Mike by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (dar e dil novel online reading .TXT) 📖

present

congratulated him as he passed; and Mike noticed, with some surprise,

that, in place of the blushful grin which custom demands from the man

who is being congratulated on receipt of colours, there appeared on

his face a worried, even an irritated look. He seemed to have

something on his mind.

 

“Hullo,” said Mike amiably. “Got that letter?”

 

“Yes. I’ll show it you outside.”

 

“Why not here?”

 

“Come on.”

 

Mike resented the tone, but followed. Evidently something had happened

to upset Bob seriously. As they went out on the gravel, somebody

congratulated Bob again, and again Bob hardly seemed to appreciate

it.’

 

Bob led the way across the gravel and on to the first terrace. When

they had left the crowd behind, he stopped.

 

“What’s up?” asked Mike.

 

“I want you to read–-”

 

“Jackson!”

 

They both turned. The headmaster was standing on the edge of the

gravel.

 

Bob pushed the letter into Mike’s hands.

 

“Read that,” he said, and went up to the headmaster. Mike heard the

words “English Essay,” and, seeing that the conversation was

apparently going to be one of some length, capped the headmaster and

walked off. He was just going to read the letter when the bell rang.

He put the missive in his pocket, and went to his form-room wondering

what Marjory could have found to say to Bob to touch him on the raw to

such an extent. She was a breezy correspondent, with a style of her

own, but usually she entertained rather than upset people. No

suspicion of the actual contents of the letter crossed his mind.

 

He read it during school, under the desk; and ceased to wonder. Bob

had had cause to look worried. For the thousand and first time in her

career of crime Marjory had been and done it! With a strong hand she

had shaken the cat out of the bag, and exhibited it plainly to all

whom it might concern.

 

There was a curious absence of construction about the letter. Most

authors of sensational matter nurse their bomb-shell, lead up to

it, and display it to the best advantage. Marjory dropped hers into

the body of the letter, and let it take its chance with the other

news-items.

 

“DEAR BOB” (the letter ran),—

 

“I hope you are quite well. I am quite well. Phyllis has a cold,

Ella cheeked Mademoiselle yesterday, and had to write out ‘Little

Girls must be polite and obedient’ a hundred times in French. She

was jolly sick about it. I told her it served her right. Joe made

eighty-three against Lancashire. Reggie made a duck. Have you got

your first? If you have, it will be all through Mike. Uncle John

told Father that Mike pretended to hurt his wrist so that you could

play instead of him for the school, and Father said it was very

sporting of Mike but nobody must tell you because it wouldn’t be

fair if you got your first for you to know that you owed it to Mike

and I wasn’t supposed to hear but I did because I was in the room

only they didn’t know I was (we were playing hide-and-seek and I was

hiding) so I’m writing to tell you,

 

“From your affectionate sister

 

“Marjory.”

 

There followed a P.S.

 

“I’ll tell you what you ought to do. I’ve been reading a jolly good

book called ‘The Boys of Dormitory Two,’ and the hero’s an awfully

nice boy named Lionel Tremayne, and his friend Jack Langdale saves

his life when a beast of a boatman who’s really employed by Lionel’s

cousin who wants the money that Lionel’s going to have when he grows

up stuns him and leaves him on the beach to drown. Well, Lionel is

going to play for the school against Loamshire, and it’s the

match of the season, but he goes to the headmaster and says he wants

Jack to play instead of him. Why don’t you do that?

 

“M.

 

“P.P.S.—This has been a frightful fag to write.”

 

For the life of him Mike could not help giggling as he pictured what

Bob’s expression must have been when his brother read this document.

But the humorous side of the thing did not appeal to him for long.

What should he say to Bob? What would Bob say to him? Dash it all, it

made him look such an awful ass! Anyhow, Bob couldn’t do much.

In fact he didn’t see that he could do anything. The team was filled

up, and Burgess was not likely to alter it. Besides, why should he

alter it? Probably he would have given Bob his colours anyhow. Still,

it was beastly awkward. Marjory meant well, but she had put her foot

right in it. Girls oughtn’t to meddle with these things. No girl ought

to be taught to write till she came of age. And Uncle John had behaved

in many respects like the Complete Rotter. If he was going to let out

things like that, he might at least have whispered them, or looked

behind the curtains to see that the place wasn’t chock-full of female

kids. Confound Uncle John!

 

Throughout the dinner-hour Mike kept out of Bob’s way. But in a small

community like a school it is impossible to avoid a man for ever. They

met at the nets.

 

“Well?” said Bob.

 

“How do you mean?” said Mike.

 

“Did you read it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, is it all rot, or did you—you know what I mean—sham a crocked

wrist?”

 

“Yes,” said Mike, “I did.”

 

Bob stared gloomily at his toes.

 

“I mean,” he said at last, apparently putting the finishing-touch to

some train of thought, “I know I ought to be grateful, and all that. I

suppose I am. I mean it was jolly good of you—Dash it all,” he broke

off hotly, as if the putting his position into words had suddenly

showed him how inglorious it was, “what did you want to do if

for? What was the idea? What right have you got to go about

playing Providence over me? Dash it all, it’s like giving a fellow

money without consulting him.”

 

“I didn’t think you’d ever know. You wouldn’t have if only that ass

Uncle John hadn’t let it out.”

 

“How did he get to know? Why did you tell him?”

 

“He got it out of me. I couldn’t choke him off. He came down when you

were away at Geddington, and would insist on having a look at my arm,

and naturally he spotted right away there was nothing the matter with

it. So it came out; that’s how it was.”

 

Bob scratched thoughtfully at the turf with a spike of his boot.

 

“Of course, it was awfully decent–-”

 

Then again the monstrous nature of the affair came home to him.

 

“But what did you do it for? Why should you rot up your own

chances to give me a look in?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know…. You know, you did me a jolly good turn.”

 

“I don’t remember. When?”

 

“That Firby-Smith business.”

 

“What about it?”

 

“Well, you got me out of a jolly bad hole.”

 

“Oh, rot! And do you mean to tell me it was simply because of that–-?”

 

Mike appeared to him in a totally new light. He stared at him as if he

were some strange creature hitherto unknown to the human race. Mike

shuffled uneasily beneath the scrutiny.

 

“Anyhow, it’s all over now,” Mike said, “so I don’t see what’s the

point of talking about it.”

 

“I’m hanged if it is. You don’t think I’m going to sit tight and take

my first as if nothing had happened?”

 

“What can you do? The list’s up. Are you going to the Old Man to ask

him if I can play, like Lionel Tremayne?”

 

The hopelessness of the situation came over Bob like a wave. He looked

helplessly at Mike.

 

“Besides,” added Mike, “I shall get in next year all right. Half a

second, I just want to speak to Wyatt about something.”

 

He sidled off.

 

“Well, anyhow,” said Bob to himself, “I must see Burgess about it.”