The Pothunters by P. G. Wodehouse (top novels to read TXT) 📕

for explanations afterwards.

“This kid⁠—” began Morrison.

“Kid yourself, Morrison.”

“This lunatic, then.” Robinson allowed the emendation to pass. “This lunatic’s got some yarn on about the Pav. being burgled.”

“So it is. Tell you I saw it myself.”

“Did it yourself, probably.”

“How do you know, anyway? You seem so jolly certain about it.”

“Why, there’s a pane of glass cut out of the window in the first room.”

“Shouldn’t wonder, you know,” said Dimsdale, one of the two School House fags, judicially, “if the kid wasn’t telling the truth for once in his life. Those pots must be worth something. Don’t you think so, Scott?”

Scott admitted that there might be something in the idea, and that, however foreign to his usual habits, Robinson might on this occasion be confining himself more or less to strict fact.

“There you are, then,” said Robinson, vengefully. “Shows what a fat lot you know what you’re talking about, Morrison.”

“Morrison’s a fool,” said Scott. “Ever since he got off the bottom bench in form there’s been no holding him.”

“All the same,” said Morrison, feeling that matters were going against him, “I shan’t believe it till I see it.”

“What’ll you bet?” said Robinson.

“I never bet,” replied Morrison with scorn.

“You daren’t. You know you’d lose.”

“All right, then, I’ll bet a penny I’m right.” He drew a deep breath, as who should say, “It’s a lot of money, but it’s worth risking it.”

“You’ll lose that penny, old chap,” said Robinson. “That’s to say,” he added thoughtfully, “if you ever pay up.”

“You’ve got us as witnesses,” said Dimsdale. “We’ll see that he shells out. Scott, remember you’re a witness.

“Right ho,” said Scott.

At this moment the clock struck nine, and as each of the principals in this financial transaction, and both the witnesses, were expected to be in their places to answer their names at 8:58, they were late. And as they had all been late the day before and the day before that, they were presented, on arrival, by their generous form master with 200 lines apiece. Which shows more than ever how wrong it is to bet.

The news continuing to circulate, by the end of morning school it was generally known that a gang of desperadoes, numbering at least a hundred, had taken the Pavilion down, brick by brick, till only the foundations were left standing, and had gone off with every jot and tittle of the unfortunately placed Sports prizes.

At the quarter-to-eleven interval, the School had gone en masse to see what it could see, and had stared at the window with much the same interest as they were wont to use in inspecting the First Eleven pitch on the morning of a match⁠—a curious custom, by the way, but one very generally observed.

Then the official news of the extent of the robbery was spread abroad. It appeared that the burglar had by no means done the profession credit, for out of a collection of prizes ranging from the vast and silver Mile Challenge Cup to the pair of fives-gloves with which the “under twelve” disciple of Deerfoot was to be rewarded, he had selected only three. Two of these were worth having, being the challenge cup for the quarter and the non-challenge cup for the hundred yards, both silver, but the third was a valueless flask, and the general voice of the School was loud in condemning the business abilities of one who could select his swag in so haphazard a manner. It was felt to detract from the merit of the performance. The knowing ones, however, gave it as their opinion that the man must have been frightened by something, and so was unable to give the matter his best attention and do himself justice as a connoisseur.

“We had a burglary at my place once,” began Reade, of Philpott’s House. “The man⁠—”

“That rotter, Reade,” said Barrett, also of Philpott’s, “has been telling us that burglary chestnut of his all the morning. I wish you chaps wouldn’t encourage him.”

“Why, what was it? First I’ve heard of it, at any rate.” Dallas and Vaughan, of Ward’s, added themselves to the group. “Out with it, Reade,” said Vaughan.

“It’s only a beastly reminiscence of Reade’s childhood,” said Barrett. “A burglar got into the wine cellar and collared all the coals.”

“He didn’t. He was in the hall, and my pater got his revolver⁠—”

“While you hid under the bed.”

“⁠—and potted at him over the banisters.”

“The last time but three you told the story, your pater fired through the keyhole of the dining room.”

“You idiot, that was afterwards.”

“Oh, well, what does it matter? Tell us something fresh.”

“It’s my opinion,” said Dallas, “that Ward did it. A man of the vilest antecedents. He’s capable of anything from burglary⁠—”

“To attempted poisoning. You should see what we get to eat in Ward’s House,” said Vaughan.

“Ward’s the worst type of beak. He simply lives for the sake of booking chaps. If he books a chap out of bounds it keeps him happy for a week.”

“A man like that’s bound to be a criminal of sorts in his spare time. It’s action and reaction,” said Vaughan.

Mr. Ward happening to pass at this moment, the speaker went on to ask Dallas audibly if life was worth living, and Dallas replied that under certain conditions and in some Houses it was not.

Dallas and Vaughan did not like Mr. Ward. Mr. Ward was not the sort of man who inspires affection. He had an unpleasant habit of “jarring,” as it was called. That is to say, his conversation was shaped to one single end, that of trying to make the person to whom he talked feel uncomfortable. Many of his jars had become part of the School history. There was a legend that on one occasion he had invited his prefects to supper, and regaled them with sausages. There was still one prefect unhelped. To him he addressed himself.

“A sausage, Jones?”

“If you please, sir.”

“No, you won’t, then, because I’m going to have half myself.”

This story may or may not be true. Suffice it to say, that Mr. Ward was not popular.

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