Chapter 8 of A Prefect's Uncle. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Prefect's Uncle by P. G. Wodehouse. Chapter 8. The MCC Match. But out in the field things were going badly with Beckford. The aspect of a game often changes considerably after lunch. For a while it looked as if Marriott and Pringle were in for their respective centuries, but Marriott was never a safe batsman. A hundred and fifty went up on the board off a square leg hit for two, which completed Pringle's half-century. And then Marriott faced the slow bowler, who had been put on again after lunch. The first ball was a mishit. It went beyond point for a couple. The next he got fairly hold of and drove to the boundary. The third was a very simple-looking ball. It's sole merit appeared to be the fact that it was straight. Also it was a trifle shorter than it looked. Marriott jumped out and got too much under it. Up at sword, straight over the bowler's head. A trifle more weight behind the hit, and it would have cleared the ropes, as it was the man in the deep field never looked like missing it. The batsman had time to cross over before the ball arrived, but they did it without enthusiasm. The run was not likely to count, nor did it. Deep field caught it like a bird. Marriott had made twenty-two. It now occurred one of those wroughts, which so often happened without any ostensible cause in the best-regulated school elevens. Pringle played the three remaining balls of the over without mishap. But when it was the first man's turn to bowl to Bruce, Marriott's assessor, things began to happen. Bruce, temporarily insane, perhaps through nervousness, played back a half folly and was clean-bowled.  After that, batsman had scored two. Can always bowl like blazes after lunch, said the fast man to Pringle, so the lobster's salad that does it, I think. Four for a hundred and fifty-seven had changed to seven for a hundred and fifty-nine in the course of a single over. Gethren's calculations, if he had only known, could have done now with a little revision. Gosling was the next man. He was followed after a brief endings of three balls, which realized eight runs by Baines. Baines, though abstaining from runs himself, helped Pringle to add three to the score, all in singles, that was then yorked by the slow man, who mainly and treacherously sent down without the slightest warning, a very fast one on the leg stump. Then Rhys came in for the last wicket, and the wrought stopped. Rhys always went in last for the school, and the school in consequence always felt that there were possibilities to the very end of the innings. The lot of a last wicket man is somewhat trying, as at any moment his best endings may be nipped in the bud-bud, the other man getting out. He generally feels that it is hardly worthwhile to play himself in, before endeavoring to make runs. He therefore tries to score off every ball and thinks himself lucky if he gets half a dozen. Rhys, however, took life more seriously. He made quite an art of last wicket batting. Once, against the butterflies, he had run up sixty not out, and there was always the chance that he would do the same again. Today, with Pringle at the other end, he looked forward to a pleasant hour or two at the wicket. No bowler ever looks on the last man quite in the same light as he does the other, ten. He underates him instinctively. The MCC fast bowler was a man with an idea. His idea was that he could bowl a slow ball of diabolical ingenuity, as the rural public feeling was against his trying the experiment. His captains were in the habit of inquiring rudely if he thought he was playing marbles. This was exactly what the MCC captain asked on the present occasion, when the head ball sailed ponderously through the air and was properly hit by Rhys into the pavilion. The bowler grinned and resumed his ordinary pace. But everything came alike to Rhys. Pringle, too, continued his career of triumph. Gradually, the score rose from one hundred and seventy to two hundred. Pringle cut and drove in all directions, with the air of a prince of the blood royal distributing largesse. The second century went up to the accompaniment of Cheers.  He had contributed eighty-one to a total of two hundred and thirteen. So far, Gethron's absence had not been noticed, but when the empires had gone out and the school were getting ready to take the field, inquiries were made. You might begin at the top end, Gosling, said Norris. Right, said Samuel, who's going on at the other. Vanes, hello, where's Gethron? Since he here, perhaps he's in the point of view chap, seen Gethron? He isn't in the pav, said Baker. I've just come out of the first room myself, and he wasn't there. Shouldn't wonder if he's over at Lichesters. Dash, the man, said Norris. He might have known we'd be going out to field soon. Anyhow, we can't wait for him. We shall have to field a sub till he shows up. Lorimer's in the pav, changed, said Pringle. All right, he'll do. And reinforced by the gratified Lorimer, the team went on its way. In the beginning, the fortunes of the school prospered. Gosling opened, as was his custom, at a tremendous pace and seemed to trouble the first few batsmen considerably. A worried-looking, little person who would feel it with a ment zeal during the school ennings at Coverpoint took the first ball. It was very fast and hit him just under the kneecap. The pain in spite of the pad appeared to be acute. The little man danced vigorously for some time, and then, with much diffidence, prepared himself for the second installment. Now, when on the crooked field, the truculent Samuel was totally deficient in all the fauna feelings, such as pity and charity. He could see that the batsman was in pain, and yet his second ball was faster than the first. It came in quickly from the off. The little batsman went forward in a hesitating, half-hearted manner and played a clear two-inches inside the ball. The off stump shot out of the ground. Bold Sammy, said Norris from his place in the swips. The next man was a clergyman, a large man who suggested possibilities in the way of hitting. But Gosling was irresistible. For three balls the priests survived, but the last of the over, a fast yorker on the leg stump, was too much for him, and he retired. Two for none. The critic in the deck chair felt that the match was as good as over. But this idyllic state of things was not to last. The newcomer, a tall man with a light mustache, which he felt carefully after every ball, soon settled down. He proved to be a conversationalist. Till he opened his account, which he did with a strong grog to the ropes, he was silent. When, however, he had seen the ball safely to the boundary, he turned to Reese and began. Rather a nice one, that, eh? What? Yes, got it just on the right place, you know. Not a bad hit, this, is it? What? Yes, one of Slugbury and Wangum's Susick Spankers, don't you know? Chose it myself. Had it in pickle all the winter. Yes. Placer from the umpire. What? Oh, all right. Yes, make good these Susick Spankers. Oh, well-fielded. At the word Spankers, he had affected another drive, but Marriott at mid-off had stopped it prettily. Soon it began to occur to Norris that it would be advisable to have a change of bowling. Gosling was getting tired, and Baines apparently offered no difficulties to the batsmen on the perfect wicket. The conversational man, in particular, being very severe upon him. It was such a crisis that the bishop should have come in. He was Gosling's understudy. But where was he? The innings had been in progress over half an hour now, and still there were no signs of him. A man thought Norris, who could cut off during the MCC match, of all matches, probably on some rotten business of his own, was beyond the pale, and must, on reappearance, be fallen upon and rent. He hears something small and read whiz dead his face. He put up his hands to protect himself. The ball struck them and bound it out again. When a fast bowler is bowling a slip, he should not indulge in absent-mindedness. The conversational man had received his first life, and as he was careful to explain to Rhys it was a curious thing, but whenever he was leg off early in the innings, he always made fifty, and as a rule a century. Gosling's analysis would spoil, and the match in all probability lost, and Norris put it down to Gethran. If he had been there, this would not have happened. Sorry, Gosling, he said. All right, said Gosling, though, thinking quite the reverse, and he walked back to bowl his next ball, conjuring up a beautiful vision in his mind. J. Douglas and Brown were feeling slipped to him in the vision, while in the background Norris appeared in a cauldron of boiling oil. Tutt-tutt said Baker facetiously to the raging captain. Bakers was essentially a flippant mind, not even a moment of solemn agony such as this was sacred to him. Norris was icy and severe. If you want a rott about Baker, he said, perhaps you'd better go and play Stump Crooked with the juniors. Well, retorted Baker, with great politeness, I suppose seeing you miss a gaper like that right in your hands made me think I was playing Stump Crooked with the juniors. At this point the conversation ceased. Baker suddenly remembered that he had not yet received his first eleven colors, and that it would therefore be rash to goad the captain too freely, while Norris, for his part, recall the fact that Baker had promised to do some Latin verse for him that evening, and might, if crushed with some scathing repartee, refuse to go through with that contract. So there was silence in the slips. The partnership was broken at last by a lucky accident. The conversationalist called his partner for a short run, and when that unfortunate gentleman had sprinted some twenty yards, reconsidered the matter and sent him back. Reese had the bales off before the victim had completed a third of the return journey. For some reason after this matters began to favor the school again. With a score at a hundred and five, three men left and two overs, one bold by Gosling, the others caught at point, and at the deep off Jennings, who had deposed Baines. Six wickets were now down, and the enemy's still over a hundred behind. But the MCC in its school matches has this peculiarity. However badly it may seem to stand, there's always something up its sleeve. In this case it was a professional, a man indecently devoid of anything in the shape of nerves. He played the bowling with a stolid confidence, amounting almost to contempt which struck a chill to the hearts of the school bowlers. It did worse. He introduced them to bowl with the sole object of getting the conversationalist at the batting end, thus enabling the professional to pile up an unassuming but rapidly increasing score by means of threes and singles. As for the conversationalist, he had made thirty or more and wanted all the bowling he could get.  But some fellow simply to test fast bowling, now I he never finished the sentence. When he spoke again it was to begin a new one. How on earth did that happen, he asked? I think it bold you, said Reese stolidly, picking up the two stumps which had been uprooted by Gosling's express. Yes, but how? Dash it, what? I can't under most curious thing I ever dash it all, you know. He drifted off in the direction of the pavilion, stopping on the way to ask short leg his opinion of the matter. Bold Sammy, said Reese, putting on the bales. Well bold Gosling growled Norris from the slips. Sammy the Marvel by Joe, said Maria, switch it on, Samuel, more and more. I wish Norris would give me a rest. Where on earth is that man, Gethron? Rum, isn't it? There's going to be something of a row about it. Norris seems to be getting rather shirty. Hello, here comes the deathless author. The author referred to was the new batsman, a distinguished novelist who played a good deal for the MCC. He broke his journey to the wicket to speak to the conversationalist who was still engaged with short leg. Bates, old man, he said, if you're going to the pavilion you might wait for me. I shall be out in an hour or two. Upon which Bates, awaking, setting to the position of affairs, went on his way. With the arrival of the deathless author an unwelcome change came over the game. This cricket style resembled his literary style. Both were straightforward and vigorous. The first two balls he received from Gosling he drove hard past Cover Point to the ropes. Gosling, who had been bowling on chain since the innings began, was naturally feeling a little tired. He was losing his length and bowling more slowly than was his want. Norris now gave him a rest for a few overs. Bruce going on with rather innocuous medium left hand bowling. The professional continued to jog along slowly. The novelist hit. Everything seemed to come alike to him. Gosling resumed but without effect while at the other end bowler after bowler was tried. For a hundred and ten the score rose and rose and still the two remained together. A hundred and ninety went up and Norris and despair threw the ball to Marriott. Here you are Marriott. He said I'm afraid we shall have to try you. That's what I call really nicely expressed said Marriott to the Empire. Yes, over the wicket. Marriott was a slow house match sort of bowler. That is to say in a house match he was quite likely to get wickets. But in a first eleven match such an event was highly improbable. His bowling looked very subtle. And if the ball was allowed to touch the ground it occasionally broke quite a remarkable distance. The forlorn hope seceded. The professional for the first time in his innings took a risk. He slashed at a very mild ball almost wide on the offside. The ball touched the corner of the bat and soared up in the direction of cover point where Pringle held it comfortably. There you are said Marriott. When you put a really scientific bowler on you're bound to get a wicket. Why on earth didn't I go on before Norris? You wait said Norris. There are five more balls of it. Overcome. Bad job for the batsman said Marriott. There had been time for a run before the ball reached Pringle so that the novelist was now at the batting end. Marriott's next bow was not unlike his first but it was straighter and consequently easier to get at. The novelist hit it into the road. When it had been brought back he hit it into the road again. Marriott suggested that he'd better have a man there. The fourth ball of the over was too wide to hit with any comfort and the batsman let it alone. The fifth went for four to square leg almost killing the umpire on its way and the sixth soared in an old familiar manner into the road again. Marriott's over had yielded exactly twenty-two runs. Four to win and two wickets to fall. I'll never read another of that man's books as long as I live said Marriott to Gosling. Give him the ball. Your only hope, Sammy, do go in and win. The new batsman had the bowling. He snicked his first ball for a single, bring the novelist to the fore again. And Samuel Wilber forced Gosling, vow to vow, that he would dismiss that distinguished novelist. But the best intentions go for nothing when one's arm is feeling like lead.  It was worse than anything of Marriott's. It flew sluggishly down the pitch well outside the leg stump. The novelist watched it come and his eye gleamed. He was about to pounce for the second time when, with a pleased smile, the batsman stepped out. There was a loud musical report, the note of a bat when it strikes the ball fairly on the driving spot. The man of letters shaded his eyes with his hand and watched the ball diminish in the distance. I rather think that he cheerfully, as a crash of glass told of its arrival at the pavilion, that that does it. He was perfectly right. It did. End of chapter 8, the MCC match. Chapter 9 of A Prefects Uncle This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chad Horner from Ballyclair in County Antrim, Northern Ireland. Situated in the north-east of the island of Ireland. A Prefects Uncle by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter 9 The Bishop finishes his ride. Gethron had started on his ride, handicapped by two things. He did not know his way after the first two miles, and the hedges at the roadside had just been clipped, leaving the roads covered with small thorns. It was the former of these circumstances that first made itself apparent. For two miles, the road ran straight. But after that, it was unexplored country. The Bishop, being in both cricket and football teams, had few opportunities for cycling. He always brought his machine to school, but he very seldom used it. At the beginning of the unexplored country, an irresponsible person recommended him to go straight on. But he couldn't miss the road, said he. It was straight all the way. Gethron thanked him, rode on, and having gone a mile, came upon three roads, each of which might quite well have been considered a continuation of the road on which he was already. One curved gently, off to the right, the other two equally, gently to the left. He dismounted, and the feelings of gratitude which he had borne towards his informant, or his lucid directions, vanished suddenly. He gazed, searchingly, at the three roads, but to single out one of them, as straighter than the other two, was a task that baffled him completely. A signpost informed him of three things. By following road one, he might get to, brindle him, and ultimately, if he preserved, to Corden. Road number two would lead him to old ends, whatever they might be, with the further ingestment of little Benbury, while if he cast in his lot with road three, he might hope sooner or later to arrive at much Middleford on the hill, and lesser Middleford in the Vale, but on the subject of Amfield and Amfield Junction, when the board was silent, two courses lay open to him. Should he select a route at random, or wait for somebody to come and direct him, he waited. He went on waiting. He waited a considerable time, and at last, just as he was about to trust, to look, and make, for much Middleford on the hill, a faker limiting sight. A slow moving man strolled down the old ends road, at a pace which seemed to argue that he had plenty of time on his hands. I say, can you tell me the way to Amfield, please? said the Bishop, as he came up. The man stopped, apparently ritted, to the spot. He surveyed the Bishop, with a glassy, but determined stare from head to foot. Then he looked earnestly at the bicycle, and finally, in perfect silence, began to inspect the Bishop again. Eh, he said at length. Can you tell me the way to Amfield? Amfield? Yes. How do I get there? The man prepended. And when he replied, did so after the style of the late and great Olandorf. Old ends, he said dreamily, waving a hand down the road, by which he had come. Be over there. Yes, yes, I know, said Gethron. Was born at Old Ends, I was, continued the man, warming to his subject. Live there fifty-five years, I have.  Yes, that be the way to Old Ends. Gethron nobly refrained from rending, the speaker limb from limb. I don't want to know the way to Old Ends, he said, desperately. Where I want to get is Amfield. Amfield, you know, which way do I go? Amfield, said the man. Then a bright flash of intelligence illumined his countenance. Hoi, Amfield, be same road as Old Ends.  And without waiting for further revelation, shot off in the direction indicated. A quarter of a mile farther, he looked over his shoulder. The man was still there, gazing after him in a kind of trance. The bishop passed through Old Ends, with some way on his machine. He had much lost time to make up. A signpost bearing the legend, Amfield for Miles, told him that he was nearing his destination. The notice had changed to three miles, and again to two. When suddenly he felt that jarring sensation, which every cyclist knows, his back tire was punctured. It was impossible to ride on. He got off and walked. He was still in his cricket clothes, and the fact that he had on spike boots did not make walking any the easier. His progress was not rapid. Half an hour before his one wish had been to catch sight of a fellow being. Now, when he would have preferred to have avoided his species, men seemed to spring up from nowhere, and every man of them had a remark to make, or a question to ask about the puncture tire. Reserve is not the leading characteristic of an average yokel. Gethron, however, refused to be drawn into conversation on the subject, and, last one, more determined than the rest, brought him to pay. Hoim, Mr. Stop! called a voice. Gethron turned. A man was running up the road towards him. He arrived funding. What's up, said the bishop. You've got a puncture, said the man, pointing an accusing finger at the flattened tire. It was not worth while killing the Brit. Probably he was acting from the best motives. No, said Gethron, wearily. It isn't a puncture. I always let the air out when I'm riding. It looks so much better, don't you think so? Why did they let you out goodbye? And, feeling a little more comfortable after this outburst, he wheeled his bicycle on into Anfield High Street. Mines in the village of Anfield worked with extraordinary rapidity. The first person of him, he asked away to the junction, answered the riddle almost without thinking. He left his machine out in the road and went on to the platform. The first thing that caught his eye was the station clock, with its hands pointing to five past four. And then he realised that his uncle's strain, having left Claire half hour before, his labours had all been for nothing. The full bitterness of life came home to him. He was turning away from the station when he stopped, something else that caught his eye, on the bench at the extreme end of the platform, said a gith. And a further scrutiny convinced the bishop of the fact that the gith was none other than Master Reginald Farny, late of Beckford, and shortly, or he would know the reason why, to be once more of Beckford. Other people besides himself, it appeared, could miss trains. Farny was reading one of those half penny weeklies, which, with a nerve which is the only incredible thing about them, called themselves comic. He did not see the bishop until a shadow falling across his paper caused him to look up. It was not often that he found himself unequal to a situation. Monk, in a recent conversation, had taken him aback somewhat, but his feelings on that occasion were not to be compared with what he felt on seeing one person whom he least desired to meet standing on his side. His jaw dropped limply. Comic blithering fluttered to the ground. The bishop was the first to speak. Indeed, if he had waited for Farny to break the silence, he would have waited long. Get up, he said. Farny got up. Come on, Farny came.  Hurry up, and now you will jolly well come back to Beckford, you little beast. But before that could be done, there was Gethron's back whale to be mended. This took time. It was nearly half past four before they started. Oh, said Gethron, as they were about to mount. There's that money. I was forgetting. Out with it. Ten pounds had been that some Farny had taken from the study. Six was all he was able to restore. Gethron inquired after the deficit. I gave it to Monk, said Farny. To Gethron, in his present frame of mind, the mere mention of Monk was sufficient to uncork the vials of his wrath. What the blazes did you do that for? What's Monk got to do with it? He said he'd get me sacked if I didn't pay him wine, Farny. This was not strictly true. Monk had not said he had hinted, and he had hinted at flogging, not expulsion. Why, pursued the bishop, what had you and Monk been up to? Farny, using his out of bounds adventures as a foundation, worked up a highly artistic narrative of doings, which, if they had actually been performed, would certainly have entailed expulsion. He had judged Gethron's character correctly. If the matter had been simply a case for a flogging, the bishop would have stood aside and let the thing go on. Against the extreme penalty of school law, he felt bound as a matter of family jiddy to shield his relative, and he saw a bad time coming for himself in the very near future. Either he must expose Farny, which he had resolved not to do, or he must refuse to explain his absence from the MCC match, for by now there was not the smallest chance of his being able to get back in time for the visitor's innings. As he rode on, he tried to imagine what would happen in consequence of that desertion, and he could not do it. His crime was, so far as he knew, absolutely without precedent in the Skull history. As they passed the cricket field, he saw that it was empty. Stumps were usually drawn early in the MCC match if the issue of the game was out of doubt, as the moral-bound men had trains to catch. Evidently this had happened today. It might mean that the Skull had won easily. They had looked like making a big score when he had left the ground, which case public opinion would be more lenient towards him. After a victory, a Skull feels that all's well that ends well, but it might, on the other hand, mean quite the reverse. He put his machine up and hurried to the study. Several boys, as he passed him, looked curiously at him, but none spoke to him. Marriott was in the study reading a book. He was still in flannels and looked as if he had begun to change, but had thought better of it, as was actually the case. Hello, he cried as Gethrim appeared. Where the Dickens have you been all the afternoon?  I'm sorry old chap said the bishop, I can't tell you. I shan't be able to tell anyone. But man, try to realise what you've done. Do you grasp the fact that you've gone and got the Skull licked in the MCC match, and that we haven't beaten the MCC for about a dozen years, and that if you'd been there to bowl, we should have walked over this town. Do you try and grasp the thing? Did they win? Rather, buy a wicket. Two wickets, I mean. We made two, one, three, your bowling. We'd just have done it. Gethrim sat down. Oh lord, he said blankly, this is awful. But look here, Bishop, continued Marriott. This is all wrought. You can't do a thing like this, and then refuse to offer any explanation, and expect things to go on just as usual. I don't, said Gethrim. I knew there's going to be a rye, but I can't explain. You'll have to take me on trust. But as far as I'm concerned, it's all right, said Marriott. I know you wouldn't be as enough to do a thing like that without a jolly good reason. It's the other chaps I'm thinking about. You'll find it jolly hard to put Norris off, I'm afraid. He's most awfully sick about the match. He feels it badly, which always makes him shirty. Jefferson too. You'll have a bad time with Jefferson. My wish after the match was to have your gore and plenty of it. Nothing else would have pleased him a bit. And think of the chaps in the house too. Just consider what a pull this gives Monk and his mob over you. The house will want some looking after now, I fancy. And they'll get it, said Gethrim.  But in spite of the consolation, which such a prospect afforded him, he did not look forward with pleasure to the next day that he would have to meet Norris and the rest. It would have been bad and iniquious. He did not care to think what would happen when he refused to offer the slightest explanation. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of A Prefect's Uncle. This is a LibriBox recording. All LibriBox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriBox.org. Recording by Bukharnar. A Prefect's Uncle by PG Wodehouse. Chapter 10. In which a case is fully discussed. Gethrim was right in thinking that the interviews would be unpleasant. They increased in unpleasantness and arithmetical progression until they culminated finally in a terrific encounter with the justly outraged Norris. Rhys was the first person to institute inquiries and if everybody had resembled him, matters would not have been so bad for Gethrim. Rhys possessed a perfect genius for minding his own business. The dialogue when they met was brief. Hello, said Rhys. Hello, said the Bishop. Where did you get to yesterday, said Rhys? Oh, I had to go somewhere, said the Bishop vaguely. Oh, pity. Wasn't a bad match. And that was all the comment Rhys made on the situation. Gethrim went over to the chapel that morning with an empty sinking feeling inside him. He was quite determined to offer no single word of explanation and he felt that that made the prospect all the worse. There was a vast uncertainty in his mind as to what was going to happen. Nobody could actually do anything to him, of course. It would have been a decided relief to him if anybody had tried that line of action. For moments occur when the only thing that can adequately soothe a wounded spirit is to hit straight from the shoulder at someone. The punching ball is often found useful under these circumstances. As he was passing Gethrim's house, he nearly ran into somebody who was coming out. Be firm, my moral pecker, thought Gethrim and braced himself up for conflict. Well, Gethrim, said Mr. Gethrim. Well, especially when addressed by a master to a boy, is one of the few questions to which there is literally no answer. You can look sheepish, you can look defiant, or you can look surprised according to the state of your conscience. But anything in the way of verbal response is impossible. Gethrim attempted no verbal response. Well, Gethrim went on Mr. Jebson. Was it pleasant up the river yesterday? Mr. Jebson always preferred the rapier of sarcasm to the bludgeon of abuse. Yes, sir, said Gethrim. Very pleasant. He did not mean to be massacred without a struggle. What? cried Mr. Jebson. You actually mean to say that you did go up the river? No, sir. Then what do you mean? It's always pleasant up the river on a fine day, said Gethrim. His opponent, to use a metaphor suitable to a cricket master, changed his action. He abandoned sarcasm and condescended to direct inquiry. Where were you yesterday afternoon? he said. The bishop, like Mr. Hurry Bungso Javergy B.A., became at once the silent tomb. Did you hear what I said, Gethrim? I silly. Where were you yesterday afternoon? I can't say, sir. These words may convey two meanings. They imply ignorance, in which case the speaker should be led gently off to the nearest asylum. Or they may imply obscenity. Mr. Jebson decided that in the present case, obscenity lay at the root of the matter. He became icier than ever. Very well, Gethrim, he said. I shall report this to the headmaster. And Gethrim, feeling that the conference was at an end, proceeded on his way. After chapel, there was Norris to be handled. Norris had been rather late for chapel that morning and had no opportunity of speaking to the bishop. But after the service was over and the schools dreamed out of the building towards their respective houses, he away-laid him at the door and demanded an explanation. The bishop refused to give one. Norris, whose temper never had a chance of reaching its accustomed tranquility until he had consumed some breakfast, he hated early morning chapel, raved. The bishop was worried, but firm. Then you mean to say, you don't mean to say, I mean, you don't intend to explain, said Norris finally, working round for the twentieth time to his original text. I can't explain. You won't, you mean. Yes, I'll apologize if you like, but I won't explain. Norris felt this strain was becoming too much for him. Apologize, he moaned, addressing circumambient space. Apologize. A man cuts off in the middle of the MCC match, loses us the game, and then comes back and offers to apologize. The offers withdrawn, put in Gethron. Apologies and explanations are both off. It was hopeless to try and be conciliatory under the circumstances. They did not admit of it. Norris glared. I suppose, he said, you don't expect to go on playing for the first after this. We can't keep a place open for you and the team on the off chance if you're not having a previous engagement, you know. That's your affair, said the bishop.  Is there anything else you'd like to say? Norris considered, and, as he went in at Jefferson's gate, wound up with this Parthian shaft. All I can say is that you're not fit to be at a public school. They ought to sack a chap for doing that sort of thing. If you'll take my advice, you'll leave. About two hours afterwards, Gethron discovered a suitable retort, but, coming to the conclusion that, better late than never, does not apply to Rip Artes, refrained from speaking it. It was Mr. Jefferson's usual custom to sally out after supper on Sunday evenings to smoke a pipe, or several pipes, with one of the other house masters. On this particular evening he made for Robertson's, which was one of the four houses on the opposite side of the school grounds. He could hardly have selected a better man to take his grievance to. Mr. Robertson was a long, silent man with grizzled hair, and an eye that pierced like a gimlet. He had the enviable reputation of keeping the best order of any master in the school. He was also one of the most popular of the staff. This was all the more remarkable from the fact that he played no games. To him came Mr. Jefferson, primed to bursting point with his grievance. Anything wrong, Jefferson, said Mr. Robertson. Wrong? I should just think there was. Did you happen to be looking at the match yesterday, Robertson? Mr. Robertson nodded. I always watched school matches. Good match. Nor has Mr. Bad catch in the slips. He was asleep. Mr. Jefferson conceded the point. It was trivial. Yes, he said. He should certainly have held it, but that's a mere detail. I want to talk about Gethron. Do you know what he did yesterday? I never heard of such a thing in my life. Never. Went off during the luncheon interval without a word, and never appeared again till lock up. And now he refuses to offer any explanation whatever. I shall report the whole thing to Beckett. I told Gethron so this morning. I shouldn't, said Mr. Robertson. I really think I shouldn't. Beckett finds the ordinary duties of a headmaster quite sufficient for his needs. This business is not in his province at all. Not in his province? My dear sir, what is a headmaster for, if not to have managed the affairs of this sort? Mr. Robertson smiled in a sphinx-like manner and answered, after the fashion of Socrates, with a question. Let me ask you two things, Jepsen. You must proceed gingerly. Now, firstly, it is a headmaster's business to punish any breach of school rules, is it not? Well, and school prefects do not attend roll call and have no restrictions placed upon them in the matter of bounds? No, well. Then perhaps you'll tell me what school roll Gethron has broken, said Mr. Robertson. You see, you can't, he went on. Of course you can't. He has not broken any school rule. He is a prefect and may do anything he likes with his spare time. He chooses to play cricket. Then he changes his mind and goes off to some unknown locality for some reason at present unexplained. It is all perfectly legal. Extremely quaint behavior on his part, I admit, but thoroughly legal. Then nothing can be done, exclaimed Mr. Jepsen blankly. But it's absurd, something must be done. The thing can't be left as it is, it's preposterous. I should imagine, said Mr. Robertson, from what small knowledge I possess of the human boy that matters will be made decidedly unpleasant for the criminal. Well, I know one thing, he won't play for the team again. There is something very refreshing about your logic, Jepsen. Because a boy does not play in one match, you will not let him play in any of the others, though you admit his absence weakens the team. However, I suppose that is unavoidable. Mind you, I think it is a pity. Of course, Gethron has some explanation, if he would only favor us with it. Personally, I think rather highly of Gethron. So does poor old Leistor.  But it's no use my preaching his virtues to you. You wouldn't listen. Take another cigar and let's talk about the weather. Mr. Jepsen took the proper weed, and the conversation, though it did not turn upon the suggested topic, ceased to have anything to do with Gethron. The general opinion of the school was dead against the bishop. One or two of his friends still clung to a hope that explanations might come out, while there were always a few who always made a point of thinking differently from everybody else. Of this class was Pringle. On the Monday after the match he spent the best part of an hour of his valuable time reasoning on the subject with Lorimer. Lorimer's vote went with the majority. Although he had fielded for the bishop, he was not, of course, being merely a substitute allowed to bowl as the bishop had had his innings and it had been particularly galling to him to feel that he might have saved the match if it had only been possible for him to have played a larger part. It's no good jawing about it, he said. There isn't a word to save for the man. He hasn't a leg to stand on. Why, it would be bad enough in a house or form match even, but when it comes to first matches, hear words failed Lorimer. Not at all, said Pringle, unmoved. There are heaps of reasons, jolly good reasons, why he might have gone away. Such as, said Lorimer. Well, he might have been called away by a telegram, for instance. What rot, why should he make such a mystery of it if that was all? He'd have explained all right if somebody had asked him properly. You get a chap like Norris who, when he loses his hair, has got just about as much tact as a rhinoceros going and bali-ragging the man and no wonder he won't say anything, I shouldn't myself. Well, go and talk to him decently then. Let's see you do it, and I'll bet it won't make a bit of difference. What the chap has done is to go and get himself mixed up in some shady business somewhere. That's the only thing it can be. Rock, said Pringle, the bishop isn't that sort of chap. You can't tell. I say, he broke off suddenly. Have you done that poem yet? Pringle started. He had not so much as begun that promised epic. I haven't quite finished it yet, I'm thinking it out, you know, getting a sort of general grip of the thing. Oh, well, I wish you'd buck up with it. It's got to go in tomorrow week. Tomorrow week. Tuesday the what? Twenty-second, isn't it? Right, I'll remember. Two days after the OB's match. That'll fix it in my mind.  I mean, we shall have to be getting in supplies and so on. Yes, they'll be coming. There's plenty of time though to think of that. What you've got to do for the present is to keep your mind glued on the death of Daido. Rather, said Pringle, I won't forget. This was at six-twenty-two p.m. By the time six-thirty boomed from the college clock tower, Pringle was absorbing a thrilling work of fiction. And Daido, her death and everything connected with her, had faded from his mind like a beautiful dream. End of Chapter Ten Recording by Bouchernar Pringle enjoyed it thoroughly. Though he only contributed a dozen in the first innings, he made up for this afterwards in the second, when the school had a hundred-and-twenty to get in just two hours. He went in first with Marriott, and they pulled the thing off and gave the school a ten-wicket's victory with eight minutes to spare. Pringle was in rare form. He made fifty-three, mainly off the bowling of a certain J.R. Smith, whose fag he had been in the old days. Pringle Smith had always been singularly aggressive towards Pringle, and the latter found that much pleasure was to be derived from hitting fours off his bowling. Subsequently he ate more strawberries and cream than were, strictly speaking, good for him, and did the honors at the study-tea party with the grace of a born host. And as he had hoped, Miss Mabel Lorimer did ask what that silver plate was stuck up onto that bat for. It is not to be wondered at that in the midst of these festivities, such trivialities as Lorimer's poem found no place in his thoughts. It was not until the following day that he was reminded of it. That Sunday was a visiting Sunday. Visiting Sundays occurred three times a term when everybody who had friends or relatives in the neighborhood was allowed to spend the day with them. Pringle, on such occasions, used to ride over to Biddle Hampton, the scene of Farney's adventures, on somebody else's bicycle, his destination being the residence of a certain Colonel Ashby, no relation, but a great friend of his father's. The gallant Colonel had, besides his other merits, which were numerous, the pleasant characteristic of leaving his guests to themselves. To be left to oneself under such circumstances is apt to be a drawback. But in this case there was never any lack of amusements. The only objection that Pringle ever found was that there was too much to do in the time. There was shooting, riding, fishing, and also stump cricket. Given proper conditions, no game in existence yields to stump cricket in the manner of excitement. A stable barn makes the best pitch. For the walls stop all hits and you score solely by boundaries. One for every hit, two if it goes past the coachroom door, four to the end of the wall, and out if you send it over. It is perfect. There were two junior Ashby's, twins, age sixteen. They went to school at Charchester, returning to the ancestral home for the weekend. Sometimes when Pringle came they would bring a school friend, in which case Pringle and he would play the twins. But as a rule the program consisted of a series of five test matches, Charchester versus Beckford. And as Pringle was almost exactly twice as good as each of the twins taken individually when they combined it made the sides very even and the test matches were fought out with the most deadly keenness. After lunch the colonel was in the habit of taking Pringle for a stroll in the grounds to watch him smoke a cigar or two. On this Sunday the conversation during the walk, after beginning as was right and proper with Cricket, turned to work. Let me see, said the colonel as Pringle finished the description of how Point had almost gotten to the square cut which had given him his century against Charchester. You're of the upper fifth now, aren't you? I used to think you were going to be a fixture there. You're like your father in that way. I remember him at Rugby spending years on end in the same form. Couldn't get out of it. But you did get your move, if I remember. Rather said Pringle years ago, that's to say last term and I'm jolly glad I did, too. His errant memory had returned to the poetry prize once more. Oh, said the colonel, why is that? Pringle explained the peculiar disadvantages that attended membership of the upper fifth during the summer term. I don't think a man ought to be allowed to spend his money in these special prizes, he concluded. At any rate, they ought to be sixth form affairs. It's hard enough having to do the ordinary work and keep up your cricket at the same time. They are compulsory, then. Yes, swindle, I call it. The chap who shares my study at Beckford is in the upper fifth and his hair is turning white under the strain. The worst of it is that I've promised to help him and I never seem to have any time to give to the thing. I could turn out a great poem if I had an hour or two to spare now and then. What's the subject? Death of Dito this year. They are always jolly keen on deaths. Last year it was Cato. And the year before Julius Caesar. They seem to have very morbid minds. I think they might try something cheerful for a change. Dito, said the colonel dreamily. Death of Dito. Where have I heard either a story or a poem or a riddle or something in some way connected with the death of Dito? It was years ago, but I distinctly remember having heard somebody mention the occurrence. Oh well, it will come back presently, I dare say. It did come back presently. The story was this. A friend of Colonel Ashby's, the one-time colonel of his regiment, to be exact, was an earnest student of everything in the literature of the country that dealt with sport. This gentleman happened to read in a publisher's list one day that a limited edition of the Dark Horse by Mr. James Arthur was on sale. It might be purchased from the publisher by all who are willing to spend half a guinea to that end. Well, old Matthews, said the colonel, sent off for this book. Thought it must be a sporting novel, don't you know? I shall never forget his disappointment when he opened the parcel. It turned out to be a collection of poems. The Dark Horse and other studies in the tragic was its full title. Matthews never had a soul for poetry. Good or bad. The Dark Horse itself was about a knight in the Middle Ages, you know. Great nonsense it was, too. Matthews used to read me passages from time to time. When he gave up the regimen, he left me the book as a farewell gift. He said I was the only man who knew who really sympathized with him in the affair. I've got it still. There's a library somewhere if you care to look at it. What recalled it to mine was your mention of Dito. The second poem was about the death of Dito. As far as I can remember, I'm no judge of poetry, but it didn't strike me as being very good. At the same time, you might pick up a hint or two from it. It ought to be in one of the two lower shelves on the right of the door as you go in. Unless it has been taken away. That is not likely, though. We are not very enthusiastic poetry readers here. Pringle thanked me for his information and went back to the stable yard, where he lost the fourth test match by sixteen runs, owing to preoccupation. You can't play a yorker on the leg stump with a thin walking stick if your mind is occupied elsewhere. And the leg stump yankers of James, the elder boy by a minute of the two Ashbees, were achieving a growing reputation in charchester cricket circles. One ought never thought Pringle to despise the gifts which fortune bestows on us, and this mention of an actual completed poem on the very subject which was, in his mind, was clearly a gift of fortune. How much better it would be to read thoughtfully through the poem and quarry out a set of verses from it suitable to Laura Merd's needs than to waste his brain tissues in trying to evolve something original from his own inner consciousness. Pringle objected strongly to any unnecessary waste of his brain tissues. Besides, the best poets borrowed. Virgil did it. Tennyson did it. Even Homer. We have it on the authority of Mr. Kiplen. When he smote his blooming lyre, went and stole what he thought he might require. Why should Pringle of the schoolhouse refuse to follow in such illustrious footsteps? It was at this point that the guileful James delivered his insidious yorker, and the dull thud of the tennis ball on the board, which served as the wicked, told a listening world that Charchester had won the fourth test match, and that the scores were now to all. But Beckford's star was to ascend again. Pringle's mind was made up. He would read the printed poem that very night, and before retiring to rest, he would have Lorimer's verses complete and ready to be sent in for judgment to the examiner. But for the present he would dismiss the matter from his mind and devote himself to polishing off the Charchester champions in the fifth and final test match, and in this he was successful. For just as the bell rang, summoning the players into a well-earned tee, a sweet forward drive from his walking stick crashed against the end wall, and Beckford had won the rubber. As the young batsman, undefeated to the last reach, the pavilion, said Pringle, getting into his coat, a prolonged and deafening salvo cheers greeted him. His twenty-three, not out, compiled as it was against the finest bowling Charchester could produce, and on the wicket that was always treacherous, there's a brick loose at the top end, was an effort unique in its heroism. Oh, come on, said the defeated team. If you have fluke to win, said James, it's nothing much. Wait till next visiting Sunday, and the teams went into tee. In the program which Pringle had mapped out for himself, he was to go to bed with his book at the highly respectable hour of ten, work till eleven, and then go to sleep. But programs are notoriously subject to alterations. Pringles was altered owing to a remark made immediately after dinner by John Ashbury, who, desirous of retrieving the fallen fortunes of Charchester, offered to play Pringle a hundred up at Billiards, giving him thirty. Now, Pringle's ability in the realm of sport did not extend to Billiards, but the human being who cannot hear unmoved a fellow human being offer him thirty-star in a game of a hundred is yet to be borne. He accepted the challenge, and permission to play, having been granted by the powers that were on the understanding that the cloth was not to be cut, and as few cues broken as possible, the game began, James acting as marker. There are doubtless ways by which a game of a hundred up can be got through in less than two hours, but with Pringle and his opponent, their outran performance. When the highest break on either side is six and the average break two, matters progress with more statelyness than speed. At last, when the hands of the clock both point it to the figure eleven, Pringle, whose score had been at ninety-eight since half past ten, found himself within two inches of his opponent's ball, which was tottering on the very edge of the pocket. He administered the coup de gras with the air of a John Roberts and retired triumphant, while the Charchester representatives pointed out that as their score was at seventy-four, they had really won a moral victory by four points, to which spacious and unsportsmanlike piece of sophistry Pringle turned a deaf ear. It was now too late for any serious literary efforts. No bard can do without his sleep. Even Homer used to nod at times, so Pringle contented himself with reading through the poem, which consisted of some thirty lines and copying the same down on a sheet of note paper for a future reference, after which he went to bed. In order to arrive at Beckford in time for morning school, he had to start from the house at eight o'clock punctually. This left little time for poetical lights. The consequence was that when Lorimer, on the following afternoon, demanded the poem as per contract, all that Pringle had to show was the copy which he had made of the poem in the book. There was a moment's suspense while conscience and sheer wickedness fought the matter out inside him. And then conscience, which had started on the encounter without enthusiasm, being obviously flabby and out of condition, threw up the sponge. Here you are, said Pringle. It's only a rough copy, but here it is. Lorimer perused it hastily. But I say he observed and surprised and awestruck tones. This is rather good. It seemed to strike him as quite a novel idea. Yes, not bad, is it? But I'll get the prize. Oh, we shall have to prevent that somehow. He did not mention how, and Lorimer did not ask. Well, anyhow, said Lorimer. Thanks awfully. I hope you've not fagged about it too much. Oh, no, said Pringle airily. Rather not. It's been no trouble at all. He thus it will be noticed, concluded a painful and immoral scene by speaking perfect truth, a most gratifying reflection. End of Chapter 11. Poetry and Stump Cricut. Chapter 12 of a Prefect's Uncle. This is a LibriVox recording, while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Prefect's Uncle by W.G. Wodehouse. Chapter 12. We The Undersigned. Nor has kept his word with regard to the bishop's exclusion from the eleven. The team which had beaten the Obies had not had the benefit of his assistance. Lorimer, appearing in his stead. Lorimer was a fast right-hand bowler, deadly in the house matches, or on a very bad wicked. He was the mainstay of the second eleven attack, and in an ordinary year would have been certain of his first eleven cap. This season, however, was Gosling, Baines, and the bishop. The school had been unusually strong, and Lorimer had to wait. The non-appearance of his name on the notice board came as no surprise to Gethram. He had had the advantage of listening to Norris' views on the subject. But when Marriott grasped the facts of the case, he went to Norris and raved. Norris, as is right and proper in the captain of a school team, when the wisdom of his actions is called into question, treated him with no respect whatever. It's no good talking, he said, when Marriott had a brisk opening speech. I know perfectly well what I'm doing. Then there's no excuse for you at all, said Marriott. If you were mad or delirious, I could understand it. Come and have an ice, said Norris. Ice snored at Marriott. What's the good of standing there babbling about ISIS? Do you know we haven't beaten the Obies for four years? We shall beat them this year. Not without Gethram. We certainly shan't beat them with Gethram, because he's not going to play. A champ who chooses the day of the MCC match to go off for the afternoon and then refuses to explain can consider himself jolly well chucked until further notice. Feel ready for that ice yet?  Well, if you ever do get any ice, take my tip and tie it carefully around your head in a handkerchief. Then perhaps you'll be able to see why Gethram isn't playing against the Obies on Saturday. And Marriott went off raging and did not recover until late in the afternoon when he made eighty-three in an hour for a Lichester house in the scratch game. There were only three of the eleven houses whose occupants seriously expected to see the house cricket cup on the mantelpiece of their dining room at the end of the season. These were the schoolhouse, Jeffsons and Lichesters. In view of Pringle's sensational feats throughout the term the knowing ones thought that the cup would go to the schoolhouse with Lichesters runners up. The various members of the first eleven were pretty evenly distributed throughout the three houses. Lichesters had Gethram, Rhys and Marriott. Jeffsons relied on Norris, Bruce and Baker. The schoolhouse trump card was Pringle with Lorimer and Baines to do the bowling and Hill of the first eleven and Kyniston and Langdale of the second to back them up in the batting department. Both the other first eleven men were day boys. The presence of Gosling in any of the house elevens, however weak on paper, would have lent additional interest to the fight for the cup. For in house matches where every team has more or less of a tail one really good fast polar can make a surprising amount of difference to a side. There was a great deal of interest in the school about the house cup. The keenest of all games at big schools are generally the house matches. When Beckford met Charchester or any of the four schools which had played at cricket and football, keenness reached his highest pitch. But next to these came the house matches. Now that he no longer played for the eleven, the bishop was able to give his whole mind to training the house team in the way it should go. The conclusion from the first eleven meant also that he could no longer unless possessed of an amount of Seng Freud's so colossal as almost to amount to genius, put in an appearance at the first eleven net. Under these circumstances, Leichester's net summoned him. Like Mr. Phil May's lady when she was ejected with perfect justice by a barman, he went somewhere where he would be respected. To the house then he devoted himself in scratch games and before breakfast field-outs became the order of the day. House feeling before breakfast is one of those things which cannot be classed under the head of the lighter side of cricket. You get up in the small hours, dragged from a comfortable bed by some sportsman who you feel carries enthusiasm to a point where it ceases to be a virtue and becomes a nuisance. You get into flannels and still half a sleep stagger off to the field where a hired ruffian hits you up, catches, which bite like serpents and sting-like adders. From time to time he adds insult to injury by shouting, get to him, get to him, a remark which finds but one parallel in the language, the keep moving of the football captain. Altogether there are many more pleasant occupations than early morning field-outs and it requires a considerable amount of keenness to carry the victim through them without hopelessly souring his nature and causing him to foster uncharitable thoughts towards his house captain. J. Monk of Leichesters found this increased activity decidedly uncongenial. He had no real patriotism in him. He played cricket well but he played entirely for himself. If, for instance, he happened to make fifty in a match and it happened fairly frequently, he vastly preferred that the rest of the side should make ten between them than that there should be any more half centuries on the score sheet, even at the expense of losing the match. It was not likely, therefore, that he would take kindly to this mortification of the flesh, the sole object of which was to make everybody as conspicuous as everybody else. Besides, in the matter of fielding he considered that he had nothing to learn, which, as Euclid would say, was absurd. Monk, moreover, had another reason for disliking the field outs. Gethron, as captain of the house team, was naturally master of the ceremonies, and Monk objected to Gethron. For this dislike he had solid reasons. About a fortnight after the commencement of term, the bishop going downstairs from his study one afternoon, was aware of what appeared to be a species of free fight going on in the doorway of the senior day room. The senior day room was where the rowdy element of the house collected, the individuals who were too old to be fags and too low down in the school to own studies. Under ordinary circumstances the bishop would probably have passed on without investigating the matter.  Such reputation tells against him when he has to put his foot down over big things. To have invaded the senior day room and stopped a conventional senior day room rag would have been interfering with the most cherished rights of the citizens. The freedom which is the birthright of every Englishman, so to speak. But as he passed the door which had just shut with a bang behind the free fighters, he heard Monk's voice inside and immediately afterwards the voice of Danvers, and he stopped. In the first place he reasoned within himself if Monk and Danvers were doing anything, it was probably something wrong and ought to be stopped. Catherine always had the feeling that it was his duty to go and see what Monk and Danvers were doing. Until then they mustn't. He had a profound belief in their irreclaimable villainy. In the second place having studies of their own they had no business to be in the senior day room at all. It was contrary to the etiquette of the house for a study man to enter the senior day room and as a rule the senior day room resented it. As to all appearances they were not resentient now. The obvious conclusion was that something was going on which ought to cease. The bishop opened the door. Etiquette did not compel the head of the house to knock, the rule being that you knocked only at the doors of those seniors to you in the house. He was consequently enabled to witness a tableau which, if warning had been received of his coming would possibly have broken up before he entered. In the center of the group was Wilson leaning over the study table not so much as if he liked so leaning as because he was held in that position by Danvers. In the background stood Monk armed with a walking stick. Around the walls were various ornaments of the senior day room and attitudes of expected attention being evidently content to play the part of friends and retainers leaving the leading parts in the hands of Monk and his colleagues. A low said the bishop, what's going on? It's alright old chap said Monk grinning genially we're only having an execution. What's the row? said the bishop. What's Wilson been doing? Nothing broken that youth who had wiggled free from Danvers clutches. I haven't done a thing gethren. These beasts lugged me out of the junior day room without saying what for or anything. The bishop began to look dangerous. This had all the outward aspect of a case of bullying. Under Reynolds leadership Lichester had gone and rather extensively for bullying and the bishop had waited hungrily for a chance of catching somebody actively engaged in the sport so that he might drop heavily on that person and make life unpleasant for him. Well he said turning to Monk let's have it. What was it all about and what have you got to do with it? Monk began to shuffle. Oh it was nothing much he said. Then what are you doing with a stick pursued the bishop relentlessly? Young Wilson checked Perkins said Monk murmurs of approval from the senior day room. Perkins was one of the ornaments referred to above. How? asked Gethren. Wilson dashed into the conversation again. Perkins told me to go and get him some grog from the shop. I was doing some work so I couldn't.  If Perkins wants to go for me why doesn't he do it himself and not get about a hundred fellas to help them. Exactly said the bishop. A very sensible suggestion. Perkins fall upon Wilson and slay him. Go ahead. Or no said Perkins un-easily. He was a small weedy looking youth not built for fighting except by proxy and he remembered the episode of Wilson and Skinner. Then the things finished said Gethren. Wilson walks over. We needn't detain you Wilson. Wilson departed with all the honors of war and the bishop turned to Monk. Now perhaps you'll tell me he said you and Danvers are doing here. Well hang it all old chap. The bishop begged that Monk would not call him old chap. I'll call you sir if you like said Monk. A gleam of hope appeared in the bishop's eye. Monk was going to give him the opportunity he had long sighed for. In cold blood he could attack no one. Not even Monk. But if he was going to be rude that altered matters. What business have you in the day room he asked. You've got studies of your own. If it comes to that said Monk so have you. We've got as much business here as you. What the deuce are you doing here. Taken by itself taken neat as it were. This reportee might have been insufficient to act as a causes bellae but by a merciful dispensation of providence the senior day room elected to laugh at that remark and to laugh loudly. Monk also laughed. Not however for long. The next moment the bishop had darted in knocked his feet from under him and dragged him to the door. Captain Kettle himself could not have done it more neatly. Now said the bishop we can discuss the point. Monk got up looking greener than usual and began to dust his clothes. Don't talk rot he said. I can't fight a prefect. This of course the bishop had known all along. What he had intended to do if Monk had kept up his end when he embarked upon the engagement. The head of a house cannot fight by battles with his inferiors without the loss of a good deal of his painfully acquired dignity. But Gethron knew Monk and he had felt justified and risky. He improved the shiny hour with an excursion on the subject of bullying. Dispensed a few general threats and left the room. Monk had perhaps not unnaturally not forgiven the incident and now that public opinion ran strongly against Gethron on account of his MCC match maneuvers he acted. A mass media of the mob was called in to study and it was unanimously voted that field outs in the morning were undesirable and that it would be judicious if the team were to strike. Now as the mob included in their members, 8 of the house 11, their opinions on the subject carried weight. Look here said Waterford. Struck with a brilliant idea. I'd tell you what we'll do. Let's sign a round robin refusing to play in the house matches unless Gethron resigns the captaincy and the field outs stop. We may as well sign an alphabetical order said Monk prudently. It'll make it safer. The idea took the mobs fancy. The round robin was drawn up and signed. Now if we could only get Rhys to Danvers it's not good asking Marriott but Rhys might sign. Let's have a shot at any rate said Monk. And a deputation consisting of Danvers Waterford and Monk duly waited upon Rhys in his study and broached the project to him. End of Chapter 12 We the Undersigned Chapter 13 of a Prefix Uncle This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit Librivox.org A Prefix Uncle by PG Wodehouse Chapter 13 Ligester's house team goes into a second edition. Rhys was working when the deputation entered. He looked up inquiringly. But if he was pleased to see his visitors he managed to conceal the fact. Oh I say Rhys began Monk who had constituted himself spokesman to the expedition. Are you busy? Yes said Rhys simply going on with his writing. This might have discouraged some people but nature had equipped Monk with a tough skin which hence never pierced. He dropped into a chair crossed his legs and coughed. Danvers and Waterford leaned in picturesque attitudes against the door and mantelpiece. There was a silence for a minute during which Rhys continued to write unmoved. Take a seat Monk he said at last without looking up. Oh or thanks I have said Monk I say Rhys we wanted to speak to you. Go ahead then said Rhys I can listen and write at the same time I'm doing this prose against time. It's about Gethron. What's Gethron been doing? Oh I don't know nothing special it's about his being captain of the house team. The chap seemed to think he ought to resign. Which chap inquired Rhys laying down his pen and turning round in his chair? The rest of the team you know. Why don't they think he ought to be captain? The head of the house is always captain of the house team unless he's too bad to be in it at all. Don't the chaps think Gethron's good at crooked? Oh he's good enough said Monk it's more about this MCC match business you know is cutting off like that in the middle of the match. The chaps think the house ought to take some notice of it express its disapproval in that sort of thing. And what do the chaps think of doing about it? Monk inserted a hand in his breast pocket and drew forth the round robin. He straightened it out and passed it over to Rhys. We've drawn up this notice he said and we came to see if you'd sign it nearly all the other chaps in the team have. Rhys perused the document gravely then he handed it back to its owner. What rot said he? I don't think so at all said Monk. Nor do I broken Denver speaking for the first time. What else can we do? We can't let a chap like Gethron stick to the captaincy. That's a matter of opinion. I don't suppose everyone thinks I'm a cad. I don't personally. Well anyway asked Waterford are you going to sign? My good man, of course I'm not. Do you mean to say you seriously intend to hand in that piffle to Gethron? Rather said Monk. Then you'll be making fools of yourself. I'll tell you exactly what will happen. You care to know Gethron will read this rot and simply cut everybody whose name appears on the list out of the house team. I don't know if you're aware of it but there are several other fellows besides you in the house.  You three are in the second. The other five haven't got colors at all. Anyhow we're all in the house team said Monk. Don't let that worry you said Rhys. You won't be long. You show Gethron that interesting thing to do for you. No thanks said Monk and the deputation retired. When they had gone Rhys made his way to that bishop's study. It was not likely that the deputation would deliver these ultimatum until late at night when the study would be empty. From what Rhys knew of Monk he judged that it would be pleasant to him to leave the document where the bishop could find it in the morning rather than run the risk of a personal interview. There was time therefore to let Gethron know what was going to happen so that he might not be surprised into doing anything rash such as resigning the captaincy for example. Not that Rhys thought it likely that he would but it was better to take no risk. Both Marriott and Gethron were in the study when you arrived. Hello Rhys said Marriott come in and take several seats. Have a biscuit. Have two. Good many. Rhys helped himself and gave him a brief description of the late interview. I'm not surprised said Gethron I thought Monk would be getting at me somehow soon. I shall have to slay that chap some day. What ought I to do, do you think? My dear chap said Marriott there's only one thing you can do cut the whole lot of them out of the team and fill up with substitutes. Rhys nodded approval. Of course that's what you must do as a matter of fact I told them you wouldn't. I've given you a reputation you must live up to it. Besides continued Marriott after all it isn't such a crusher when you come to think of it only four of them are really certainties for their places Monk, Danvers, Waterford and Saunders the rest are simply tale. Rhys nodded again great minds think alike exactly what I told them only they wouldn't listen. Well whom do you suggest instead of them? Some of the kids are jolly keen and all that but they wouldn't be much good against Banes and Lorimer for instance. If I were you said Marriott I shouldn't think about their batting at all I should go simply for fielding with a good fielding side we ought to have quite a decent chance there's no earthly reason why you and Rhys shouldn't put on enough for the first wicket to win all the matches it's been done before in the cup four years ago when Twizz was captain they had nobody who was any earthly good except Twizz and Birch and those two used to make about a hundred and fifty between them in every match besides some of the kids can bat rather well Wilson for one he can bowl too yes said the bishop all right stick down Wilson who else Gregson isn't bad he can field in the slips which is more than a good money reset put him down that makes five we might have young Lee until I've seen him play like a book at his form net once or twice Lee six five more wanted where's a house list here we are now Adams Bond Brown Burgess Burgess has his points shall I stick him down not presumed to dictate said Marriott but Adams is streets better than Burgess as a field and just as good a bat why when have you seen him in the scratch game between his form and another he was carting all over the shop make 30 something we'll have both of them in then plenty of room this is the team so far Wilson Gregson Lee Adams and Burgess with Marriott recent Catherine Charlie Hutt stuff it is too by Joe will simply walk that tanker now for the last places I vote we each select a man he's allowed to appeal against the others decision I lead off with Crohn Shaw good name Crohn Shaw look well on a score sheet he was that list said Marriott thanks my dear sir there's only one man in the running at all which his name's Chamberlain shove down Joseph and don't let me hear anyone breathe a word against him come on Reese let's have your man I bet Reese selects some weird writer Reese pondered car stairs he said oh my dear sir car stairs all criticism Bard said the bishop sorry by the way what house are we drawn against in the first round Webster's ripping we can smash Webster's they've got nobody it'll be a rather good thing having an easy time in our first game we should be able to get some idea about the teams play I shouldn't think we could possibly get beaten by Webster's there was a knock at the door Wilson came in with the request that he might fetch a book that he had left in the study oh Wilson just the man I wanted to see said the bishop Wilson you're playing against Webster's next week why Joe said Wilson am I really it spent days in working out on little slips of paper during school this exact chances of getting a place in the house team recently however he had almost ceased to hope he had reckoned on at least eight of the senior study being chosen before him yes said the bishop you must buck up practice fielding every minute of your spare time anybody will hit you up catches if you ask them go and tell Lee that I want to see him Lee said the bishop when that worthy appeared I wanted to see you to tell you you're playing for the house against Webster's thought you might like to know why Joe said Lee am I really right said Lee that's all you're going downstairs you might tell Adams to come up for a quarter of an hour the bishop interviewed the junior members of his team and impressed on each of them the absolute necessity of bucking up with his fielding in each of them protested that the matter should receive his best consideration well they're keen enough anyway say merit as the door closed behind car stairs the last of the new recruits and that's the great thing hello what's that I thought you worked through the lot come in small form appeared in the doorway carrying in its right hand a neatly folded note Monk told me to give you this Catherine half a second said the bishop as the youth made for the door there may be an answer Monk said there wouldn't be one oh no it's all right there isn't an answer the door closed the bishop laughed and threw the note over to Reese Reese examined the paper it's a fair copy the one Monk showed me was rather smudged I suppose they thought you might be heard if you got an ink around Robin consider it chap Monk let's have a look said merit by Joe I say listen to this bit like McCullough isn't it he reads extracts from the ultimatum let's have it said Catherine stretchy out of hand not much I'm going to keep it and have it framed all right I'm going down to up the list when he returned to the study Monk and Danvers came quietly downstairs to look at the notice board it was dark in the passage and Monk had to strike a light before he could see to read why George he said is the match flared up Reese was right he has well there's one consolation commented Danvers viciously they can't possibly get that cup now they have to put us in again soon see if they don't yes said Monk doubtfully end of chapter 13 chapter 14 of a prefect's uncle this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org a prefect's uncle by W.G. Wodehouse chapter 14 Norris takes a short holiday so Rott observed Pringle to say that they haven't a chance because they have he and Lorimer were passing through the cricket field on their way back from an early morning visit to the bats and had stopped to look at Lichester's house team revised version taking its daily hour of fielding practice they watched the performance keenly and critically as spies in an enemy camp who said they hadn't a chance at Lorimer I didn't oh everybody the chaps call them the kindergarten and the kids happy league and things of that sort Rott I call it they seem to forget that you only want two or three really good men in a team if the rest can field look at our crowd they've all either got their colors or else they're just outside the teams and I swear you can't rely on one of them to hold the nearest sitter right into his hands on the subject of fielding in general and catching in particular Pringle was feeling rather sore in the match which his house had just won against Brownings he had put himself on to bowl in the second innings he was one of those bowlers who managed to capture from six to ten wickets in the course of a season and the occasions on which he bowled really well were few on this occasion he had bowled excellently and it had annoyed him five catches five soft gentle catches were missed off him in the course of four overs as he watched the crisp clean fielding which was shown by the very smallest of Leichester's small tail he felt that he would rather have any of that despised aid on his side than any of the school house lights except veins in Lorimer our lot's all right really said Lorimer and answered a Pringle sweep in condemnation everybody has his off days they'll be all right next match doubt it replied Pringle it's all very well for you you bold to hit the sticks I don't now just watch these kids for a moment now look no he couldn't have got to that wait a second now Catherine had skied one up into the deep Wilson Burgess and Carstairs all started for it Burgess said the bishop the other two stopped dead Burgess ran on and made the catch now there you are said Pringle pointing his moral see how those two kids stopped when Catherine called if that had happened in one of our matches you'd have had a dozen men rotting about underneath the ball and getting in one another's way and then probably winding up by everybody leaving the catch to everybody else oh come on said Lorimer you're getting morbid why the dickings didn't you think of my fellows out for fielding practice you're so keen on it they wouldn't have come when a chap gets colors he seems to think he's bought the place you can't drag a second eleven man out of his bed before breakfast to improve his fielding he thinks it can't be improved they're a heartbreaking crew good said Lorimer I suppose that includes me no you're a model man I have seen you hold a catch now and then thanks oh I say I gave in the poem yesterday I hope the do's it won't get the prize I hope they won't spot either that I didn't write the thing not a chance said Pringle complacently you're all right don't you worry yourself Websters against whom Lichesters had been drawn in the opening round of the house matches had three men in their team and only three who knew how to hold a bat it was the slackest house in the school and always had been it did not cause any overwhelming surprise accordingly when Lichesters beat them without fatigue by in innings and 121 runs Websters won the toss and made 35 for Lichesters recent Catherine scored 50 and 62 respectively and Marriott 53 not out they then with two wickets down declared and rattled Websters out for 70 the public which had its eye on the team in order to see how its tail was likely to shape was disappointed the only definite fact that could be gleaned from the match was that the junior members of the team were not to be despised in the field the early morning field outs had had their effect Adams especially shown while Wilson at cover and Burgess in the deep recall Jessup and tidal sleep the school made a note of the fact so did the Bishop he summoned the eight juniors seriatim to his study and administered much praise coupled with the news that feeling before breakfast would go on as usual Lichester had drawn against Jepsen's in the second round Norris's lot had beaten cooks by curiously enough almost exactly the same margin as that by which Lichester had defeated Websters it was generally considered that this match would decide Lichester's chances for the cup if they could beat a really hot team like Jepsen's it was reasonable suppose that they would do the same to the rest of the houses though the schoolhouse would have to be reckoned with but the schoolhouse as Pringle had observed was weak in the field it was not a coherent team individually its members were good but they did not play together as Lichester's did but the majority of the school did not think seriously of their chances except for Pringle who as has been mentioned before always made a point of thinking differently from everyone else no one really believed that they would win the cup or even appear in the final how could a team whose tail began at the fall of the second wicked defeat teams which like the schoolhouse had no real tail at all Norris supported this view it was for this reason that when at breakfast on the day on which Jepsen's were due to play Lichester he received an invitation from one of his many uncles to spend a weekend at his house he decided to accept it this uncle was a man of wealth after winning two fortunes on the stock exchange and losing them both he had at length the master third with which he retired and triumphed to the country leaving Throg Morton Street it could exist as best it could without him he had bought a show place at a village which lay 20 miles by rail to the east of Beckford and it had always been Norris's wish to see this show place a house which was said to combine the horrors of antiquity with a variety of modern comforts merely to pay a flying visit there would be good but his uncle held out an additional attraction if Norris could catch the 140 Throg Morton he would arrive just in time to take part in a cricket match that day being the day of the annual encounter with the neighboring village of Pudford the rector of Pudford the opposition captain so wrote Norris's uncle had by underhand means lord down three really decent players from Oxford not blues but almost who had come to the village ostensibly to read classics with him as their coach but in reality for the sole purpose of snatching from Little Bindlebury his own village the laurels that they had so nobly earned the year before he had heard that Norris was captaining the Beckford team this year and had an average of 38.032 so would he come and make 38.032 for Little Bindlebury this thought Norris's fame this is where I spread love I must be in this at any price he showed the letter to Baker what a pity said Baker what's a pity that you won't be able to go it seems rather a catch can't go Sid Norris my dear sir you're talking through your hat think I'm going to refuse an invitation like this not if I know it I'm going to toddle off to Jefferson get an exe at and catch the 140 and if I don't paralyze the Pudford bowling I'll shoot myself let the house match Leichesters this afternoon Gurgle the amazed Baker oh hang Leichester surely the rest of you can look the kids happily without my help if you can't you ought to be ashamed of yourselves I've chosen you look it with my own hands fit to play a test match on of course we ought to look them but you can never tell it cricket what's going to happen we ought to run any risk when we got such a good chance of winning the pot why it's century since we won the pot don't you go I must man it's the chance of a lifetime Baker tried another method of attack besides he said you don't suppose Jefferson will let you off to play in a beastly little village came when there's a house match on he must never know his Norris after the manner of the Surrey side villain he's certain to ask why you want to get off so early I shall tell him my uncle particularly wishes me to come early suppose he asks why I shall say I can't possibly imagine well if you're going to tell lies not at all merely a diplomatic evasion I'm not bound to go and sob about my secrets on Jefferson's waistcoat Baker gave up the struggle with a sniff Morris went to Mr. Jefferson and got leave to spend the weekend at his uncle's the interview went without a hitch as Norris had prophesied you will miss the house match Norris then said Mr. Jefferson I'm afraid so sir but Mr. Lichesters are very weak hmm Rhys Marriott Gathron are a good beginning yes sir but they've got nobody else their tale starts after those three very well but it seems a pity thank you sir said Norris wisely refraining from discussing the matter he got his exit which was what he had come for in the annals of Putford and little Bindlebury cricket there had never been such a match as that years the rector of Putford and his three Oxford experts performed prodigies with the bad prodigies that is to say judged from the standpoint of ordinary Putford scoring where double figures were the exception rather than the rule the rector and elder lead benevolent looking gentlemen played with astounding caution and still more remarkable luck for seventeen finally after he had been in an hour and ten minutes mid on accepted the eighth easy chance offered to him and the ecclesiastic had to retire the three varsity men knocked up a hundred between them and the complete total was no less than one hundred and thirty four then came the sensation of the day after three wickets had fallen for ten runs Norris and the little Bindlebury current and old cantab stayed together and knocked off the deficit Norris's contribution of seventy eight not out was for many a day the sole topic of conversation over the evening pewter at the little Bindlebury arms a non-enthusiast who tried on one occasion to introduce the topic of farmer giles grey pig found himself the most unpopular man in the village on the Monday morning Norris returned to Jeffsons with pride in his heart and a sovereign in his pocket the latter the gift of his excellent uncle he had had a freely admitted to himself a good time his uncle had done him well exceedingly well and he looked forward to going to the show place again in the near future in the meantime he felt a language desire to know how the house match was going on they must almost had finished the first endings he thought unless Jeffsons had run up a very big score and kept their opponents in the field all the afternoon hello Baker he said tramping breezily into the study I've had the time of my lifetime what match getting on Baker looked up from the book he was reading what match he inquired coldly house match of course you lunatic what match do you think I meant how's it going on it's not going on said Baker it's stopped you needn't be a funny goat said Norris complainingly you know what I mean what happened on Saturday they won the toss began Baker slowly and went in and made 120 good I told you they were no use 120 is rotten then we went in and made 21 121 no just a simple 21 without any trimmings of any sort but man how why how on earth did it happen Catherine took 8 for 9 does that seem to make it any clear 8 for 9 right show you the score sheet if you care to see it in the second innings oh you began a second innings yes we also finished it we scored rather freely in the second innings 10 was on the board before the fifth work it fell in the end we fairly collared the bowling and ran up a total of 48 Norris took a seat and tried to grapple with the situation 48 look here Baker swear you're not ragging Baker took a green scoring sheet on the shelf and passed it to him look for yourself he said Norris looked he looked long and earnestly then he handed the book back then they won he said blankly how do you guess these things observe Baker with some bitterness well you are a cruise said Norris getting out for 21 and 48 I see Catherine got 9 for 30 in the second innings he seems to have been on the spot I suppose the wicket suited him if you can call it a wicket next time you specially select a pitch for the house to play on I wish you'd hunt up something with some slight pretensions to decency why what was wrong with the pitch it was a bit worn that was all if said Baker you call having holes three inch deep just where every ball pitches being a bit worn I suppose it was anyhow it would have been almost as well don't you think if you stopped and played for the house instead of going off to your rotten village match you were sick enough when Catherine went off to the MCC match oh curse said Norris for he had been hoping against hope that the parallel nature of the two incidents would be less apparent to other people than it was to himself and so it came about that lichesters pass successfully the first two rounds and soared the dizzy heights of the semi-final end of chapter 14 Norris takes a short holiday chapter 15 of a prefects uncle this is a LibriVox recording while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org a prefects uncle by W.G. Wodehouse chapter 15 versus Chauchester at Chauchester from the fact that he had left his team so basely in the lurch on the day of an important match a casual observer might have imagined that Norris did not really care very much whether his house won the cup or not but this was not the case in reality the success of Jeffsons was a very important matter to him a sudden whim had induced him to accept his uncle's imitation but now that that acceptance had had such disastrous results he felt inclined to hire a sturdy menial by the hour to kick him till he felt better to a person in such a frame of mind there are three methods of consolation he could commit suicide he can take the drink or he can occupy his mind with other matters and cure himself by fixing his attention steadily on some object and devoting his whole energies to the acquisition of the same Norris chose the last method on the Saturday week following his performance for Little Bindlebury the Beckford 11 was due to journey to Chauchester to play the return match against that school on their opponent's ground and Norris resolved that match should be won for the next week the team practiced assituously those member of it who were not playing in house matches spending every afternoon at the Nets the treatment was not without its effect the team had been a good one before now every one of the eleven seemed to be at the very summit of his powers new and hitherto unsuspected strokes began to be developed leg glances which recalled the Hove and Ranjetsinji late cuts of paleretical brilliance in short all nature may be said to have smiled and by the end of the week Norris was beginning to be almost cheerful once more and then on the Monday before the match Samuel Wilberforce Gosling came to school with his right arm and a sling Norris met him at the school gates rubbed his eyes to see whether it was not after all some horrid optical illusion and finally when the stern truth came home to him almost swooned with anguish how why he inquired lucidly the injured Samuel smiled feebly I'm fearfully sorry Norris he said don't say you can't play on Saturday mode Norris frightfully sorry I know it's a bit of a sickener but I don't see how I can really the doctor says I shan't be able to play for a couple of weeks now that the blow had definitely fallen Norris was sufficiently himself again to be able to inquire into the matter how on earth did you do it how did it happen Gosling looked guiltier than ever was on Saturday evening he said we were we were ragging about at home a bit you know and my younger sister wanted me to send her down a few balls somebody had given her a composition being in a bat and she's been awfully keen on the game ever since she got them I think it's simply sickening the way girls want to do everything I do said Norris disgustedly Gosling spoke for the defense well she's only 13 you can't blame the kid seemed to me a jolly healthy symptom laudable ambition and that sort of thing well well I sent down one or two she played them like a book bit inclined to pull all girls are so I put in a long hop on the off and she let go at it like Jessup she's got a rattling stroke in mid-ons direction being came whizzing back rather wide on the right I doubled across to bring off a beefy C and B and the ballet thing took me right on the tips of the fingers those composition balls hurt like blazes I can tell you smash my second finger simply into hash and I couldn't grip a ball now to save my life much less bold I'm awfully sorry it's a shocking nuisance Norris agreed with him it was more than a nuisance it was a stag river now that gethren no longer figured for the first eleven Gosling was the school's one hope Baines was good on his wicket but the wickets he liked were the sea of mud variety in this summer fine weather had set in early and continued Lorimer was also useful but not to be mentioned in the same breath as the great Samuel the former was good the latter would be good in a year or so his proper sphere of action was the tale if first pair of bowlers could dismiss five good batsmen Lorimer's fast straight deliverers usually accounted for the rest but there had to be somebody to pave the way for him he was essentially a change bowler it is hardly to be wondered at that Norris very soon began to think wistfully of the bishop who was just now doing such great things with the ball wasting his sweetness on the desert air of the house matches would it be consistent with his dignity to invite him back into the team it was a nice point with some persons there might be a risk but Gethron as he knew perfectly well was not the sort of fellow to rub in the undeniable fact that the school team could not get along without him he had half decided to ask him to play against Charchester when Gosling suggested the very same thing why don't you have Gethron in again he said you stood him out against the Obies and the Masters surely that's enough especially as he's miles the best bowler in the school bar yourself not a bit he can give me points you take my tip and put him in again think you'd play if I put him down because you know I'm dashed if I'm going to do any groveling and that sort of thing certain to I should think anyhow it's worth trying Gethron was single on being consulted gave the same opinion and Norris was convinced the list went up that afternoon and for the first time since the MCC match Gethron's name appeared in its usual place Norris's learning wisdom in his old age said Mary up to the bishop as they walked over to the house that evening Lichesters were in the middle of their semi-final and looked like winning it I was just wondering what to do about it what would you do play do you think play my dear man what else do you propose to do you weren't thinking of refusing I was but man that's ranked treason if you're put down to play for the school you must play there's no question about it if Norris knocked you down with one hand and put you up on the board with the other you'd have to play all the same you mustn't have any feelings where the school is concerned nobody's ever refused to play it's one of the things you can't do Norris hasn't given you much of a time lately I admit still you must lump that excuse Sermon I hope it's all done you good very well I'll play it's rather wrought though no it's all right really it's only that you've got into a groove you're so used to doing the heavy martyr that the sudden changes knocked you out rather come and have an ice before the shop shuts so Catherine came once more into the team and traveled down to Charchester with the others and at this point a painful alternative faces me I have to choose between truth and inclination I should like to say that the bishop eclipsed himself and broke all previous records in the Charchester match by the rules of the dramatic nothing else is possible but truth though it crushes me and truth compels me to admit that his performance was in reality distinctly mediocre one of his weak points as a boulder was that he was at sea one opposed to a left hander many bowlers have this failing some strange power seems to compel them to bowl solely on the leg side and nothing but long hops and full pitches it was so in the case of gethren Charchester won the toss and batted first on a perfect wicket the first pair of batsmen were the captain a great bat who had scored 73 not out against Beckford in the previous match and a left-handed fiend Bain's leg breaks were useless on a wicket from the hardness of it might have been constructed of asphalt and the rubbish the bishop rolled up to the left hand at our teased was painful to watch at four o'clock the match had started at half past eleven Charchester captain reached his century and was almost immediately stumped off Bain's the bishop bowled the next man first ball the one bright spot in his afternoon's performance then came another long stand against which the Beckford bowling raged in vain at five o'clock Charchester by that time having made 241 for two wickets the left hander ran into three figures and the captain promptly declared the innings closed Beckford's only chance was to play for a draw in in this they seceded when stumps were drawn at a quarter to seven the score was 103 and five wickets were down the bishop had the satisfaction of being not out with 28 to his credit but nothing less than a century would have been sufficient to soothe him after his shocking bowling performance Pringle who during the luncheon interval had encountered his young friends the Ashby's and had been duly taught it by then on the subject of leather hunting was top scorer with 41 Norris I regret to say only made three running himself out in the second over as the misfortune could not by any stretch of imagination be laid at anyone else's door but his own he was decidedly savage the team returned to Beckford sort very disgusted abnormally silent Norris sulked by himself at one end of the saloon carriage and the bishop sulked by himself at the other end and even marry at four bow to treat the situation lightly was a mournful homecoming no cheering wildly as the break drove to the college from Horton no shouting of the school song and various keys as they passed the big gates simply silence when putting him on to bowl or taking him off or moving him in the field Norris had not spoken a word to the bishop the whole afternoon it was shortly after this disaster that Mr. Mortimer Wells came to stay with the headmaster Mr. Mortimer Wells was a brilliant and superior young man who was at some pains to be a cynic he was an old pupil of the heads in the days before he had seceded to the rule of Beckford he had the reputation of being a ripe scholar and to him had been deputed the task of judging the poetical outbursts of the Bards of the Upper Fifth with the object of awarding to the most deserving or perhaps to the least undeserving the handsome prize bequeathed by his open hand at Highness the Rajah of Seltzerpore this gentleman sat with his legs stretched beneath the headmasters Norris Table dinner had come to an end in a cup of coffee acting in cooperation with several glasses of port and an excellent cigar had inspired him to hold forth on the subject of poetry prizes he held forth the poetry prize system said he, disastonishing what nonsense a man ordinarily intelligent will talk after dinner is on exactly the same principle as those penny in the slot machines that you see at stations you insert your penny you set your prize subject in the former case you hope for wax vestus and you get butterscotch and the latter you hope for something at least readable and you get the most complete carable uninspired twaddle that was ever written on paper the boymind, here the ash of his cigar fell off onto his waistcoat the merely boymind is incapable of poetry from which speech the shrewd reader will infer that Mr. Mortimer Wells was something of a prig and perhaps altogether shrewd reader you're right Mr. Lowry, the head of the six who had been asked to dinner to meet the great man, disagreed as a matter of principle he was one of those men who will take up a cause from pure love of argument I think you're wrong sir Wells smiled in his superior way as if to say that it was a pity that Mr. Lowry was so foolish but that perhaps he could not help it ah he said but you have not had to wade through over 30 of these gems in a single week I have I can assure you your views will undergo a change if you could go through what I have let me read you a selection if that does not convert you nothing will you will excuse me for a moment I will leave the groaning board and fetch the manuscripts he left the room and returned with a pile of paper which he deposited in front of him on the table now he said selecting the topmost manuscript I will take no unfair advantage I will read you the very pick of the bunch none of the other poems come within a long way of this it is a case of eclipse first the author, the gifted author is a boy of the name of Lorimer whom I congratulate on taking the Rajah's prize by draining this cup of coffee to him are you ready now then he cleared his throat end of chapter 15 versus Charchester at Charchester