Mike. Пелам Гренвилл Вудхаус

Чтение книги онлайн.

      ​

      CHAPTER XI

      THE CONCLUSION OF THE PICNIC

       Table of Contents

      If the form-rooms had been lonely, the Great Hall was doubly, trebly, so. It was a vast room, stretching from side to side of the middle block, and its ceiling soared up into a distant dome. At one end was a daïs and an organ, and at intervals down the room stood long tables. The panels were covered with the names of Wrykynians who had won scholarships at Oxford and Cambridge, and of Old Wrykynians who had taken first in Mods or Greats, or achieved any other recognised success, such as a place in the Indian Civil Service list. A silent testimony, these panels, to the work the school had done in the world.

      Nobody knew exactly how many the Hall could hold, when packed to its fullest capacity. The six hundred odd boys at the school seemed to leave large gaps unfilled.

      This morning there was a mere handful, and the place looked worse than empty.

      The Sixth Form were there, and the school prefects. The Great Picnic had not affected their numbers. The Sixth stood by their table in a solid group. The other tables were occupied by ones and twos. A buzz of conversation was going on, which did not cease when the masters filed into the room and took their places. Every one realised by this time that the biggest row in Wrykyn history was well under way; and the thing had to be discussed.

      In the Masters' library Mr. Wain and Mr. Shields, the spokesmen of the Common Room, were breaking the news to the headmaster.

      The headmaster was a man who rarely betrayed emotion in his public capacity. He heard Mr. Shields's rambling remarks, punctuated by Mr. Wain's " ​Exceedinglys," to an end. Then he gathered up his cap and gown.

      "You say that the whole school is absent?" he remarked quietly.

      Mr. Shields, in a long-winded flow of words, replied that that was what he did say.

      "Ah!" said the headmaster.

      There was a silence.

      "'M!" said the headmaster.

      There was another silence.

      "Ye—e—s!" said the headmaster.

      He then led the way into the Hall.

      Conversation ceased abruptly as he entered. The school, like an audience at a theatre when the hero has just appeared on the stage, felt that the serious interest of the drama had begun. There was a dead silence at every table as he strode up the room and on to the daïs.

      There was something Titanic in his calmness. Every eye was on his face as he passed up the Hall, but not a sign of perturbation could the school read. To judge from his expression, he might have been unaware of the emptiness around him.

      The master who looked after the music of the school, and incidentally accompanied the hymn with which prayers at Wrykyn opened, was waiting, puzzled, at the foot of the daïs. It seemed improbable that things would go on as usual, and he did not know whether he was expected to be at the organ, or not. The headmaster's placid face reassured him. He went to his post.

      The hymn began. It was a long hymn, and one which the school liked for its swing and noise. As a rule, when it was sung, the Hall re-echoed. To-day, the thin sound of the voices had quite an uncanny effect. The organ boomed through the deserted room.

      The school, or the remnants of it, waited impatiently while the prefect whose turn it was to read stammered nervously through the lesson. They were anxious to get on to what the Head was going to say at the end of prayers. At last it was over. The school waited, all ears.

      ​The headmaster bent down from the daïs and called to Firby-Smith, who was standing in his place with the Sixth.

      The Gazeka, blushing warmly, stepped forward.

      "Bring me a school list, Firby-Smith," said the headmaster.

      The Gazeka was wearing a pair of very squeaky boots that morning. They sounded deafening as he walked out of the room.

      The school waited.

      Presently a distant squeaking was heard, and Firby-Smith returned, bearing a large sheet of paper.

      The headmaster thanked him, and spread it out on the reading-desk.

      Then, calmly, as if it were an occurrence of every day, he began to call the roll.

      "Abney."

      No answer.

      "Adams."

      No answer.

      "Allenby."

      "Here, sir," from a table at the end of the room. Allenby was a prefect, in the Science Sixth.

      The headmaster made a mark against his name with a pencil.

      "Arkwright."

      No answer.

      He began to call the names more rapidly.

      "Arlington. Arthur. Ashe. Aston."

      "Here, СКАЧАТЬ