A Prefect's Uncle. P. G. Wodehouse

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3—THE UNCLE MAKES HIMSELF AT HOME

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      'But, dash it,' said Gethryn, when he had finished gasping, 'that must be rot!'

      'Not a bit,' said the self-possessed youth. 'Your mater was my elder sister. You'll find it works out all right. Look here. A, the daughter of B and C, marries. No, look here. I was born when you were four. See?'

      Then the demoralized Bishop remembered. He had heard of his juvenile uncle, but the tales had made little impression upon him. Till now they had not crossed one another's tracks.

      'Oh, all right,' said he, 'I'll take your word for it. You seem to have been getting up the subject.'

      'Yes. Thought you might want to know about it. I say, how far is it to Beckford, and how do you get there?'

      Up till now Gethryn had scarcely realized that his uncle was actually coming to the School for good. These words brought the fact home to him.

      'Oh, Lord,' he said, 'are you coming to Beckford?'

      The thought of having his footsteps perpetually dogged by an uncle four years younger than himself, and manifestly a youth with a fine taste in cheek, was not pleasant.

      'Of course,' said his uncle. 'What did you think I was going to do? Camp out on the platform?'

      'What House are you in?'

      'Leicester's.'

      The worst had happened. The bitter cup was full, the iron neatly inserted in Gethryn's soul. In his most pessimistic moments he had never looked forward to the coming term so gloomily as he did now. His uncle noted his lack of enthusiasm, and attributed it to anxiety on behalf of himself.

      'What's up?' he asked. 'Isn't Leicester's all right? Is Leicester a beast?'

      'No. He's a perfectly decent sort of man. It's a good enough House. At least it will be this term. I was only thinking of something.'

      'I see. Well, how do you get to the place?'

      'Walk. It isn't far.'

      'How far?'

      'Three miles.'

      'The porter said four.'

      'It may be four. I never measured it.'

      'Well, how the dickens do you think I'm going to walk four miles with luggage? I wish you wouldn't rot.'

      And before Gethryn could quite realize that he, the head of Leicester's, the second-best bowler in the School, and the best centre three-quarter the School had had for four seasons, had been requested in a peremptory manner by a youth of fourteen, a mere kid, not to rot, the offender was talking to a cabman out of the reach of retaliation. Gethryn became more convinced every minute that this was no ordinary kid.

      'This man says,' observed Farnie, returning to Gethryn, 'that he'll drive me up to the College for seven bob. As it's a short four miles, and I've only got two boxes, it seems to me that he's doing himself fairly well. What do you think?'

      'Nobody ever gives more than four bob,' said Gethryn.

      'I told you so,' said Farnie to the cabman. 'You are a bally swindler,' he added admiringly.

      'Look 'ere,' began the cabman, in a pained voice.

      'Oh, dry up,' said Farnie. 'Want a lift, Gethryn?'

      The words were spoken not so much as from equal to equal as in a tone of airy patronage which made the Bishop's blood boil. But as he intended to instil a few words of wisdom into his uncle's mind, he did not refuse the offer.

      The cabman, apparently accepting the situation as one of those slings and arrows of outrageous fortune which no man can hope to escape, settled down on the box, clicked up his horse, and drove on towards the College.

      'What sort of a hole is Beckford?' asked Farnie, after the silence had lasted some time.

      'I find it good enough personally,' said Gethryn. 'If you'd let us know earlier that you were coming, we'd have had the place done up a bit for you.'

      This, of course, was feeble, distinctly feeble. But the Bishop was not feeling himself. The essay in sarcasm left the would-be victim entirely uncrushed. He should have shrunk and withered up, or at the least have blushed. But he did nothing of the sort. He merely smiled in his supercilious way, until the Bishop felt very much inclined to spring upon him and throw him out of the cab.

      There was another pause.

      'Farnie,' began Gethryn at last.

      'Um?'

      'Doesn't it strike you that for a kid like you you've got a good deal of edge on?' asked Gethryn.

      Farnie effected a masterly counter-stroke. He pretended not to be able to hear. He was sorry, but would the Bishop mind repeating his remark.

      'Eh? What?' he said. 'Very sorry, but this cab's making such a row. I say, cabby, why don't you sign the pledge, and save your money up to buy a new cab? Eh? Oh, sorry! I wasn't listening.' Now, inasmuch as the whole virtue of the 'wretched-little-kid-like-you' argument СКАЧАТЬ