02 A Prefect's Uncle Read online

  Neither Reece nor Marriott had arrived at the moment. Both were in the habit of returning at the latest possible hour, except at the beginning of the summer term. The Bishop determined to reserve his story until the following evening.

  Accordingly, when the study kettle was hissing on the Etna, and Wilson was crouching in front of the fire, making toast in his own inimitable style, he embarked upon his narrative.

  ‘I say, Marriott.’

  ‘Hullo.’

  ‘Do you notice a subtle change in me this term? Does my expressive purple eye gleam more brightly than of yore? It does. Exactly so. I feel awfully bucked up. You know that kid Farnie has left?’

  ‘I thought I missed his merry prattle. What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Gone to a school in France somewhere.’

  ‘Jolly for France.’

  ‘Awfully. But the point is that now he’s gone I can tell you about that M.C.C. match affair. I know you want to hear what really did happen that afternoon.’

  Marriott pointed significantly at Wilson, whose back was turned.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Gethryn. ‘Wilson.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You mustn’t listen. Try and think you’re a piece of furniture. See? And if you do happen to overhear anything, you needn’t go gassing about it. Follow?’

  ‘All right,’ said Wilson, and Gethryn told his tale.

  ‘Jove,’ he said, as he finished, ‘that’s a relief. It’s something to have got that off my chest. I do bar keeping a secret.’

  ‘But, I say,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, it was beastly good of you to do it, and that sort of thing, I suppose. I see that all right. But, my dear man, what a rotten thing to do. A kid like that. A little beast who simply cried out for sacking.’

  ‘Well, at any rate, it’s over now. You needn’t jump on me. I acted from the best motives. That’s what my grandfather, Farnie’s pater, you know, always used to say when he got at me for anything in the happy days of my childhood. Don’t sit there looking like a beastly churchwarden, you ass. Buck up, and take an intelligent interest in things.’

  ‘No, but really, Bishop,’ said Marriott, ‘you must treat this seriously. You’ll have to let the other chaps know about it.’

  ‘How? Put it up on the notice-board? This is to certify that Mr Allan Gethryn, of Leicester’s House, Beckford, is dismissed without a stain on his character. You ass, how can I let them know? I seem to see myself doing the boy-hero style of things. My friends, you wronged me, you wronged me very grievously. But I forgive you. I put up with your cruel scorn. I endured it. I steeled myself against it. And now I forgive you profusely, every one of you. Let us embrace. It wouldn’t do. You must see that much. Don’t be a goat. Is that toast done yet, Wilson?’

  Wilson exhibited several pounds of the article in question.

  ‘Good,’ said the Bishop. ‘You’re a great man, Wilson. You can make a small selection of those biscuits, and if you bag all the sugar ones I’ll slay you, and then you can go quietly downstairs, and rejoin your sorrowing friends. And don’t you go telling them what I’ve been saying.’

  ‘Rather not,’ said Wilson.

  He made his small selection, and retired. The Bishop turned to Marriott again.

  ‘I shall tell Reece, because he deserves it, and I rather think I shall tell Gosling and Pringle. Nobody else, though. What’s the good of it? Everybody’ll forget the whole thing by next season.’

  ‘How about Norris?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Now there you have touched the spot. I can’t possibly tell Norris myself. My natural pride is too enormous. Descended from a primordial atomic globule, you know, like Pooh Bah. And I shook hands with a duke once. The man Norris and I, I regret to say, had something of a row on the subject last term. We parted with mutual expressions of hate, and haven’t spoken since. What I should like would be for somebody else to tell him all about it. Not you. It would look too much like a put-up job. So don’t you go saying anything. Swear.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you mustn’t. Swear. Let me hear you swear by the bones of your ancestors.’

  ‘All right. I call it awful rot, though.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. Painful but necessary. Now I’m going to tell Reece, though I don’t expect he’ll remember anything about it. Reece never remembers anything beyond his last meal.’

  ‘Idiot,’ said Marriott after him as the door closed. ‘I don’t know, though,’ he added to himself.

  And, pouring himself out another cup of tea, he pondered deeply over the matter.

  Reece heard the news without emotion.

  ‘You’re a good sort, Bishop,’ he said, ‘I knew something of the kind must have happened. It reminds me of a thing that happened to—’

  ‘Yes, it is rather like it, isn’t it?’ said the Bishop. ‘By the way, talking about stories, a chap I met in the holidays told me a ripper. You see, this chap and his brother—’

  He discoursed fluently for some twenty minutes. Reece sighed softly, but made no attempt to resume his broken narrative. He was used to this sort of thing.

  It was a fortnight later, and Marriott and the Bishop were once more seated in their study waiting for Wilson to get tea ready. Wilson made toast in the foreground. Marriott was in football clothes, rubbing his shin gently where somebody had kicked it in the scratch game that afternoon. After rubbing for a few moments in silence, he spoke suddenly.

  ‘You must tell Norris,’ he said. ‘It’s all rot.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Then I shall.’

  ‘No, don’t. You swore you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Well, but look here. I just want to ask you one question. What sort of a time did you have in that scratch game tonight?’

  ‘Beastly. I touched the ball exactly four times. If I wasn’t so awfully ornamental, I don’t see what would be the use of my turning out at all. I’m no practical good to the team.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s just what I wanted to get at. I don’t mean your remark about your being ornamental, but about your never touching the ball. Until you explain matters to Norris, you never will get a decent pass. Norris and you are a rattling good pair of centre threes, but if he never gives you a pass, I don’t see how we can expect to have any combination in the First. It’s no good my slinging out the ball if the centres stick to it like glue directly they get it, and refuse to give it up. It’s simply sickening.’

  Marriott played half for the First Fifteen, and his soul was in the business.

  ‘But, my dear chap,’ said Gethryn, ‘you don’t mean to tell me that a man like Norris would purposely rot up the First’s combination because he happened to have had a row with the other centre. He’s much too decent a fellow.’

  ‘No. I don’t mean that exactly. What he does is this. I’ve watched him. He gets the ball. He runs with it till his man is on him, and then he thinks of passing. You’re backing him up. He sees you, and says to himself, “I can’t pass to that cad”—’

  ‘Meaning me?’

  ‘Meaning you.’

  ‘Thanks awfully.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. I’m merely quoting his thoughts, as deduced by me. He says, “I can’t pass to that—well, individual, if you prefer it. Where’s somebody else?” So he hesitates, and gets tackled, or else slings the ball wildly out to somebody who can’t possibly get to it. It’s simply infernal. And we play the Nomads tomorrow, too. Something must be done.’

  ‘Somebody ought to tell him. Why doesn’t our genial skipper assert his authority?’

  ‘Hill’s a forward, you see, and doesn’t get an opportunity of noticing it. I can’t tell him, of course. I’ve not got my colours—’

  ‘You’re a cert. for them.’

  ‘Hope so. Anyway, I’ve not got them yet, and Norris has, so I can’t very well go slanging him to Hill. Sort of thing rude people would call side.’

  ‘Well, I’ll look out tomo
rrow, and if it’s as bad as you think, I’ll speak to Hill. It’s a beastly thing to have to do.’

  ‘Beastly,’ agreed Marriott. ‘It’s got to be done, though. We can’t go through the season without any combination in the three-quarter line, just to spare Norris’s feelings.’

  ‘It’s a pity, though,’ said the Bishop, ‘because Norris is a ripping good sort of chap, really. I wish we hadn’t had that bust-up last term.’

  [18]

  THE BISHOP SCORES

  At this point Wilson finished the toast, and went out. As he went he thought over what he had just heard. Marriott and Gethryn frequently talked the most important School politics before him, for they had discovered at an early date that he was a youth of discretion, who could be trusted not to reveal state secrets. But matters now seemed to demand such a revelation. It was a serious thing to do, but there was nobody else to do it, and it obviously must be done, so, by a simple process of reasoning, he ought to do it. Half an hour had to elapse before the bell rang for lock-up. There was plenty of time to do the whole thing and get back to the House before the door was closed. He took his cap, and trotted off to Jephson’s.

  Norris was alone in his study when Wilson knocked at the door. He seemed surprised to see his visitor. He knew Wilson well by sight, he being captain of the First Eleven and Wilson a distinctly promising junior bat, but this was the first time he had ever exchanged a word of conversation with him.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said, putting down his book.

  ‘Oh, I say, Norris,’ began Wilson nervously, ‘can I speak to you for a minute?’

  ‘All right. Go ahead.’

  After two false starts, Wilson at last managed to get the thread of his story. He did not mention Marriott’s remarks on football subjects, but confined himself to the story of Farnie and the bicycle ride, as he had heard it from Gethryn on the second evening of the term.

  ‘So that’s how it was, you see,’ he concluded.

  There was a long silence. Wilson sat nervously on the edge of his chair, and Norris stared thoughtfully into the fire.

  ‘So shall I tell him it’s all right?’ asked Wilson at last.

  ‘Tell who what’s all right?’ asked Norris politely.

  ‘Oh, er, Gethryn, you know,’ replied Wilson, slightly disconcerted. He had had a sort of idea that Norris would have rushed out of the room, sprinted over to Leicester’s, and flung himself on the Bishop’s bosom in an agony of remorse. He appeared to be taking things altogether too coolly.

  ‘No,’ said Norris, ‘don’t tell him anything. I shall have lots of chances of speaking to him myself if I want to. It isn’t as if we were never going to meet again. You’d better cut now. There’s the bell just going. Good night.’

  ‘Good night, Norris.’

  ‘Oh, and, I say,’ said Norris, as Wilson opened the door, ‘I meant to tell you some time ago. If you buck up next cricket season, it’s quite possible that you’ll get colours of some sort. You might bear that in mind.’

  ‘I will,’ said Wilson fervently. ‘Good night, Norris. Thanks awfully.’

  The Nomads brought down a reasonably hot team against Beckford as a general rule, for the School had a reputation in the football world. They were a big lot this year. Their forwards looked capable, and when, after the School full-back had returned the ball into touch on the half-way line, the line-out had resulted in a hand-ball and a scrum, they proved that appearances were not deceptive. They broke through in a solid mass—the Beckford forwards never somehow seemed to get together properly in the first scrum of a big match—and rushed the ball down the field. Norris fell on it. Another hastily-formed scrum, and the Nomads’ front rank was off again. Ten yards nearer the School line there was another halt. Grainger, the Beckford full-back, whose speciality was the stopping of rushes, had curled himself neatly round the ball. Then the School forwards awoke to a sense of their responsibilities. It was time they did, for Beckford was now penned up well within its own twenty-five line, and the Nomad halves were appealing pathetically to their forwards to let that ball out, for goodness’ sake. But the forwards fancied a combined rush was the thing to play. For a full minute they pushed the School pack towards their line, and then some rash enthusiast kicked a shade too hard. The ball dribbled out of the scrum on the School side, and Marriott punted into touch.

  ‘You must let it out, you men,’ said the aggrieved half-backs.

  Marriott’s kick had not brought much relief. The visitors were still inside the Beckford twenty-five line, and now that their forwards had realized the sin and folly of trying to rush the ball through, matters became decidedly warm for the School outsides. Norris and Gethryn in the centre and Grainger at back performed prodigies of tackling. The wing three-quarter hovered nervously about, feeling that their time might come at any moment.

  The Nomad attack was concentrated on the extreme right.

  Philips, the International, was officiating for them as wing-three-quarters on that side, and they played to him. If he once got the ball he would take a considerable amount of stopping. But the ball never managed to arrive. Norris and Gethryn stuck to their men closer than brothers.

  A prolonged struggle on the goal-line is a great spectacle. That is why (purely in the opinion of the present scribe) Rugby is such a much better game than Association. You don’t get that sort of thing in Soccer. But such struggles generally end in the same way. The Nomads were now within a couple of yards of the School line. It was a question of time. In three minutes the whistle would blow for half-time, and the School would be saved.

  But in those three minutes the thing happened. For the first time in the match the Nomad forwards heeled absolutely cleanly. Hitherto, the ball had always remained long enough in the scrum to give Marriott and Wogan, the School halves, time to get round and on to their men before they could become dangerous. But this time the ball was in and out again in a moment. The Nomad half who was taking the scrum picked it up, and was over the line before Marriott realized that the ball was out at all. The school lining the ropes along the touch-line applauded politely but feebly, as was their custom when the enemy scored.

  The kick was a difficult one—the man had got over in the corner—and failed. The referee blew his whistle for half-time. The teams sucked lemons, and the Beckford forwards tried to explain to Hill, the captain, why they never got that ball in the scrums. Hill having observed bitterly, as he did in every match when the School did not get thirty points in the first half, that he ‘would chuck the whole lot of them out next Saturday’, the game recommenced.

  Beckford started on the second half with three points against them, but with both wind, what there was of it, and slope in their favour. Three points, especially in a club match, where one’s opponents may reasonably be expected to suffer from lack of training and combination, is not an overwhelming score.

  Beckford was hopeful and determined.

  To record all the fluctuations of the game for the next thirty-five minutes is unnecessary. Copies of The Beckfordian containing a full report, crammed with details, and written in the most polished English, may still be had from the editor at the modest price of sixpence. Suffice it to say that two minutes from the kick-off the Nomads increased their score with a goal from a mark, and almost immediately afterwards Marriott gave the School their first score with a neat drop-kick. It was about five minutes from the end of the game, and the Nomads still led, when the event of the afternoon took place. The Nomad forwards had brought the ball down the ground with one of their combined dribbles, and a scrum had been formed on the Beckford twenty-five line. The visitors heeled as usual. The half who was taking the scrum whipped the ball out in the direction of his colleague. But before it could reach him, Wogan had intercepted the pass, and was off down the field, through the enemy’s three-quarter line, with only the back in front of him, and with Norris in close attendance, followed by Gethryn.

  There is nothing like an intercepted pass for adding a dramatic touch to a close
game. A second before it had seemed as though the School must be beaten, for though they would probably have kept the enemy out for the few minutes that remained, they could never have worked the ball down the field by ordinary give-and-take play. And now, unless Wogan shamefully bungled what he had begun so well, victory was certain.

  There was a danger, though. Wogan might in the excitement of the moment try to get past the back and score himself, instead of waiting until the back was on him and then passing to Norris. The School on the touch-line shrieked their applause, but there was a note of anxiety as well. A slight reputation which Wogan had earned for playing a selfish game sprang up before their eyes. Would he pass? Or would he run himself? If the latter, the odds were anything against his succeeding.

  But everything went right. Wogan arrived at the back, drew that gentleman’s undivided attention to himself, and then slung the ball out to Norris, the model of what a pass ought to be. Norris made no mistake about it.

  Then the remarkable thing happened. The Bishop, having backed Norris up for fifty yards at full speed, could not stop himself at once. His impetus carried him on when all need for expenditure of energy had come to an end. He was just slowing down, leaving Norris to complete the thing alone, when to his utter amazement he found the ball in his hands. Norris had passed to him. With a clear run in, and the nearest foeman yards to the rear, Norris had passed. It was certainly weird, but his first duty was to score. There must be no mistake about the scoring. Afterwards he could do any thinking that might be required. He shot at express speed over the line, and placed the ball in the exact centre of the white line which joined the posts. Then he walked back to where Norris was waiting for him.

  ‘Good man,’ said Norris, ‘that was awfully good.’

  His tone was friendly. He spoke as he had been accustomed to speak before the M.C.C. match. Gethryn took his cue from him. It was evident that, for reasons at present unexplained, Norris wished for peace, and such being the case, the Bishop was only too glad to oblige him.