in silence. O'Hara, they were
informed by a Dexter's fag who met them outside the door, was not
about.
"When he comes back," said Trevor, "tell him I want him to come to tea
tomorrow directly after school, and bring my bat. Don't forget."
The fag promised to make a point of it.
III
THE MAYOR'S STATUE
One of the rules that governed the life of Donough O'Hara, the
light-hearted descendant of the O'Haras of Castle Taterfields, Co.
Clare, Ireland, was "Never refuse the offer of a free tea". So, on
receipt--per the Dexter's fag referred to--of Trevor's invitation, he
scratched one engagement (with his mathematical master--not wholly
unconnected with the working-out of Examples 200 to 206 in Hall and
Knight's Algebra), postponed another (with his friend and ally Moriarty,
of Dexter's, who wished to box with him in the gymnasium), and made his
way at a leisurely pace towards Donaldson's. He was feeling particularly
pleased with himself today, for several reasons. He had begun the day
well by scoring brilliantly off Mr Dexter across the matutinal rasher
and coffee. In morning school he had been put on to translate the one
passage which he happened to have prepared--the first ten lines, in
fact, of the hundred which formed the morning's lesson. And in the
final hour of afternoon school, which was devoted to French, he had
discovered and exploited with great success an entirely new and original
form of ragging. This, he felt, was the strenuous life; this was living
one's life as one's life should be lived.
He met Trevor at the gate. As they were going in, a carriage and pair
dashed past. Its cargo consisted of two people, the headmaster, looking
bored, and a small, dapper man, with a very red face, who looked
excited, and was talking volubly. Trevor and O'Hara raised their caps
as the chariot swept by, but the salute passed unnoticed. The Head
appeared to be wrapped in thought.
"What's the Old Man doing in a carriage, I wonder," said Trevor,
looking after them. "Who's that with him?"
"That," said O'Hara, "is Sir Eustace Briggs."
"Who's Sir Eustace Briggs?"
O'Hara explained, in a rich brogue, that Sir Eustace was Mayor of
Wrykyn, a keen politician, and a hater of the Irish nation, judging by
his letters and speeches.
They went into Trevor's study. Clowes was occupying the window in his
usual manner.
"Hullo, O'Hara," he said, "there is an air of quiet satisfaction about
you that seems to show that you've been ragging Dexter. Have you?"
"Oh, that was only this morning at breakfast. The best rag was in
French," replied O'Hara, who then proceeded to explain in detail the
methods he had employed to embitter the existence of the hapless Gallic
exile with whom he had come in contact. It was that gentleman's custom
to sit on a certain desk while conducting the lesson. This desk chanced
to be O'Hara's. On the principle that a man may do what he likes with
his own, he had entered the room privily in the dinner-hour, and
removed the screws from his desk, with the result that for the first
half-hour of the lesson the class had been occupied in excavating M.
Gandinois from the ruins. That gentleman's first act on regaining his
equilibrium had been to send O'Hara out of the room, and O'Hara, who
had foreseen this emergency, had spent a very pleasant half-hour in the
passage with some mixed chocolates and a copy of Mr Hornung's
_Amateur Cracksman_. It was his notion of a cheerful and instructive
French lesson.
"What were you talking about when you came in?" asked Clowes. "Who's
been slanging Ireland, O'Hara?"
"The man Briggs."
"What are you going to do about it? Aren't you going to take any
steps?"
"Is it steps?" said O'Hara, warmly, "and haven't we----"
He stopped.
"Well?"
"Ye know," he said, seriously, "ye mustn't let it go any further. I
shall get sacked if it's found out. An' so will Moriarty, too."
"Why?" asked Trevor, looking up from the tea-pot he was filling, "what
on earth have you been doing?"
"Wouldn't it be rather a cheery idea," suggested Clowes, "if you began
at the beginning."
"Well, ye see," O'Hara began, "it was this way. The first I heard of it
was from Dexter. He was trying to score off me as usual, an' he said,
'Have ye seen the paper this morning, O'Hara?' I said, no, I had not.
Then he said, 'Ah,' he said, 'ye should look at it. There's something
there that ye'll find interesting.' I said, 'Yes, sir?' in me
respectful way. 'Yes,' said he, 'the Irish members have been making
their customary disturbances in the House. Why is it, O'Hara,' he said,
'that Irishmen are always thrusting themselves forward and making
disturbances for purposes of self-advertisement?' 'Why, indeed, sir?'
said I, not knowing what else to say, and after that the conversation
ceased."
"Go on," said Clowes.
"After breakfast Moriarty came to me with a paper, and showed me what
they had been saying about the Irish. There was a letter from the man
Briggs on the subject. 'A very sensible and temperate letter from Sir
Eustace Briggs', they called it, but bedad! if that was a temperate
letter, I should like to know what an intemperate one is. Well, we read
it through, and Moriarty said to me, 'Can we let this stay as it is?'
And I said, 'No. We can't.' 'Well,' said Moriarty to me, 'what are we
to do about it? I should like to tar and feather the man,' he said. 'We
can't do that,' I said, 'but why not tar and feather his statue?' I
said. So we thought we would. Ye know where the statue is, I suppose?
It's in the recreation ground just across the river."
"I know the place," said Clowes. "Go on. This is ripping. I always knew
you were pretty mad, but this sounds as if it were going to beat all
previous records."
"Have ye seen the baths this term," continued O'Hara, "since they
shifted Dexter's house into them? The beds are in two long rows along
each wall. Moriarty's and mine are the last two at the end farthest
from the door."
"Just under the gallery," said Trevor. "I see."
"That's it. Well, at half-past ten sharp every night Dexter sees that
we're all in, locks the door, and goes off to sleep at the Old Man's,
and we don't see him again till breakfast. He turns the gas off from
outside. At half-past seven the next morning, Smith"--Smith was one of
the school porters--"unlocks the door and calls us, and we go over to
the Hall to breakfast."
"Well?"
"Well, directly everybody was asleep last night--it wasn't till after
one, as there was a rag on--Moriarty and I got up, dressed, and climbed
up into the gallery. Ye know the gallery windows? They open at the top,
an' it's rather hard to get out of them. But we managed it, and dropped
on to the gravel outside."
"Long drop," said Clowes.
"Yes. I hurt myself rather. But it was in a good cause. I dropped
first, and while I was on the ground, Moriarty came on top of me.
That's how I got hurt. But it wasn't much, and we cut across the
grounds, and over the fence, and down to the river. It was a fine
night, and not very dark, and everything smelt ripping down by the
river."
"Don't get poetical," said Clowes. "Stick to the point."
"We got into the boat-house--"
"How?" asked the practical Trevor, for the boat-house was wont to be
locked at one in the morning. "Moriarty had a key that fitted,"
explained O'Hara, briefly. "We got in, and launched a boat--a big
tub--put in the tar and a couple of brushes--there's always tar in
the boat-house--and rowed across."
"Wait a bit," interrupted Trevor, "you said tar and feathers. Where did
you get the feathers?"
"We used leaves. They do just as well, and there were heaps on the
bank. Well, when we landed, we tied up the boat, and bucked across to
the Recreation Ground. We got over the railings--beastly, spiky
railings--and went over to the statue. Ye know where the statue stands?
It's right in the middle of the place, where everybody can see it.
Moriarty got up first, and I handed him the tar and a brush. Then I
went up with the other brush, and we began. We did his face first. It
was too dark to see really well, but I think we made a good job of it.
When we had put about as much tar on as we thought would do, we took
out the leaves--which we were carrying in our pockets--and spread them
on. Then we did the rest of him, and after about half an hour, when we
thought we'd done about enough, we got into our boat again, and came
back."
"And what did you do till half-past seven?"
"We couldn't get back the way we'd come, so we slept in the boat-house."
"Well--I'm--hanged," was Trevor's comment on the story.
Clowes roared with laughter. O'Hara was a perpetual joy to him.
As O'Hara was going, Trevor asked him for his gold bat.
"You haven't lost it, I hope?" he said.
O'Hara felt in his pocket, but brought his hand out at once and
transferred it to another pocket. A look of anxiety came over his face,
and was reflected in Trevor's.
"I could have sworn it was in that pocket," he said.
"You _haven't_ lost it?" queried Trevor again.
"He has," said Clowes, confidently. "If you want to know where that bat
is, I should say you'd find it somewhere between the baths and the
statue. At the foot of the statue, for choice. It seems to me--correct
me if I am wrong--that you have been and gone and done it, me broth av
a bhoy."
O'Hara gave up the search.
"It's gone," he said. "Man, I'm most awfully sorry. I'd sooner have
lost a ten-pound note."
"I don't see why you should lose either," snapped Trevor. "Why the
blazes can't you be more careful."
O'Hara was too penitent for words. Clowes took it on himself to point
out the bright side.
"There's nothing to get sick about, really," he said. "If the thing
doesn't turn up, though it probably will, you'll simply have to tell
the Old Man that it's lost. He'll have another made. You won't be asked
for it till just before Sports Day either, so you will have plenty of
time to find it."
The challenge cups, and also the bats, had to be given to the
authorities before the sports, to be formally presented on Sports Day.
"Oh, I suppose it'll be all right," said Trevor, "but I hope it won't
be found anywhere near the statue."
O'Hara said he hoped so too.
IV
THE LEAGUE'S WARNING
The team to play in any match was always put upon the notice-board at
the foot of the stairs in the senior block a day before the date of the
fixture. Both first and second fifteens had matches on the Thursday of
this week. The second were playing a team brought down by an old
Wrykinian. The first had a scratch game.
When Barry, accompanied by M'Todd, who shared his study at Seymour's
and rarely left him for two minutes on end, passed by the notice-board
at the quarter to eleven interval, it was to the second fifteen list
that he turned his attention. Now that Bryce had left, he thought he
might have a chance of getting into the second. His only real rival, he
considered, was Crawford, of the School House, who was the other wing
three-quarter of the third fifteen. The first name he saw on the list
was Crawford's. It seemed to be written twice as large as any of the
others, and his own was nowhere to be seen. The fact that he had half
expected the calamity made things no better. He had set his heart on
playing for the second this term.
Then suddenly he noticed a remarkable phenomenon. The other wing
three-quarter was Rand-Brown. If Rand-Brown was playing for the second,
who was playing for the first?
He looked at the list.
"_Come_ on," he said hastily to M'Todd. He wanted to get away
somewhere where his agitated condition would not be noticed. He felt
quite faint at the shock of seeing his name on the list of the first
fifteen. There it was, however, as large as life. "M. Barry." Separated
from the rest by a thin red line, but still there. In his most
optimistic moments he had never dreamed of this. M'Todd was reading
slowly through the list of the second. He did everything slowly, except
eating.
"Come on," said Barry again.
M'Todd had, after much deliberation, arrived at a profound truth. He
turned to Barry, and imparted his discovery to him in the weighty
manner of one who realises the importance of his words.
"Look here," he said, "your name's not down here."
"I know. _Come_ on."
"But that means you're not playing for the second."
"Of course it does. Well, if you aren't coming, I'm off."
"But, look here----"
Barry disappeared through the door. After a moment's pause, M'Todd
followed him. He came up with him on the senior gravel.
"What's up?" he inquired.
"Nothing," said Barry.
"Are you sick about not playing for the second?"
"No."
"You are, really. Come and have a bun."
In the philosophy of M'Todd it was indeed a deep-rooted sorrow that
could not be cured by the internal application of a new, hot bun. It
had never failed in his own case.
"Bun!" Barry was quite shocked at the suggestion. "I can't afford to
get myself out of condition with beastly buns."
"But if you aren't playing----"
"You ass. I'm playing for the first. Now, do you see?"
M'Todd gaped. His mind never worked very rapidly. "What about
Rand-Brown, then?" he said.
"Rand-Brown's been chucked out. Can't you understand? You _are_ an
idiot. Rand-Brown's playing for the second, and I'm playing for the
first."
"But you're----"
He stopped. He had been going to point out that Barry's tender years--he
was only sixteen--and smallness would make it impossible for him to play
with success for the first fifteen. He refrained owing to a conviction
that the remark would not be wholly judicious. Barry was touchy on the
subject of his size, and M'Todd had suffered before now for commenting
on it in a disparaging spirit.
"I tell you what we'll do after school," said Barry, "we'll have some
running and passing. It'll do you a lot of good, and I want to practise
taking passes at full speed. You can trot along at your ordinary pace,
and I'll sprint up from behind."
M'Todd saw no objection to that. Trotting along at his ordinary
pace--five miles an hour--would just suit him.
"Then after that," continued Barry, with a look of enthusiasm, "I want
to practise passing back to my centre. Paget used to do it awfully well
last term, and I know Trevor expects his wing to. So I'll buck along,
and you race up to take my pass. See?"
This was not in M'Todd's line at all. He proposed a slight alteration
in the scheme.
"Hadn't you better get somebody else--?" he began.
"Don't be a slack beast," said Barry. "You want exercise awfully
badly."
And, as M'Todd always did exactly as Barry wished, he gave in, and
spent from four-thirty to five that afternoon in the prescribed manner.
A suggestion on his part at five sharp that it wouldn't be a bad idea
to go and have some tea was not favourably received by the enthusiastic
three-quarter, who proposed to devote what time remained before lock-up
to practising drop-kicking. It was a painful alternative that faced
M'Todd. His allegiance to Barry demanded that he should consent to the
scheme. On the other hand, his allegiance to afternoon tea--equally
strong--called him back to the house, where there was cake, and also
muffins. In the end the question was solved by the appearance of
Drummond, of Seymour's, garbed in football things, and also anxious to
practise drop-kicking. So M'Todd was dismissed to his tea with
opprobrious epithets, and Barry and Drummond settled down to a little
serious and scientific work.
Making allowances for the inevitable attack of nerves that attends a
first appearance in higher football circles than one is accustomed to,
Barry did well against the scratch team--certainly far better than
Rand-Brown had done. His smallness was, of course, against him, and, on
the only occasion on which he really got away, Paget overtook him and
brought him down. But then Paget was exceptionally fast. In the two
most important branches of the game, the taking of passes and tackling,
Barry did well. As far as pluck went he had enough for two, and when
the whistle blew for no-side he had not let Paget through once, and
Trevor felt that his inclusion in the team had been justified. There
was another scratch game on the Saturday. Barry played in it, and did
much better. Paget had gone away by an early train, and the man he had
to mark now was one of the masters, who had been good in his time, but
was getting a trifle old for football. Barry scored twice, and on one
occasion, by passing back to Trevor after the manner of Paget, enabled
the captain to run in. And Trevor, like the captain in _Billy
Taylor_, "werry much approved of what he'd done." Barry began to be
regarded in the school as a regular member of the fifteen. The first of
the fixture-card matches, versus the Town, was due on the following
Saturday, and it was generally expected that he would play. M'Todd's
devotion increased every day. He even went to the length of taking long
runs with him. And if there was one thing in the world that M'Todd
loathed, it was a long run.
On the Thursday before the match against the Town, Clowes came
chuckling to Trevor's study after preparation, and asked him if he had
heard the latest.
"Have you ever heard of the League?" he said.
Trevor pondered.
"I don't think so," he replied.
"How long have you been at the school?"
"Let's see. It'll be five years at the end of the summer term."
"Ah, then you wouldn't remember. I've been here a couple of terms
longer than you, and the row about the League was in my first term."
"What was the row?"
"Oh, only some chaps formed a sort of secret society in the place. Kind
of Vehmgericht, you know. If they got their knife into any one, he
usually got beans, and could never find out where they came from. At
first, as a matter of fact, the thing was quite a philanthropical
concern. There used to be a good deal of bullying in the place then--at
least, in some of the houses--and, as the prefects couldn't or wouldn't
stop it, some fellows started this League."
"Did it work?"
"Work! By Jove, I should think it did. Chaps who previously couldn't
get through the day without making some wretched kid's life not worth
living used to go about as nervous as cats, looking over their
shoulders every other second. There was one man in particular, a chap
called Leigh. He was hauled out of bed one night, blindfolded, and
ducked in a cold bath. He was in the School House."
"Why did the League bust up?"
"Well, partly because the fellows left, but chiefly because they didn't
stick to the philanthropist idea. If anybody did anything they didn't
like, they used to go for him. At last they put their foot into it
badly. A chap called Robinson--in this house by the way--offended them
in some way, and one morning he was found tied up in the bath, up to
his neck in cold water. Apparently he'd been there about an hour. He
got pneumonia, and almost died, and then the authorities began to get
going. Robinson thought he had recognised the voice of one of the
chaps--I forget his name. The chap was had up by the Old Man, and gave
the show away entirely. About a dozen fellows were sacked, clean off
the reel. Since then the thing has been dropped."
"But what about it? What were you going to say when you came in?"
"Why, it's been revived!"
"Rot!"
"It's a fact. Do you know Mill, a prefect, in Seymour's?"
"Only by sight."
"I met him just now. He's in a raving condition. His study's been
wrecked. You never saw such a sight. Everything upside down or smashed.
He has been showing me the ruins."
"I believe Mill is awfully barred in Seymour's," said Trevor. "Anybody
might have ragged his study."
"That's just what I thought. He's just the sort of man the League used
to go for."
"That doesn't prove that it's been revived, all the same," objected
Trevor.
"No, friend; but this does. Mill found it tied to a chair."
It was a small card. It looked like an ordinary visiting card. On it,
in neat print, were the words, "_With the compliments of the
League_".
"That's exactly the same sort of card as they used to use," said
Clowes. "I've seen some of them. What do you think of that?"
"I think whoever has started the thing is a pretty average-sized idiot.
He's bound to get caught some time or other, and then out he goes. The
Old Man wouldn't think twice about sacking a chap of that sort."
"A chap of that sort," said Clowes, "will take jolly good care he isn't
caught. But it's rather sport, isn't it?"
And he went off to his study.
Next day there was further evidence that the League was an actual going
concern. When Trevor came down to breakfast, he found a letter by his
plate. It was printed, as the card had been. It was signed "The
President of the League." And the purport of it was that the League did
not wish Barry to continue to play for the first fifteen.
V
MILL RECEIVES VISITORS
Trevor's first idea was that somebody had sent the letter for a
joke,--Clowes for choice.
He sounded him on the subject after breakfast.
"Did you send me that letter?" he inquired, when Clowes came into his
study to borrow a _Sportsman_.
"What letter? Did you send the team for tomorrow up to the sporter? I
wonder what sort of a lot the Town are bringing."
"About not giving Barry his footer colours?"
Clowes was reading the paper.
"Giving whom?" he asked.
"Barry. Can't you listen?"
"Giving him what?"
"Footer colours."
"What about them?"
Trevor sprang at the paper, and tore it away from him. After which he
sat on the fragments.
"Did you send me a letter about not giving Barry his footer colours?"
Clowes surveyed him with the air of a nurse to whom the family baby has
just said some more than usually good thing.
"Don't stop," he said, "I could listen all day."
Trevor felt in his pocket for the note, and flung it at him. Clowes
picked it up, and read it gravely.
"What _are_ footer colours?" he asked.
"Well," said Trevor, "it's a pretty rotten sort of joke, whoever sent
it. You haven't said yet whether you did or not."
"What earthly reason should I have for sending it? And I think you're
making a mistake if you think this is meant as a joke."
"You don't really believe this League rot?"
"You didn't see Mill's study 'after treatment'. I did. Anyhow, how do
you account for the card I showed you?"
"But that sort of thing doesn't happen at school."
"Well, it _has_ happened, you see."
"Who do you think did send the letter, then?"
"The President of the League."
"And who the dickens is the President of the League when he's at home?"
"If I knew that, I should tell Mill, and earn his blessing. Not that I
want it."
"Then, I suppose," snorted Trevor, "you'd suggest that on the strength
of this letter I'd better leave Barry out of the team?"
"Satirically in brackets," commented Clowes.
"It's no good your jumping on _me_," he added. "I've done nothing.
All I suggest is that you'd better keep more or less of a look-out. If
this League's anything like the old one, you'll find they've all sorts
of ways of getting at people they don't love. I shouldn't like to come
down for a bath some morning, and find you already in possession, tied
up like Robinson. When they found Robinson, he was quite blue both as
to the face and speech. He didn't speak very clearly, but what one
could catch was well worth hearing. I should advise you to sleep with a
loaded revolver under your pillow."
"The first thing I shall do is find out who wrote this letter."
"I should," said Clowes, encouragingly. "Keep moving."
In Seymour's house the Mill's study incident formed the only theme of
conversation that morning. Previously the sudden elevation to the first
fifteen of Barry, who was popular in the house, at the expense of
Rand-Brown, who was unpopular, had given Seymour's something to talk
about. But the ragging of the study put this topic entirely in the shade.
The study was still on view in almost its original condition of disorder,
and all day comparative strangers flocked to see Mill in his den, in
order to inspect things. Mill was a youth with few friends, and it is
probable that more of his fellow-Seymourites crossed the threshold of
his study on the day after the occurrence than had visited him in the
entire course of his school career. Brown would come in to borrow a
knife, would sweep the room with one comprehensive glance, and depart,
to be followed at brief intervals by Smith, Robinson, and Jones, who
came respectively to learn the right time, to borrow a book, and to ask
him if he had seen a pencil anywhere. Towards the end of the day, Mill
would seem to have wearied somewhat of the proceedings, as was proved
when Master Thomas Renford, aged fourteen (who fagged for Milton, the
head of the house), burst in on the thin pretence that he had mistaken
the study for that of his rightful master, and gave vent to a prolonged
whistle of surprise and satisfaction at the sight of the ruins. On
that occasion, the incensed owner of the dismantled study, taking a
mean advantage of the fact that he was a prefect, and so entitled to
wield the rod, produced a handy swagger-stick from an adjacent corner,
and, inviting Master Renford to bend over, gave him six of the best to
remember him by. Which ceremony being concluded, he kicked him out into
the passage, and Renford went down to the junior day-room to tell his
friend Harvey about it.
"Gave me six, the cad," said he, "just because I had a look at his
beastly study. Why shouldn't I look at his study if I like? I've a
jolly good mind to go up and have another squint."
Harvey warmly approved the scheme.