Mike at Wrykyn (7 page)

You are
walking along one seemingly fine day, when suddenly there is a hush, and there
falls on you from space one big drop. The next moment the thing has begun, and
you are standing in a shower-bath. It is just the same with a row. Some trivial
episode occurs, and in an instant the place is in a ferment. It was so with the
great picnic at Wrykyn.

The
bare outlines of the beginning of this affair are included in a letter which
Mike wrote to his father on the Sunday following the Old Wrykynian matches.

This
was the letter:

“DEAR FATHER,

“Thanks awfully for your letter. I hope you are quite well. I have
been getting on all right at cricket lately. My scores since I wrote last have
been o in a scratch game (the sun got in my eyes just as I played, and I got
bowled); 15 for the third against an eleven of masters (without G. B. Jones,
the Surrey man, and Spence); 28 not out in the Under Sixteen game; and 30 in a
form match. Rather decent. Yesterday one of the men put down for the second
against the O.W.s second couldn’t play because his father was very ill, so I
played. Wasn’t it luck? It’s the first time I’ve played for the second. I
didn’t do much, because I didn’t get an innings. They stop the cricket on O.W.
matches day because they have a hot of rotten Greek plays and things which take
up a frightful time, and half the chaps are acting, so we stop from lunch to
four. Rot I call it. So I didn’t go in, because they won the toss and made 215,
and by the time we’d made 140 for 6 it was close of play. They’d stuck me in
eighth wicket. Rather rot. Still, I may get another shot. And I made rather a
decent catch at mid-on. Low down. I had to dive for it. Bob played for the
first, but didn’t do much. He was run out after he’d got ten. I believe he’s
rather sick about it.

“Rather a rummy thing happened after lock-up. I wasn’t in it, but a
fellow called Wyatt (awfully decent chap. He’s Wain’s step-son, only they dislike
one another) told me about it. He was in it all right. There’s a dinner after
the matches on O.W. day, and some of the chaps were going back to their houses
after it when they got into a row with a lot of spivs and there was rather a
row. There was a policeman mixed up in it somehow, only I don’t quite know
where he comes in. I’ll find out and tell you next time I write. Love to
everybody. Tell Marjory I’ll write to her in a day or two.

“Your loving son,

“MIKE.”

“P.S.—I say, I suppose you couldn’t send me five bob, could you? I’m
rather broke.

“P.P.S.—Half-a-crown would do, only I’d rather it was five bob.”

And, on the back of the envelope, these words: “Or a bob would be
better than nothing.”

The
outline of the case was as Mike had stated. But there were certain details of
some importance which had not come to his notice when he sent the letter. On
the Monday they were public property.

The
thing had happened after this fashion. At the conclusion of the day’s cricket,
all those who had been playing in the four elevens which the school put into
the field against the old boys, together with the school choir, were
entertained by the headmaster to supper in the Great Hall. The banquet,
lengthened by speeches, songs, and recitations which the reciters imagined to
be songs, lasted, as a rule, till about ten o’clock, when the revellers were
supposed to go back to their houses by the nearest route, and turn in. This was
the official programme. The school usually performed it with certain
modifications and improvements.

About
midway between Wrykyn, the school, and Wrykyn, the town, there stands on an
island in the centre of the road a solitary lamp-post. It was the custom, and
had been the custom for generations back, for the diners to trudge off to this
lamp-post, dance round it for some minutes singing the school song or whatever
happened to be the popular song of the moment, and then race back to their
houses. Antiquity had given the custom a sort of sanctity, and the authorities,
if they knew—which they must have done—never interfered.

But
there were others.

Wrykyn,
the town, was peculiarly rich in “gangs of youths.” Like the vast majority of
the inhabitants of the place, they seemed to have no work of any kind
whatsoever to occupy their time, which they used, accordingly, to spend
prowling about and indulging in a mild, brainless, rural type of hooliganism.
They seldom proceeded to practical rowdyism except with the school. As a rule,
they amused themselves by shouting rude chaff. The school regarded them with a
lofty contempt, much as an Oxford man regards the townee. The school was always
anxious for a row, but it was the unwritten law that only in special circumstances
should they proceed to active measures. A curious dislike for school-and-town
rows and most misplaced severity in dealing with the offenders when they took place,
were among the few flaws in the otherwise admirable character of the headmaster
of Wrykyn. It was understood that one scragged town types at one’s own risk,
and, as a rule, it was not considered worth it.

But
after an excellent supper and much singing and joviality, one’s views are apt
to alter. Risks which before supper seemed great, show a tendency to dwindle.

When,
therefore, the twenty or so Wrykynians who were dancing round the lamp-post
were aware, in the midst of their festivities, that they were being observed
and criticized by an equal number of townees, and that the criticisms were, as
usual, essentially candid and personal, they found themselves forgetting the
headmaster’s prejudices and feeling only that these outsiders must be put to
the sword as speedily as possible, for the honour of the school.

Possibly,
if the town brigade had stuck to a purely verbal form of attack, all might yet
have been peace. Words can be overlooked.

But
tomatoes cannot.

No man
of spirit can bear to be pelted with over-ripe tomatoes for any length of time
without feeling that if the thing goes on much longer he will be reluctantly
compelled to take steps.

In the
present crisis, the first tomato was enough to set matters moving.

As the
two armies stood facing each other in silence under the dim and mysterious rays
of the lamp, it suddenly whizzed out from the enemy’s ranks, and hit Wyatt on
the right ear.

There
was a moment of suspense. Wyatt took out his handkerchief and wiped his face,
over which the succulent vegetable had spread itself.

“I
don’t know how you fellows are going to pass the evening,” he said quietly. “My
idea of a good after-dinner game is to try and find the chap who threw that. Anybody
coming?”

For the
first five minutes it was as even a fight as one could have wished to see. It
raged up and down the road without a pause, now in a solid mass, now splitting
up into little groups. The science was on the side of the school.

Most Wrykynians
knew how to box to a certain extent. But, at any rate at first, it was no time
for science. To be scientific one must have an opponent who observes at least
the more important rules of the ring. It is impossible to do the latest ducks
and hooks taught you by the instructor if your antagonist butts you in the
chest, and then kicks your shins, while some dear friend of his, of whose
presence you had no idea, hits you at the same time on the back of the head.
The greatest expert would lose his science in such circumstances.

Probably
what gave the school the victory in the end was the righteousness of their
cause. They were smarting under a sense of injury, and there is nothing that
adds a force to one’s blows and a recklessness to one’s style of delivering
them more than a sense of injury.

Wyatt,
one side of his face still showing traces of the tomato, led the school with a
vigour that could not be resisted. He very seldom lost his temper, but he did
draw the line at bad tomatoes.

Presently
the school noticed that the enemy were vanishing little by little into the
darkness which concealed the town. Barely a dozen remained. And their lonely
condition seemed to be borne in upon these by a simultaneous brain-wave, for
they suddenly gave the fight up, and stampeded as one man.

The
leaders were beyond recall, but two remained, tackled low by Wyatt and Clowes
after the fashion of the football field.

The school gathered round
its prisoners, panting. The scene of the conflict had shifted little by little
to a spot some fifty yards from where it had started. By the side of the road
at this point was a green, depressed-looking pond. Gloomy in the daytime, it
looked unspeakable at night. It struck Wyatt, whose finer feelings had been
entirely blotted out by tomato, as an ideal place in which to bestow the
captives.

“Let’s
chuck ‘em in there,” he said.

The
idea was welcomed gladly by all, except the prisoners. A move was made towards
the pond, and the procession had halted on the brink, when a new voice made
itself heard.

“Now
then,” it said, “what’s all this?”

A stout
figure in policeman’s uniform was standing surveying them with the aid of a
flashlight.

“What’s
all this?”

“It’s
all right,” said Wyatt.

“All
right, is it? What’s on?”

One of
the prisoners spoke.

“Make
‘em leave hold of us, Mr. Butt. They’re a-going to chuck us in the pond.”

“Ho!“
said the policeman, with a change in his voice. “Ho, are they? Come now, young
gentleman, a lark’s a lark, but you ought to know where to stop.”

“It’s
anything but a lark,” said Wyatt in the creamy voice he used when feeling
particularly savage. “We’re the Strong Right Arm of Justice. That’s what we
are. This isn’t a lark, it’s an execution.”

“I
don’t want none of your lip, whoever you are,” said Mr. Butt, understanding but
dimly, and suspecting impudence by instinct.

“This
is quite a private matter,” said Wyatt. “You run along on your beat. You can’t
do anything here.”

“Ho!”

“Shove
‘em in, you chaps.”

“Stop!”
From Mr. Butt.

“Oo-er!”
From prisoner number one.

There
was a sounding splash as willing hands urged the first of the captives into the
depths. He ploughed his way to the bank, scrambled out, and vanished.

Wyatt
turned to the other prisoner.

“You’ll
have the worst of it, going in second. He’ll have churned up the mud a bit.
Don’t swallow more than you can help, or you’ll go getting typhoid. I expect
there are leeches and things there, but if you nip out quick they may not get
on to you. Carry on, you chaps.”

It was
here that the regrettable incident occurred. Just as the second prisoner was
being launched, Constable Butt, determined to assert himself even at the
eleventh hour, sprang forward, and seized the captive by the arm. A drowning
man will clutch at a straw. A man about to be hurled into an excessively dirty
pond will clutch at a stout policeman. The prisoner did.

Constable
Butt represented his one link with dry land. As he came within reach he
attached himself to his tunic with the vigour and concentration of a limpet.

At the
same moment the executioners gave their man the final heave. The policeman
realized his peril too late. A medley of noises made the peaceful night
hideous. A howl from the townee, a yell from the policeman, a cheer from the
launching party, a frightened squawk from some birds in a neighbouring tree,
and a splash compared with which the first had been as nothing, and all was
over.

The
dark waters were lashed into a maelstrom; and then two streaming figures
squelched up the further bank.

The
school stood in silent consternation. It was no occasion for light apologies.

“Do you
know,” said Wyatt, as he watched the Law shaking the water from itself on the
other side of the pond, “I’m not half sure that we hadn’t better be moving!”

CHAPTER
IX

BEFORE THE STORM

YOUR real, devastating row
has many points of resemblance with a prairie fire. A man on a prairie lights his
pipe, and throws away the match. The flame catches a bunch of dry grass, and,
before anyone can realize what is happening, sheets of fire are racing over the
country; and the interested neighbours are following their example. (I have
already compared a row with a thunderstorm; but both comparisons may stand. In
dealing with so vast a matter as a row there must be no stint.)

The
tomato which hit Wyatt in the face was the thrown-away match. But for the
unerring aim of the town marksman great events would never have happened. A
tomato is a trivial thing (though it is possible that the man whom it hits may
not think so), but in the present case, it was the direct cause of epoch-making
trouble.

The
tomato hit Wyatt. Wyatt, with others, went to look for the thrower. The
remnants of the thrower’s friends were placed in the pond, and “with them,” as
they say in the courts of law, Police Constable Alfred Butt.