The Gold Bat by P. G. Wodehouse (best book reader .txt) 📖

term he had brought back a curious metal vase (which looked Indian, but which had probably been made in Birmingham the year before last), two old coins (of no mortal use to anybody in the world, including himself), and the dark lantern.  It was reposing now in the cupboard in his study nearest the window.

He had brought his book up with him on coming to bed, on the chance that he might have time to read a page or two if he woke up early. (He had always been doubtful about that man Jasper.  For one thing, he had been seen pawning the old gentleman’s watch on the afternoon of the murder, which was a suspicious circumstance, and then he was not a nice character at all, and just the sort of man who would be likely to murder old gentlemen in woods.) He waited till Mr Seymour had paid his nightly visit—­he went the round of the dormitories at about eleven—­and then he chuckled gently.  If Mill, the dormitory prefect, was awake, the chuckle would make him speak, for Mill was of a suspicious nature, and believed that it was only his unintermitted vigilance which prevented the dormitory ragging all night.

Mill was awake.

“Be quiet, there,” he growled.  “Shut up that noise.”

Shoeblossom felt that the time was not yet ripe for his departure.  Half an hour later he tried again.  There was no rebuke.  To make certain he emitted a second chuckle, replete with sinister meaning.  A slight snore came from the direction of Mill’s bed.  Shoeblossom crept out of the room, and hurried to his study.  The door was not locked, for Mr Seymour had relied on his commands being sufficient to keep the owner out of it.  He slipped in, found and lit the dark lantern, and settled down to read.  He read with feverish excitement.  The thing was, you see, that though Claud Trevelyan (that was the hero) knew jolly well that it was Jasper who had done the murder, the police didn’t, and, as he (Claud) was too noble to tell them, he had himself been arrested on suspicion.  Shoeblossom was skimming through the pages with starting eyes, when suddenly his attention was taken from his book by a sound.  It was a footstep.  Somebody was coming down the passage, and under the door filtered a thin stream of light.  To snap the dark slide over the lantern and dart to the door, so that if it opened he would be behind it, was with him, as Mr Claud Trevelyan might have remarked, the work of a moment.  He heard the door of study number five flung open, and then the footsteps passed on, and stopped opposite his own den.  The handle turned, and the light of a candle flashed into the room, to be extinguished instantly as the draught of the moving door caught it.

Shoeblossom heard his visitor utter an exclamation of annoyance, and fumble in his pocket for matches.  He recognised the voice.  It was Mr Seymour’s.  The fact was that Mr Seymour had had the same experience as General Stanley in The Pirates of Penzance: 

    The man who finds his conscience ache,
      No peace at all enjoys;
    And, as I lay in bed awake,
      I thought I heard a noise.

Whether Mr Seymour’s conscience ached or not, cannot, of course, be discovered.  But he had certainly thought he heard a noise, and he had come to investigate.

The search for matches had so far proved fruitless.  Shoeblossom stood and quaked behind the door.  The reek of hot tin from the dark lantern grew worse momentarily.  Mr Seymour sniffed several times, until Shoeblossom thought that he must be discovered.  Then, to his immense relief, the master walked away.  Shoeblossom’s chance had come.  Mr Seymour had probably gone to get some matches to relight his candle.  It was far from likely that the episode was closed.  He would be back again presently.  If Shoeblossom was going to escape, he must do it now, so he waited till the footsteps had passed away, and then darted out in the direction of his dormitory.

As he was passing Milton’s study, a white figure glided out of it.  All that he had ever read or heard of spectres rushed into Shoeblossom’s petrified brain.  He wished he was safely in bed.  He wished he had never come out of it.  He wished he had led a better and nobler life.  He wished he had never been born.

The figure passed quite close to him as he stood glued against the wall, and he saw it disappear into the dormitory opposite his own, of which Rigby was prefect.  He blushed hotly at the thought of the fright he had been in.  It was only somebody playing the same game as himself.

He jumped into bed and lay down, having first plunged the lantern bodily into his jug to extinguish it.  Its indignant hiss had scarcely died away when Mr Seymour appeared at the door.  It had occurred to Mr Seymour that he had smelt something very much out of the ordinary in Shoeblossom’s study, a smell uncommonly like that of hot tin.  And a suspicion dawned on him that Shoeblossom had been in there with a dark lantern.  He had come to the dormitory to confirm his suspicions.  But a glance showed him how unjust they had been.  There was Shoeblossom fast asleep.  Mr Seymour therefore followed the excellent example of my Lord Tomnoddy on a celebrated occasion, and went off to bed.

* * * * *

It was the custom for the captain of football at Wrykyn to select and publish the team for the Ripton match a week before the day on which it was to be played.  On the evening after the Nomads’ match, Trevor was sitting in his study writing out the names, when there came a knock at the door, and his fag entered with a letter.

“This has just come, Trevor,” he said.

“All right.  Put it down.”

The fag left the room.  Trevor picked up the letter.  The handwriting was strange to him.  The words had been printed.  Then it flashed upon him that he had received a letter once before addressed in the same way—­the letter from the League about Barry.  Was this, too, from that address?  He opened it.

It was.

He read it, and gasped.  The worst had happened.  The gold bat was in the hands of the enemy.

XIII VICTIM NUMBER THREE

“With reference to our last communication,” ran the letter—­the writer evidently believed in the commercial style—­“it may interest you to know that the bat you lost by the statue on the night of the 26th of January has come into our possession. We observe that Barry is still playing for the first fifteen.”

“And will jolly well continue to,” muttered Trevor, crumpling the paper viciously into a ball.

He went on writing the names for the Ripton match.  The last name on the list was Barry’s.

Then he sat back in his chair, and began to wrestle with this new development.  Barry must play.  That was certain.  All the bluff in the world was not going to keep him from playing the best man at his disposal in the Ripton match.  He himself did not count.  It was the school he had to think of.  This being so, what was likely to happen?  Though nothing was said on the point, he felt certain that if he persisted in ignoring the League, that bat would find its way somehow—­by devious routes, possibly—­to the headmaster or some one else in authority.  And then there would be questions—­awkward questions—­and things would begin to come out.  Then a fresh point struck him, which was, that whatever might happen would affect, not himself, but O’Hara.  This made it rather more of a problem how to act.  Personally, he was one of those dogged characters who can put up with almost anything themselves.  If this had been his affair, he would have gone on his way without hesitating.  Evidently the writer of the letter was under the impression that he had been the hero (or villain) of the statue escapade.

If everything came out it did not require any great effort of prophecy to predict what the result would be.  O’Hara would go.  Promptly.  He would receive his marching orders within ten minutes of the discovery of what he had done.  He would be expelled twice over, so to speak, once for breaking out at night—­one of the most heinous offences in the school code—­and once for tarring the statue.  Anything that gave the school a bad name in the town was a crime in the eyes of the powers, and this was such a particularly flagrant case.  Yes, there was no doubt of that.  O’Hara would take the first train home without waiting to pack up.  Trevor knew his people well, and he could imagine their feelings when the prodigal strolled into their midst—­an old Wrykinian malgré lui.  As the philosopher said of falling off a ladder, it is not the falling that matters:  it is the sudden stopping at the other end.  It is not the being expelled that is so peculiarly objectionable:  it is the sudden homecoming.  With this gloomy vision before him, Trevor almost wavered.  But the thought that the selection of the team had nothing whatever to do with his personal feelings strengthened him.  He was simply a machine, devised to select the fifteen best men in the school to meet Ripton.  In his official capacity of football captain he was not supposed to have any feelings.  However, he yielded in so far that he went to Clowes to ask his opinion.

Clowes, having heard everything and seen the letter, unhesitatingly voted for the right course.  If fifty mad Irishmen were to be expelled, Barry must play against Ripton.  He was the best man, and in he must go.

“That’s what I thought,” said Trevor.  “It’s bad for O’Hara, though.”

Clowes remarked somewhat tritely that business was business.

“Besides,” he went on, “you’re assuming that the thing this letter hints at will really come off.  I don’t think it will.  A man would have to be such an awful blackguard to go as low as that.  The least grain of decency in him would stop him.  I can imagine a man threatening to do it as a piece of bluff—­by the way, the letter doesn’t actually say anything of the sort, though I suppose it hints at it—­but I can’t imagine anybody out of a melodrama doing it.”

“You can never tell,” said Trevor.  He felt that this was but an outside chance.  The forbearance of one’s antagonist is but a poor thing to trust to at the best of times.

“Are you going to tell O’Hara?” asked Clowes.

“I don’t see the good.  Would you?”

“No.  He can’t do anything, and it would only give him a bad time.  There are pleasanter things, I should think, than going on from day to day not knowing whether you’re going to be sacked or not within the next twelve hours.  Don’t tell him.”

“I won’t.  And Barry plays against Ripton.”

“Certainly.  He’s the best man.”

“I’m going over to Seymour’s now,” said Trevor, after a pause, “to see Milton.  We’ve drawn Seymour’s in the next round of the house-matches.  I suppose you knew.  I want to get it over before the Ripton match, for several reasons.  About half the fifteen are playing on one side or the other, and it’ll give them a good chance of getting fit.  Running and passing is all right, but a good, hard game’s the thing for putting you into form.  And then I was thinking that, as the side that loses, whichever it is—­”

“Seymour’s, of course.”

“Hope so.  Well, they’re bound to be a bit sick at losing, so they’ll play up all the harder on Saturday to console themselves for losing the cup.”

“My word, what strategy!” said Clowes.  “You think of everything.  When do you think of playing it, then?”

“Wednesday struck me as a good day.  Don’t you think so?”

“It would do splendidly.  It’ll be a good match.  For all practical purposes, of course, it’s the final.  If we beat Seymour’s, I don’t think the others will trouble us much.”

There was just time to see Milton before lock-up.  Trevor ran across to Seymour’s, and went up to his study.

“Come in,” said Milton, in answer to his knock.

Trevor went in, and stood surprised at the difference in the look of the place since the last time he had visited it.  The walls, once covered with photographs, were bare.  Milton, seated before the fire, was ruefully contemplating what looked like a heap of waste cardboard.

Trevor recognised the symptoms.  He had had experience.

“You don’t mean to say they’ve been at you, too!” he cried.

Milton’s normally cheerful face was thunderous and gloomy.

“Yes.  I was thinking what I’d like to do to the man who ragged it.”

“It’s the League again, I suppose?”

Milton looked surprised.

“Again?” he said, “where did you hear of the League?  This is the first time I’ve heard of its existence, whatever it is.  What is the confounded thing, and why on earth have they played the fool here?  What’s the meaning of this bally rot?”

He exhibited one of the variety of cards of which Trevor had already seen two specimens.  Trevor explained briefly the style and nature of the League, and mentioned