Tales of St. Austin's

by P. G. Wodehouse

  [10]

  AUTHOR!

  J. S. M. Babington, of Dacre's House, was on the horns of a dilemma.Circumstances over which he had had no control had brought him, likeanother Hercules, to the cross-roads, and had put before him the choicebetween pleasure and duty, or, rather, between pleasure and what thosein authority called duty. Being human, he would have had littledifficulty in making his decision, had not the path of pleasure been sohedged about by danger as to make him doubt whether after all the thingcould be carried through.

  The facts in the case were these. It was the custom of the mathematicalset to which J. S. M. Babington belonged, 4B to wit, to relieve thetedium of the daily lesson with a species of round game which wasplayed as follows. As soon as the master had taken his seat, one of theplayers would execute a manoeuvre calculated to draw attention onhimself, such as dropping a book or upsetting the blackboard. Called upto the desk to give explanation, he would embark on an eloquent speechfor the defence. This was the cue for the next player to begin. Hispart consisted in making his way to the desk and testifying to themoral excellence of his companion, and giving in full the reasons whyhe should be discharged without a stain upon his character. As soon ashe had warmed to his work he would be followed by a third player, andso on until the standing room around the desk was completely filledwith a great cloud of witnesses. The duration of the game varied, ofcourse, considerably. On some occasions it could be played through withsuch success, that the master would enter into the spirit of the thing,and do his best to book the names of all offenders at one and the sametime, a feat of no inconsiderable difficulty. At other times matterswould come to a head more rapidly. In any case, much innocent fun wasto be derived from it, and its popularity was great. On the day,however, on which this story opens, a new master had been temporarilyloosed into the room in place of the Rev. Septimus Brown, who had beenthere as long as the oldest inhabitant could remember. The Rev.Septimus was a wrangler, but knew nothing of the ways of the human boy.His successor, Mr Reginald Seymour, was a poor mathematician, but agood master. He had been, moreover, a Cambridge Rugger Blue. This factalone should have ensured him against the customary pleasantries, for aBlue is a man to be respected. It was not only injudicious, therefore,but positively wrong of Babington to plunge against the blackboard onhis way to his place. If he had been a student of Tennyson, he mighthave remembered that the old order is in the habit of changing andyielding place to the new.

  Mr Seymour looked thoughtfully for a momentat the blackboard.

  'That was rather a crude effort,' he said pleasantly to Babington, 'youlack _finesse_. Pick it up again, please.'

  Babington picked it up without protest. Under the rule of the Rev.Septimus this would have been the signal for the rest of the class toleave their places and assist him, but now they seemed to realize thatthere was a time for everything, and that this was decidedly no timefor indoor games.

  'Thank you,' said Mr Seymour, when the board was in its place again.'What is your name? Eh, what? I didn't quite hear.'

  'Babington, sir.'

  'Ah. You had better come in tomorrow at two and work out examples threehundred to three-twenty in "Hall and Knight". There is really plenty ofroom to walk in between that desk and the blackboard. It only wantspractice.'

  What was left of Babington then went to his seat. He felt that hisreputation as an artistic player of the game had received a shatteringblow. Then there was the imposition. This in itself would have troubledhim little. To be kept in on a half-holiday is annoying, but it is oneof those ills which the flesh is heir to, and your true philosopher canalways take his gruel like a man.

  But it so happened that by the evening post he had received a letterfrom a cousin of his, who was a student at Guy's, and from all accountswas building up a great reputation in the medical world. From thisletter it appeared that by a complicated process of knowing people whoknew other people who had influence with the management, he hadcontrived to obtain two tickets for a morning performance of the newpiece that had just been produced at one of the theatres. And if Mr J.S. M. Babington wished to avail himself of the opportunity, would hewrite by return, and be at Charing Cross Underground bookstall attwenty past two.

  Now Babington, though he objected strongly to the drama of ancientGreece, was very fond of that of the present day, and he registered avow that if the matter could possibly be carried through, it should be.His choice was obvious. He could cut his engagement with Mr Seymour, orhe could keep it. The difficulty lay rather in deciding upon one orother of the alternatives. The whole thing turned upon the extent ofthe penalty in the event of detection.

  That was his dilemma. He sought advice.

  'I should risk it,' said his bosom friend Peterson.

  'I shouldn't advise you to,' remarked Jenkins.

  Jenkins was equally a bosom friend, and in the matter of wisdom in noway inferior to Peterson.

  'What would happen, do you think?' asked Babington.

  'Sack,' said one authority.

  'Jaw, and double impot,' said another.

  'The _Daily Telegraph_,' muttered the tempter in a stage aside,'calls it the best comedy since Sheridan.'

  'So it does,' thought Babington. 'I'll risk it.'

  'You'll be a fool if you do,' croaked the gloomy Jenkins. 'You're boundto be caught.' But the Ayes had it. Babington wrote off that nightaccepting the invitation.

  It was with feelings of distinct relief that he heard Mr Seymourexpress to another master his intention of catching the twelve-fifteentrain up to town. It meant that he would not be on the scene to see himstart on the 'Hall and Knight'. Unless luck were very much against him,Babington might reasonably hope that he would accept the impositionwithout any questions. He had taken the precaution to get the examplesfinished overnight, with the help of Peterson and Jenkins, aided by aweird being who actually appeared to like algebra, and turned out tenof the twenty problems in an incredibly short time in exchange for acouple of works of fiction (down) and a tea (at a date). He himselfmeant to catch the one-thirty, which would bring him to town in goodtime. Peterson had promised to answer his name at roll-call, a delicateoperation, in which long practice had made him, like many others of thejunior members of the House, no mean proficient.

  It would be pleasant for a conscientious historian to be able to saythat the one-thirty broke down just outside Victoria, and thatBabington arrived at the theatre at the precise moment when the curtainfell and the gratified audience began to stream out. But truth, thoughit crush me. The one-thirty was so punctual that one might have thoughtthat it belonged to a line other than the line to which it did belong.From Victoria to Charing Cross is a journey that occupies noconsiderable time, and Babington found himself at his destination withfive minutes to wait. At twenty past his cousin arrived, and they madetheir way to the theatre. A brief skirmish with a liveried menial inthe lobby, and they were in their seats.

  Some philosopher, of extraordinary powers of intuition, once informedthe world that the best of things come at last to an end. The statementwas tested, and is now universally accepted as correct. To apply thegeneral to the particular, the play came to an end amidst uproariousapplause, to which Babington contributed an unstinted quotum, aboutthree hours after it had begun.

  'What do you say to going and grubbing somewhere?' asked Babington'scousin, as they made their way out.

  'Hullo, there's that man Richards,' he continued, before Babingtoncould reply that of all possible actions he considered that of goingand grubbing somewhere the most desirable. 'Fellow I know at Guy's, youknow,' he added, in explanation. 'I'll get him to join us. You'll likehim, I expect.'

  Richards professed himself delighted, and shook hands with Babingtonwith a fervour which seemed to imply that until he had met him life hadbeen a dreary blank, but that now he could begin to enjoy himselfagain. 'I should like to join you, if you don't mind including a friendof mine in the party,' said Richards. 'He was to meet me here. By theway, he's the author of that new piece--_T
he Way of the World.'_

  'Why, we've just been there.'

  'Oh, then you will probably like to meet him. Here he is.'

  As he spoke a man came towards them, and, with a shock that sent allthe blood in his body to the very summit of his head, and then to thevery extremities of his boots, Babington recognized Mr Seymour. Theassurance of the programme that the play was by Walter Walsh was afraud. Nay worse, a downright and culpable lie. He started with thevague idea of making a rush for safety, but before his paralysed limbscould be induced to work, Mr Seymour had arrived, and he was beingintroduced (oh, the tragic irony of it) to the man for whose benefit hewas at that very moment supposed to be working out examples threehundred to three-twenty in 'Hall and Knight'.

  Mr Seymour shook hands, without appearing to recognize him. Babington'sblood began to resume its normal position again, though he felt thatthis seeming ignorance of his identity might be a mere veneer, a wileof guile, as the bard puts it. He remembered, with a pang, a story insome magazine where a prisoner was subjected to what the light-heartedinquisitors called the torture of hope. He was allowed to escape fromprison, and pass guards and sentries apparently without their noticinghim. Then, just as he stepped into the open air, the chief inquisitortapped him gently on the shoulder, and, more in sorrow than in anger,reminded him that it was customary for condemned men to remain_inside_ their cells. Surely this was a similar case. But then thethought came to him that Mr Seymour had only seen him once, and somight possibly have failed to remember him, for there was nothingspecial about Babington's features that arrested the eye, and stampedthem on the brain for all time. He was rather ordinary than otherwiseto look at. At tea, as bad luck would have it, the two sat opposite oneanother, and Babington trembled. Then the worst happened. Mr Seymour,who had been looking attentively at him for some time, leaned forwardand said in a tone evidently devoid of suspicion: 'Haven't we metbefore somewhere? I seem to remember your face.'

  'Er--no, no,' replied Babington. 'That is, I think not. We may have.'

  'I feel sure we have. What school are you at?'

  Babington's soul began to writhe convulsively.

  'What, what school? Oh, what _school_? Why, er--I'mat--er--Uppingham.'

  Mr Seymour's face assumed a pleased expression.

  'Uppingham? Really. Why, I know several Uppingham fellows. Do you knowMr Morton? He's a master at Uppingham, and a great friend of mine.'

  The room began to dance briskly before Babington's eyes, but heclutched at a straw, or what he thought was a straw.

  'Uppingham? Did I say Uppingham? Of course, I mean Rugby, you know,Rugby. One's always mixing the two up, you know. Isn't one?'

  Mr Seymour looked at him in amazement. Then he looked at the others asif to ask which of the two was going mad, he or the youth opposite him.Babington's cousin listened to the wild fictions which issued from hislips in equal amazement. He thought he must be ill. Even Richards had afleeting impression that it was a little odd that a fellow shouldforget what school he was at, and mistake the name Rugby for that ofUppingham, or _vice versa_. Babington became an object ofinterest.

  'I say, Jack,' said the cousin, 'you're feeling all right, aren't you?I mean, you don't seem to know what you're talking about. If you'regoing to be ill, say so, and I'll prescribe for you.'

  'Is he at Rugby?' asked Mr Seymour.

  'No, of course he's not. How could he have got from Rugby to London intime for a morning performance? Why, he's at St Austin's.'

  Mr Seymour sat for a moment in silence, taking this in. Then hechuckled. 'It's all right,' he said, 'he's not ill. We have met before,but under such painful circumstances that Master Babington verythoughtfully dissembled, in order not to remind me of them.'

  He gave a brief synopsis of what had occurred. The audience, exclusiveof Babington, roared with laughter.

  'I suppose,' said the cousin, 'you won't prosecute, will you? It'sreally such shocking luck, you know, that you ought to forget you're amaster.'

  Mr Seymour stirred his tea and added another lump of sugar verycarefully before replying. Babington watched him in silence, and wishedthat he would settle the matter quickly, one way or the other.

  'Fortunately for Babington,' said Mr Seymour, 'and unfortunately forthe cause of morality, I am not a master. I was only a stop-gap, and myterm of office ceased today at one o'clock. Thus the prisoner at thebar gets off on a technical point of law, and I trust it will be alesson to him. I suppose you had the sense to do the imposition?'

  'Yes, sir, I sat up last night.'

  'Good. Now, if you'll take my advice, you'll reform, or anotherday you'll come to a bad end. By the way, how did you manage aboutroll-call today?'

  'I thought that was an awfully good part just at the end of the firstact,' said Babington.

  Mr Seymour smiled. Possibly from gratification.

  'Well, how did it go off?' asked Peterson that night.

  'Don't, old chap,' said Babington, faintly.

  'I told you so,' said Jenkins at a venture.

  But when he had heard the whole story he withdrew the remark, andcommented on the wholly undeserved good luck some people seemed toenjoy.