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

The Head, like the gentleman in the ballad, continued to wear a worried look. The more he examined the matter, the less did he know what to make of it. He believed, as he had said to Mr. Thompson, that Jim was entirely innocent. It was an incredible thing, he thought, that a public school boy, a school prefect, too, into the bargain, should break out of his house and into a cricket pavilion, however great a crisis his finances might be undergoing. And then to steal two of the prizes for the Sports. Impossible. Against this, however, must be placed the theft of the two pounds. It might occur to a boy, as indeed Mr. Thompson had suggested, to steal the cups in order to give the impression that a practised burglar had been at work. There was certainly something to be said in favour of this view. But he would never believe such a thing. He was a good judge of character⁠—a headmaster generally is⁠—and he thought he could tell when a boy was speaking the truth and when he was not.

His reflections were interrupted by a knock at the door. The butler entered with a card on a tray. “Sir Alfred Venner, M.P., Badgwick Hall,” said⁠—almost shouted⁠—the card. He read the words without any apparent pleasure.

“Is Sir Alfred here himself, Parker?” he said.

“He is, sir.”

The Headmaster sighed inaudibly but very wearily. He was feeling worried already, and he knew from experience that a tête-à-tête with Sir Alfred Venner, M.P., of Badgwick Hall, would worry him still more.

The Head was a man who tried his very hardest to like each and all of his fellow creatures, but he felt bound to admit that he liked most people a great, a very great, deal better than he liked the gentleman who had just sent in his card. Sir Alfred’s manner always jarred upon him. It was so exactly the antithesis of his own. He was quiet and dignified, and addressed everybody alike, courteously. Sir Alfred was restless and fussy. His manner was always dictatorial and generally rude. When he had risen in the House to make his maiden speech, calling the attention of the Speaker to what he described as “a thorough draught,” he had addressed himself with such severity to that official, that a party of Siamese noblemen, who, though not knowing a word of English, had come to listen to the debate, had gone away with the impression that he was the prime minister. No wonder the Headmaster sighed.

“Show him in, Parker,” said he resignedly.

“Yessir.”

Parker retired, leaving the Head to wonder what his visitor’s grievance might be this time. Sir Alfred rarely called without a grievance, generally connected with the trespassing of the School on his land.

“Good evening, Sir Alfred,” he said, as his visitor whirled into the room.

“O-o-o, this sort of thing won’t do, you know, Mr. Perceval,” said Sir Alfred fussily, adjusting a pair of gold pince-nez on his nose. The Head’s name, which has not before been mentioned, was the Reverend Herbert Perceval, M.A. He had shivered at the sound of the “O-o-o” which had preceded Sir Alfred’s remark. He knew, as did other unfortunate people, that the great man was at his worst when he said “O-o-o.” In moments of comparative calm he said “Er.”

“I can’t put up with it, you know, Mr. Perceval. It’s too much. A great deal too much.”

“You refer to⁠—?” suggested the Head, with a patience that did him credit.

“This eternal trespassing and tramping in and out of my grounds all day.”

“You have been misinformed, I fear, Sir Alfred. I have not trespassed in your grounds for⁠—ah⁠—a considerable time.” The Head could not resist this thrust. In his unregenerate varsity days he had been a power at the Union, where many a foeman had exposed himself to a verbal counter from him with disastrous results. Now the fencing must be done with buttons on the foils.

“You⁠—what⁠—I don’t follow you, Mr. Perceval.”

“I understand you to reproach me for trespassing and⁠—ah⁠—tramping in and out of your grounds all day. Was that not your meaning?”

Sir Alfred almost danced with impatience.

“No, no, no. You misunderstand me. You don’t follow my drift.”

“In that case, I beg your pardon. I gathered from the extreme severity of your attitude towards me that I was the person to whom you referred.”

“No, no, no. I’ve come here to complain of your boys.”

It occurred to the Head to ask if the complaint embraced the entire 600 of them, or merely referred to one of them. But he reflected that the longer he fenced, the longer his visitor would stay. And he decided, in spite of the illicit pleasure to be derived from the exercise, that it was not worthwhile.

“Ah,” he said.

“Yes,” continued Sir Alfred, “my keepers tell me the woods were full of them, sir.”

The Head suggested that possibly the keepers had exaggerated.

“Possibly. Possibly they may have exaggerated. But that is not the point. The nuisance is becoming intolerable, Mr. Perceval, perfectly intolerable. It is time to take steps.”

“I have already done all that can be done. I have placed your land out of bounds, considerably out of bounds indeed. And I inflict the severest penalties when a breach of the rule is reported to me.”

“It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.”

“I can scarcely do more, I fear, Sir Alfred. There are more than 600 boys at St. Austin’s, and it is not within my power to place them all under my personal supervision.”

Here the Head, who had an eye to the humorous, conjured up a picture of 600 Austinians going for walks, two and two, the staff posted at intervals down the procession, and himself bringing up the rear. He made a mental mem. to laugh when his visitor had retired.

“H’m,” said the baffled M.P. thoughtfully, adjusting his pince-nez once more. “ ’M no. No, perhaps not. But”⁠—here he brightened up⁠—“you can punish them when they do trespass.”

“That is so, Sir Alfred. I can and invariably do.”

“Then punish that what’s-his-name, Plinkett,