The Pothunters P. G. Wodehouse (best classic books of all time txt) 📖

“What the dickens made them put the things in the Pav. at all? They must have known it wouldn’t be safe.”

“Well, you see, they usually cart them into the board room, I believe, only this time the governors were going to have a meeting there. They couldn’t very well meet in a room with the table all covered with silver pots.”

“Don’t see why.”

“Well, I suppose they could, really, but some of the governors are fairly nuts on strict form. There’s that crock who makes the two-hour vote of thanks speeches on Prize Day. You can see him rising to a point of order, and fixing the Old ’Un with a fishy eye.”

“Well, anyhow, I don’t see that they can blame a burglar for taking the pots if they simply chuck them in his way like that.”

“No. I say, we’d better weigh in with the Livy. The man Ward’ll be round directly. Where’s the dic.? And our invaluable friend, Mr. Bohn? Right. Now, you reel it off, and I’ll keep an eye on the notes.” And they settled down to the business of the day.

After a while Vaughan looked up.

“Who’s going to win the mile?” he asked.

“What’s the matter with Thomson?”

“How about Drake then?”

“Thomson won the half.”

“I knew you’d say that. The half isn’t a test of a chap’s mile form. Besides, did you happen to see Drake’s sprint?”

“Jolly good one.”

“I know, but look how late he started for it. Thomson crammed on the pace directly he got into the straight. Drake only began to put it on when he got to the Pav. Even then he wasn’t far behind at the tape.”

“No. Well, I’m not plunging either way. Ought to be a good race.”

“Rather. I say, I wonder Welch doesn’t try his hand at the mile. I believe he would do some rattling times if he’d only try.”

“Why, Welch is a sprinter.”

“I know. But I believe for all that that the mile’s his distance. He’s always well up in the cross-country runs.”

“Anyhow, he’s not in for it this year. Thomson’s my man. It’ll be a near thing, though.”

“Jolly near thing. With Drake in front.”

“Thomson.”

“Drake.”

“All right, we’ll see. Wonder why the beak doesn’t come up. I can’t sit here doing Livy all the evening. And yet if we stop he’s bound to look in.”

“Oh Lord, is that what you’ve been worrying about? I thought you’d developed the work habit or something. Ward’s all right. He’s out on the tiles tonight. Gone to a dinner at Philpott’s.”

“Good man, how do you know? Are you certain?”

“Heard him telling Prater this morning. Half the staff have gone. Good opportunity for a chap to go for a stroll if he wanted to. Shall we, by the way?”

“Not for me, thanks. I’m in the middle of a rather special book. Ever read Great Expectations? Dickens, you know.”

“I know. Haven’t read it, though. Always rather funk starting on a classic, somehow. Good?”

“My dear chap! Good’s not the word.”

“Well, after you. Exit Livy, then. And a good job, too. You might pass us the great Sherlock. Thanks.”

He plunged with the great detective into the mystery of the speckled band, while Vaughan opened Great Expectations at the place where he had left off the night before. And a silence fell upon the study.

Curiously enough, Dallas was not the only member of Ward’s House to whom it occurred that evening that the absence of the Housemaster supplied a good opportunity for a stroll. The idea had also struck Plunkett favourably. He was not feeling very comfortable downstairs. On entering the senior study he found Galloway, an Upper Fourth member of the House, already in possession. Galloway had managed that evening to insinuate himself with such success into the good graces of the matron, that he had been allowed to stay in the House instead of proceeding with the rest of the study to the Great Hall for preparation. The palpable failure of his attempt to hide the book he was reading under the table when he was disturbed led him to cast at the Mutual Friend, the cause of his panic, so severe and forbidding a look, that that gentleman retired, and made for the junior study.

The atmosphere in the junior study was close, and heavy with a blend of several strange odours. Plunkett went to the window. Then he noticed what he had never noticed before, that there were no bars to the window. Only the glass stood between him and the outer world. He threw up the sash as far as it would go. There was plenty of room to get out. So he got out. He stood for a moment inhaling the fresh air. Then, taking something from his coat pocket, he dived into the shadows. An hour passed. In the study above, Dallas, surfeited with mysteries and villainy, put down his book and stretched himself.

“I say, Vaughan,” he said. “Have you settled the House gym team yet? It’s about time the list went up.”

“Eh? What?” said Vaughan, coming slowly out of his book.

Dallas repeated his question.

“Yes,” said Vaughan, “got it somewhere on me. Haynes, Jarvis, and myself are going in. Only, the Mutual has to stick up the list.”

It was the unwritten rule in Ward’s, as in most of the other Houses at the School, that none but the head of the House had the right of placing notices on the House board.

“I know,” said Dallas. “I’ll go and buck him up now.”

“Don’t trouble. After prayers’ll do.”

“It’s all right. No trouble. Whom did you say? Yourself, Haynes⁠—”

“And Jarvis. Not that he’s any good. But the third string never matters much, and it’ll do him good to represent the House.”

“Right. I’ll go and unearth the Mutual.”

The result was that Galloway received another shock to his system.

“Don’t glare, Galloway. It’s rude,” said Dallas.

“Where’s Plunkett got to?” he added.

“Junior study,” said Galloway.

Dallas went to the junior study. There were Plunkett’s books on the table, but of their owner no signs were to be seen. The Mutual