Tales of St. Austin's

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  TALES OF ST AUSTIN'S

  by P. G. Wodehouse

  1903

  PREFACE

  Most of these stories originally appeared in _The Captain_. I amindebted to the Editor of that magazine for allowing me to republish.The rest are from the _Public School Magazine_. The story entitled'A Shocking Affair' appears in print for the first time. 'This was oneof our failures.'

  _P. G. Wodehouse_

  [Dedication]AD MATREM

  CONTENTS

  1 How Pillingshot Scored

  2 The Odd Trick

  3 L'Affaire Uncle John (A Story in Letters)

  4 Harrison's Slight Error

  5 Bradshaw's Little Story

  6 A Shocking Affair

  7 The Babe and the Dragon

  8 The Manoeuvres of Charteris

  9 How Payne Bucked Up

  10 Author!

  11 'The Tabby Terror'

  12 The Prize Poem

  13 Work

  14 Notes

  15 Now, Talking About Cricket--

  16 The Tom Brown Question

  [1]

  HOW PILLINGSHOT SCORED

  Pillingshot was annoyed. He was disgusted, mortified; no other word forit. He had no objection, of course, to Mr Mellish saying that his workduring the term, and especially his Livy, had been disgraceful. Amaster has the right to say that sort of thing if he likes. It is oneof the perquisites of the position. But when he went on to observe,without a touch of shame, that there would be an examination in theLivy as far as they had gone in it on the following Saturday,Pillingshot felt that he exceeded. It was not playing the game. Therewere the examinations at the end of term. Those were fair enough. Youknew exactly when they were coming, and could make your arrangementsaccordingly. But to spring an examination on you in the middle of theterm out of a blue sky, as it were, was underhand and unsportsmanlike,and would not do at all. Pillingshot wished that he could put his footdown. He would have liked to have stalked up to Mr Mellish's desk,fixed him with a blazing eye, and remarked, 'Sir, withdraw that remark.Cancel that statement instantly, or--!' or words to that effect.

  What he did say was: 'Oo, si-i-r!!'

  'Yes,' said Mr Mellish, not troubling to conceal his triumphat Pillingshot's reception of the news, 'there will be a Livyexamination next Saturday. And--' (he almost intoned this lastobservation)--'anybody who does not get fifty per cent, Pillingshot,fifty per cent, will be severely punished. Very severely punished,Pillingshot.'

  After which the lesson had proceeded on its course.

  'Yes, it is rather low, isn't it?' said Pillingshot's friend, Parker,as Pillingshot came to the end of a stirring excursus on the rights ofthe citizen, with special reference to mid-term Livy examinations.'That's the worst of Mellish. He always has you somehow.'

  'But what am I to _do_?' raved Pillingshot.

  'I should advise you to swot it up before Saturday,' said Parker.

  'Oh, don't be an ass,' said Pillingshot, irritably.

  What was the good of friends if they could only make idioticsuggestions like that?

  He retired, brooding, to his house.

  The day was Wednesday. There were only two more days, therefore, inwhich to prepare a quarter of a book of Livy. It couldn't be done. Thething was not possible.

  In the house he met Smythe.

  'What are you going to do about it?' he inquired. Smythe was top of theform, and if he didn't know how to grapple with a crisis of this sort,who _could_ know?

  'If you'll kindly explain,' said Smythe, 'what the dickens you aretalking about, I might be able to tell you.'

  Pillingshot explained, with unwonted politeness, that 'it' meant theLivy examination.

  'Oh,' said Smythe, airily, 'that! I'm just going to skim through it incase I've forgotten any of it. Then I shall read up the notescarefully. And then, if I have time, I shall have a look at the historyof the period. I should advise you to do that, too.'

  'Oh, don't be a goat,' said Pillingshot.

  And he retired, brooding, as before.

  That afternoon he spent industriously, copying out the fourth book of_The Aeneid_. At the beginning of the week he had had a slightdisagreement with M. Gerard, the French master.

  Pillingshot's views on behaviour and deportment during French lessonsdid not coincide with those of M. Gerard. Pillingshot's idea of aFrench lesson was something between a pantomime rally and a scrum atfootball. To him there was something wonderfully entertaining in theprocess of 'barging' the end man off the edge of the form into space,and upsetting his books over him. M. Gerard, however, had a veryundeveloped sense of humour. He warned the humorist twice, and on thething happening a third time, suggested that he should go into extralesson on the ensuing Wednesday.

  So Pillingshot went, and copied out Virgil.

  He emerged from the room of detention at a quarter past four. As hecame out into the grounds he espied in the middle distance somebodybeing carried on a stretcher in the direction of the School House. Atthe same moment Parker loomed in sight, walking swiftly towards theSchool shop, his mobile features shining with the rapt expression ofone who sees much ginger-beer in the near future.

  'Hullo, Parker,' said Pillingshot, 'who's the corpse?'

  'What, haven't you heard?' said Parker. 'Oh, no, of course, you were inextra. It's young Brown. He's stunned or something.'

  'How did it happen?'

  'That rotter, Babington, in Dacre's. Simply slamming about, you know,getting his eye in before going in, and Brown walked slap into one ofhis drives. Got him on the side of the head.'

  'Much hurt?'

  'Oh, no, I don't think so. Keep him out of school for about a week.'

  'Lucky beast. Wish somebody would come and hit me on the head. Comeand hit me on the head, Parker.'

  'Come and have an ice,' said Parker.

  'Right-ho,' said Pillingshot. It was one of his peculiarities, thatwhatever the hour or the state of the weather, he was always equal toconsuming an ice. This was probably due to genius. He had an infinitecapacity for taking pains. Scarcely was he outside the promised icewhen another misfortune came upon him. Scott, of the First Eleven,entered the shop. Pillingshot liked Scott, but he was not blind tocertain flaws in the latter's character. For one thing, he was tooenergetic. For another, he could not keep his energy to himself. He wasalways making Pillingshot do things. And Pillingshot's notion of theideal life was complete _dolce far niente_.

  'Ginger-beer, please,' said Scott, with parched lips. He had beenbowling at the nets, and the day was hot. 'Hullo! Pillingshot, youyoung slacker, why aren't you changed? Been bunking half-holiday games?You'd better reform, young man.'

  'I've been in extra,' said Pillingshot, with dignity.

  'How many times does that make this term? You're going for the record,aren't you? Jolly sporting of you. Bit slow in there, wasn't it?'Nother ginger-beer, please.'

  'Just a bit,' said Pillingshot.

  'I thought so. And now you're dying for some excitement. Of course youare. Well, cut over to the House and change, and then come back andfield at the nets. The man Yorke is going to bowl me some of hiscelebrated slow tosh, and I'm going to show him exactly how Jessop doesit when he's in form.'

  Scott was the biggest hitter in the School. Mr Yorke was one of themasters. He bowled slow leg-breaks, mostly half-volleys and long hops.Pillingshot had a sort of instinctive idea that fielding out in thedeep with Mr Yorke bowling and Scott batting would not contributelargely to the gaiety of his afternoon. Fielding deep at the nets meantthat you stood in the middle of the football field, where there was notelling what a ball would do if it came at you along the ground. If youwere luc
ky you escaped without injury. Generally, however, the ballbumped and deprived you of wind or teeth, according to the height towhich it rose. He began politely, but firmly, to excuse himself.

  'Don't talk rot,' said Scott, complainingly, 'you must have someexercise or you'll go getting fat. Think what a blow it would be toyour family, Pillingshot, if you lost your figure. Buck up. If you'reback here in a quarter of an hour you shall have another ice. A largeice, Pillingshot, price sixpence. Think of it.'

  The word ice, as has been remarked before, touched chords inPillingshot's nature to which he never turned a deaf ear. Within theprescribed quarter of an hour he was back again, changed.

  'Here's the ice,' said Scott, 'I've been keeping it warm for you.Shovel it down. I want to be starting for the nets. Quicker, man,quicker! Don't roll it round your tongue as if it was port. Go for it.Finished? That's right. Come on.'

  Pillingshot had not finished, but Scott so evidently believed that hehad, that it would have been unkind to have mentioned the fact. Hefollowed the smiter to the nets.

  If Pillingshot had passed the earlier part of the afternoon in asedentary fashion, he made up for it now. Scott was in rare form, andPillingshot noticed with no small interest that, while he invariablyhit Mr Yorke's deliveries a quarter of a mile or so, he never hit twoballs in succession in the same direction. As soon as the pantingfieldsman had sprinted to one side of the football ground and returnedthe ball, there was a beautiful, musical _plonk_, and the ballsoared to the very opposite quarter of the field. It was a fineexhibition of hitting, but Pillingshot felt that he would have enjoyedit more if he could have watched it from a deck-chair.

  'You're coming on as a deep field, young Pillingshot,' said Scott, ashe took off his pads. 'You've got a knack of stopping them with yourstomach, which the best first-class fields never have. You ought togive lessons at it. Now we'll go and have some tea.'

  If Pillingshot had had a more intimate acquaintance with the classics,he would have observed at this point, '_Timeo Danaos_', and made alast dash for liberty in the direction of the shop. But he was deceivedby the specious nature of Scott's remark. Visions rose before his eyesof sitting back in one of Scott's armchairs, watching a fag toastingmuffins, which he would eventually dispatch with languid enjoyment. Sohe followed Scott to his study. The classical parallel to his situationis the well-known case of the oysters. They, too, were eager for thetreat.

  They had reached the study, and Pillingshot was about to fling himself,with a sigh of relief, into the most comfortable chair, when Scottunmasked his batteries.

  'Oh, by the way,' he said, with a coolness which to Pillingshotappeared simply brazen, 'I'm afraid my fag won't be here today. Theyoung crock's gone and got mumps, or the plague, or something. So wouldyou mind just lighting that stove? It'll be rather warm, but that won'tmatter. There are some muffins in the cupboard. You might weigh in withthem. You'll find the toasting-fork on the wall somewhere. It's hangingup. Got it? Good man. Fire away.'

  And Scott collected five cushions, two chairs, and a tin of mixedbiscuits, and made himself comfortable. Pillingshot, with feelings toodeep for words (in the then limited state of his vocabulary), did as hewas requested. There was something remarkable about the way Scott couldalways get people to do things for him. He seemed to take everythingfor granted. If he had had occasion to hire an assassin to make awaywith the German Emperor, he would have said, 'Oh, I say, you might runover to Germany and kill the Kaiser, will you, there's a good chap?Don't be long.' And he would have taken a seat and waited, without theleast doubt in his mind that the thing would be carried through asdesired.

  Pillingshot had just finished toasting the muffins, when the dooropened, and Venables, of Merevale's, came in.

  'I thought I heard you say something about tea this afternoon, Scott,'said Venables. 'I just looked in on the chance. Good Heavens, man!Fancy muffins at this time of year! Do you happen to know what thethermometer is in the shade?'

  'Take a seat,' said Scott. 'I attribute my entire success in lifeto the fact that I never find it too hot to eat muffins. Do youknow Pillingshot? One of the hottest fieldsmen in the School.At least, he was just now. He's probably cooled off since then.Venables--Pillingshot, and _vice versa_. Buck up with the tea,Pillingshot. What, ready? Good man. Now we might almost begin.'

  'Beastly thing that accident of young Brown's, wasn't it?' said Scott.'Chaps oughtn't to go slamming about like that with the field full offellows. I suppose he won't be right by next Saturday?'

  'Not a chance. Why? Oh, yes, I forgot. He was to have scored for theteam at Windybury, wasn't he?'

  'Who are you going to get now?'

  Venables was captain of the St Austin's team. The match next Saturdaywas at Windybury, on the latter's ground.

  'I haven't settled,' said Venables. 'But it's easy to get somebody.Scoring isn't one of those things which only one chap in a hundredunderstands.'

  Then Pillingshot had an idea--a great, luminous idea.

  'May I score?' he asked, and waited trembling with apprehension lestthe request be refused.

  'All right,' said Venables, 'I don't see any reason why you shouldn't.We have to catch the 8.14 at the station. Don't you go missing it oranything.'

  'Rather _not_,' said Pillingshot. 'Not much.'

  * * * * *

  On Saturday morning, at exactly 9.15, Mr Mellish distributed the Livypapers. When he arrived at Pillingshot's seat and found it empty, anexpression passed over his face like unto that of the baffled villainin transpontine melodrama.

  'Where is Pillingshot?' he demanded tragically. 'Where is he?'

  'He's gone with the team to Windybury, sir,' said Parker, struggling toconceal a large size in grins. 'He's going to score.'

  'No,' said Mr Mellish sadly to himself, 'he _has_ scored.'