Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Chapter 10

  TOM BLAKE AGAIN_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_

  Hatton's Club boys took kindly to my course of instruction. For acouple of months, indeed, it seemed that another golden age of thenoble art was approaching, and that the rejuvenation of boxing wouldoccur, beginning at Carnation Hall, Lambeth.

  Then the thing collapsed like a punctured tyre.

  At first, of course, they fought a little shy. But when I had them upin line, and had shown them what a large proportion of an eight-ounceglove is padding, they grew more at ease. To be asked suddenly to fightthree rounds with one of your friends before an audience, also of yourfriends, is embarrassing. One feels hot and uncomfortable. Hatton'sboys jibbed nervously. As a preliminary measure, therefore, I drilledthem in a class at foot-work and the left lead. They found the exerciseexhilarating. If this was the idea, they seemed to say, let the thinggo on. Then I showed them how to be highly scientific with a punchball. Finally, I sparred lightly with them myself.

  In the rough they were impossible boxers. After their initial distrusthad evaporated under my gentle handling of them, they forgot all I hadtaught them about position and guards. They bored in, heads down andarms going like semicircular pistons. Once or twice I had to stop them.They were easily steadied. They hastened to adopt a certain snakinessof attack instead of the frontal method which had left them so exposed.They began to cultivate a kind of negative style. They weretremendously impressed by the superiority of science over strength.

  I am not sure that I did not harp rather too much on the scientificnote. Perhaps if I had referred to it less, the ultimate disaster wouldnot have been quite so appalling. On the other hand, I had not theslightest suspicion that they would so exaggerate my meaning when I wasremarking on the worth of science, how it "tells," and how it causesthe meagre stripling to play fast and loose with huge, brawnyruffians--no cowards, mark you--and hairy as to their chests.

  But the weeds at Hatton's Club were fascinated by my homilies onscience. The simplicity of the thing appealed to them irresistibly.They caught at the expression, "Science," and regarded it as the "HeyPresto!" of a friendly conjurer who could so arrange matters for themthat powerful opponents would fall flat, involuntarily, at the sight oftheir technically correct attitude.

  I did not like to destroy their illusions. Had I said to them, "Lookhere, science is no practical use to you unless you've got low-bridged,snub noses, protruding temples, nostrils like the tubes of avacuum-cleaner, stomach muscles like motor-car wheels, hands like legsof mutton, and biceps like transatlantic cables"--had I said that, theywould have voted boxing a fraud, and gone away to quarrel over a gameof backgammon, which was precisely what I wished to avoid.

  So I let them go on with their tapping and feinting and side-slipping.

  To make it worse they overheard Sidney Price trying to pay me acompliment. Price was the insurance clerk who had attached himself toHatton and had proved himself to be of real service in many ways. Hewas an honest man, but he could not box. He came down to the hall onenight after I had given four or five lessons, to watch the boys spar.Of course, to the uninitiated eye it did seem as though they were neatin their work. The sight was very different from the absurd exhibitionwhich Price had seen on the night I started with them. He might easilyhave said, if he was determined to compliment me, that they had"improved," "progressed," or something equally adequate and innocuous.But no. The man must needs be effusive, positively gushing. He came tome in transports. "Wonderful!" he said. "Wonderful!"

  "What's wonderful?" I said, a shade irritably.

  "Their style," he said loudly, so that they could all hear, "theirstyle. It's their style that astonishes me."

  I hustled him away as soon as I could, but the mischief was done.

  Style ran through Hatton's Club boys like an epidemic. Carnation Hallfairly buzzed with style. An apology for a blow which landed on yourchest with the delicacy of an Agag among butterflies was extolled tothe skies because it was a stylish blow. When Alf Joblin, a recruit,sent Walter Greenway sprawling with a random swing on the mark, therewas a pained shudder. Not only Walter Greenway, but the whole clubexplained to Alf that the swing was a bad swing, an awful violation ofstyle, practically a crime. By the time they had finished explaining,Alf was dazed; and when invited by Walter to repeat the hit with a viewto his being further impressed with its want of style, did so in suchhalf-hearted fashion that Walter had time to step stylishly aside andshow Alf how futile it is to be unscientific.

  To the club this episode was decently buried in an unremembered past.To me, however, it was significant, though I did not imagine it wouldever have the tremendous sequel which was brought about by the comingof Thomas Blake.

  Fate never planned a coup so successfully. The psychology of Blake'sarrival was perfect. The boxers of Carnation Hall had worked themselvesinto a mental condition which I knew was as ridiculous as it wasdangerous. Their conceit and their imagination transformed the hallinto a kind of improved National Sporting Club. They went about with anair of subdued but tremendous athleticism. They affected a sort ofself-conscious nonchalance. They adopted an odiously patronisingattitude towards the once popular game of backgammon. I daresay thatpicture is not yet forgotten where a British general, a man of bloodand iron, is portrayed as playing with a baby, to the utter neglect ofa table full of important military dispatches. Well, the club boys, toa boy, posed as generals of blood and iron when they condescended toplay backgammon. They did it, but they let you see that they did notregard it as one of the serious things of life.

  Also, knowing that each other's hitting was so scientific as to beharmless, they would sometimes deliberately put their eye in front oftheir opponent's stylish left, in the hope that the blow would raise abruise. It hardly ever did. But occasionally----! Oh, then you shouldhave seen the hero-with-the-quiet-smile look on their faces as theylounged ostentatiously about the place. In a word, they were abovethemselves. They sighed for fresh worlds to conquer. And Thomas Blakesupplied the long-felt want.

  Personally, I did not see his actual arrival. I only saw his handiworkafter he had been a visitor awhile within the hall. But, to avoidunnecessary verbiage and to avail myself of the privilege of an author,I will set down, from the evidence of witnesses, the main points of theepisode as though I myself had been present at his entrance.

  He did not strike them, I am informed, as a particularly big man. Hewas a shade under average height. His shoulders seemed to them not somuch broad as "humpy." He rolled straight in from the street on a wetSaturday night at ten minutes to nine, asking for "free tea."

  I should mention that on certain Fridays Hatton gave a free meal to hisparishioners on the understanding that it was rigidly connected with aShort Address. The preceding Friday had been such an occasion. Theplacards announcing the tea were still clinging to the outer railingsof the hall.

  When I said that Blake asked for free tea, I should have said, shoutedfor free tea. He cast one decisive glance at Hatton's placards, androlled up. He shot into the gate, up the steps, down the passage, andthrough the door leading into the big corrugated-iron hall which I usedfor my lessons. And all the time he kept shouting for free tea.

  In the hall the members of my class were collected. Some were changingtheir clothes; others, already changed, were tapping the punch-ball.They knew that I always came punctually at nine o'clock, and they likedto be ready for me. Amongst those present was Sidney Price.

  Thomas Blake brought up short, hiccuping, in the midst of them. "Gimmethat free tea!" he said.

  Sidney Price, whose moral fortitude has never been impeached, was thefirst to handle the situation.

  "My good man," he said, "I am sorry to say you have made a mistake."

  "A mistake!" said Thomas, quickly taking him up. "A mistake! Oh! Whatoh! My errer?"

  "Quite so," said Price, diplomatically; "an error."

  Thomas Blake sat down on the floor, fumbled for a short pipe, and said,"Seems ter me I'
m sick of errers. Sick of 'em! Made a bloomer thismornin'--this way." Here he took into his confidence the group whichhad gathered uncertainly round him. "My wife's brother, 'im wot's apostman, owes me arf a bloomin' thick 'un. 'E's a hard-working bloke,and ter save 'im trouble I came down 'ere from Brentford, where my boatlies, to catch 'im on 'is rounds. Lot of catchin' 'e wanted, too--I_don't_ think. Tracked 'im by the knocks at last. And then, wotd'yer think 'e said? Didn't know nothing about no ruddy 'arf thick 'un,and would I kindly cease to impede a public servant in the discharge of'is dooty. Otherwise--the perlice. That, mind you, was my ownbrother-in-law. Oh, he's a nice man, I _don't_ think!"

  Thomas Blake nodded his head as one who, though pained by thehollowness of life, is resigned to it, and proceeded to doze.

  The crowd gazed at him and murmured.

  Sidney Price, however, stepped forward with authority.

  "You'd better be going," he said; and he gently jogged the recumbentboatman's elbow.

  "Leave me be! I want my tea," was the muttered and lyrical reply.

  "Hook it!" said Price.

  "Without my tea?" asked Blake, opening his eyes wide.

  "It was yesterday," explained Price, brusquely. "There isn't any freetea tonight."

  The effect was magical. A very sinister expression came over the faceof the prostrate one, and he slowly clambered to his feet.

  "Ho!" he said, disengaging himself from his coat. "Ho. There ain't nofree tea ternight, ain't there? Bills stuck on them railings in errer,I suppose. Another bloomin' errer. Seems to me I'm sick of errers. WotI says is, 'Come on, all of yer.' I'm Tom Blake, I am. You can arstthem down at Brentford. Kind old Tom Blake, wot wouldn't hurt a fly;and I says, 'Come on, all of yer,' and I'll knock yer insides throughyer backbones."

  Sidney Price spoke again. His words were honeyed, but ineffectual.

  "I'm honest old Tom, I am," boomed Thomas Blake, "and I'm ready for thelot of yer: you and yer free tea and yer errers."

  At this point Alf Joblin detached himself from the hovering crowd andsaid to Price: "He must be cowed. I'll knock sense into the drunkenbrute."

  "Well," said Price, "he's got to go; but you won't hurt him, Alf, willyou?"

  "No," said Alf, "I won't hurt him. I'll just make him look a fool. Thisis where science comes in."

  "I'm honest old Tom," droned the boatman.

  "If you _will_ have it," said Alf, with fine aposiopesis.

  He squared up to him.

  Now Alf Joblin, like the other pugilists of my class, habituallyrefrained from delivering any sort of attack until he was well assuredthat he had seen an orthodox opening. A large part of every roundbetween Hatton's boys was devoted to stealthy circular movements,signifying nothing. But Thomas Blake had not had the advantage ofscientific tuition. He came banging in with a sweeping right. Alfstopped him with his left. Again Blake swung his right, and again hetook Alf's stopping blow without a blink. Then he went straight in,right and left in quick succession. The force of the right was brokenby Alf's guard, but the left got home on the mark; and Alf Joblin'swind left him suddenly. He sat down on the floor.

  To say that this tragedy in less than five seconds produced dismayamong the onlookers would be incorrect. They were not dismayed. Theywere amused. They thought that Alf had laid himself open to chaff.Whether he had slipped or lost his head they did not know. But as forthinking that Alf with all his scientific knowledge was not more than amatch for this ignorant, intoxicated boatman, such a reflection neverentered their heads. What is more, each separate member of the audiencewas convinced that he individually was the proper person to illustratethe efficacy of style versus untutored savagery.

  As soon, therefore, as Alf Joblin went writhing to the floor, andThomas Blake's voice was raised afresh in a universal challenge, WalterGreenway stepped briskly forward.

  And as soon as Walter's guard had been smashed down by a mostunconventional attack, and Walter himself had been knocked senseless bya swing on the side of the jaw, Bill Shale leaped gaily forth to takehis place.

  And so it happened that, when I entered the building at nine, it was asthough a devastating tornado had swept down every club boy, sparingonly Sidney Price, who was preparing miserably to meet his fate.

  To me, standing in the doorway, the situation was plain at the firstglance. Only by a big effort could I prevent myself laughing outright.It was impossible to check a grin. Thomas Blake saw me.

  "Hullo!" I said; "what's all this?"

  He stared at me.

  "'Ullo!" he said, "another of 'em, is it? I'm honest old Tom Blake,_I_ am, and wot I say is----"

  "Why honest, Mr. Blake?" I interrupted.

  "Call me a liar, then!" said he. "Go on. You do it. Call it me, then,and let's see."

  He began to shuffle towards me.

  "Who pinched his father's trousers, and popped them?" I inquiredgenially.

  He stopped and blinked.

  "Eh?" he said weakly.

  "And who," I continued, "when sent with twopence to buy postage-stamps,squandered it on beer?"

  His jaw dropped, as it had dropped in Covent Garden. It must be veryunpleasant to have one's past continually rising up to confront one.

  "Look 'ere!" he said, a conciliatory note in his voice, "you and me'spals, mister, ain't we? Say we're pals. Of course we are. You and medon't want no fuss. Of course we don't. Then look here: this is 'ow itis. You come along with me and 'ave a drop."

  It did not seem likely that my class would require any instruction inboxing that evening in addition to that which Mr. Blake had given them,so I went with him.

  Over the moisture, as he facetiously described it, he grew friendlinessitself. He did not ask after Kit, but gave his opinion of hergratuitously. According to him, she was unkind to her relations. "Crool'arsh," he said. A girl, in fact, who made no allowances for a man, andwas over-prone to Sauce and the Nasty Snack.

  We parted the best of friends.

  "Any time you're on the Cut," he said, gripping my hand with painfulfervour, "you look out for Tom Blake, mister. Tom Blake of the_Ashlade_ and _Lechton_. No ceremony. Jest drop in on me andthe missis. Goo' night."

  At the moment of writing Tom Blake is rapidly acquiring an assuredposition in the heart of the British poetry-loving public. Thisincident in his career should interest his numerous admirers. The worldknows little of its greatest men.