THE SWOOP!
OR HOW CLARENCE SAVED ENGLAND: A TALE OF THE GREAT INVASION
* * *
P. G. WODEHOUSE
*
The Swoop!
Or How Clarence Saved England: A Tale of the Great Invasion
First published in 1909
ISBN 978-1-775450-86-3
© 2011 The Floating Press
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Contents
*
Preface
PART ONE
Chapter 1 - An English Boy’s Home
Chapter 2 - The Invaders
Chapter 3 - England’s Peril
Chapter 4 - What England Thought of It
Chapter 5 - The Germans Reach London
Chapter 6 - The Bombardment of London
Chapter 7 - A Conference of the Powers
PART TWO
Chapter 1 - In the Boy Scouts’ Camp
Chapter 2 - An Important Engagement
Chapter 3 - A Bird’s-Eye View of the Situation
Chapter 4 - Clarence Hears Important News
Chapter 5 - Seeds of Discord
Chapter 6 - The Bomb-Shell
Chapter 7 - The Bird
Chapter 8 - The Meeting at the Scotch Stores
Chapter 9 - The Great Battle
Chapter 10 - The Triumph of England
Chapter 11 - Clarence—The Last Phase
Preface
*
It may be thought by some that in the pages which follow I have painted in too lurid colours the horrors of a foreign invasion of England. Realism in art, it may be argued, can be carried too far. I prefer to think that the majority of my readers will acquit me of a desire to be unduly sensational. It is necessary that England should be roused to a sense of her peril, and only by setting down without flinching the probable results of an invasion can this be done. This story, I may mention, has been written and published purely from a feeling of patriotism and duty. Mr. Alston Rivers’ sensitive soul will be jarred to its foundations if it is a financial success. So will mine. But in a time of national danger we feel that the risk must be taken. After all, at the worst, it is a small sacrifice to make for our country.
P. G. WODEHOUSE.
The Bomb-Proof Shelter, London, W.
PART ONE
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Chapter 1 - An English Boy’s Home
*
August the First, 19—
Clarence Chugwater looked around him with a frown, and gritted his teeth.
“England—my England!” he moaned.
Clarence was a sturdy lad of some fourteen summers. He was neatly, but not gaudily, dressed in a flat-brimmed hat, a coloured handkerchief, a flannel shirt, a bunch of ribbons, a haversack, football shorts, brown boots, a whistle, and a hockey-stick. He was, in fact, one of General Baden-Powell’s Boy Scouts.
Scan him closely. Do not dismiss him with a passing glance; for you are looking at the Boy of Destiny, at Clarence MacAndrew Chugwater, who saved England.
To-day those features are familiar to all. Everyone has seen the Chugwater Column in Aldwych, the equestrian statue in Chugwater Road (formerly Piccadilly), and the picture-postcards in the stationers’ windows. That bulging forehead, distended with useful information; that massive chin; those eyes, gleaming behind their spectacles; that tout ensemble; that je ne sais quoi.
In a word, Clarence!
He could do everything that the Boy Scout must learn to do. He could low like a bull. He could gurgle like a wood-pigeon. He could imitate the cry of the turnip in order to deceive rabbits. He could smile and whistle simultaneously in accordance with Rule 8 (and only those who have tried this know how difficult it is). He could spoor, fell trees, tell the character from the boot-sole, and fling the squaler. He did all these things well, but what he was really best at was flinging the squaler.
*
Clarence, on this sultry August afternoon, was tensely occupied tracking the family cat across the dining-room carpet by its foot-prints. Glancing up for a moment, he caught sight of the other members of the family.
“England, my England!” he moaned.
It was indeed a sight to extract tears of blood from any Boy Scout. The table had been moved back against the wall, and in the cleared space Mr. Chugwater, whose duty it was to have set an example to his children, was playing diabolo. Beside him, engrossed in cup-and-ball, was his wife. Reggie Chugwater, the eldest son, the heir, the hope of the house, was reading the cricket news in an early edition of the evening paper. Horace, his brother, was playing pop-in-taw with his sister Grace and Grace’s fiance, Ralph Peabody. Alice, the other Miss Chugwater, was mending a Badminton racquet.
Not a single member of that family was practising with the rifle, or drilling, or learning to make bandages.
Clarence groaned.
“If you can’t play without snorting like that, my boy,” said Mr. Chugwater, a little irritably, “you must find some other game. You made me jump just as I was going to beat my record.”
“Talking of records,” said Reggie, “Fry’s on his way to his eighth successive century. If he goes on like this, Lancashire will win the championship.”
“I thought he was playing for Somerset,” said Horace.
“That was a fortnight ago. You ought to keep up to date in an important subject like cricket.”
Once more Clarence snorted bitterly.
“I’m sure you ought not to be down on the floor, Clarence,” said Mr. Chugwater anxiously. “It is so draughty, and you have evidently got a nasty cold. Must you lie on the floor?”
“I am spooring,” said Clarence with simple dignity.
“But I’m sure you can spoor better sitting on a chair with a nice book.”
“I think the kid’s sickening for something,” put in Horace critically. “He’s deuced roopy. What’s up, Clarry?”
“I was thinking,” said Clarence, “of my country—of England.”
“What’s the matter with England?”
“She’s all right,” murmured Ralph Peabody.
“My fallen country!” sighed Clarence, a not unmanly tear bedewing the glasses of his spectacles. “My fallen, stricken country!”
“That kid,” said Reggie, laying down his paper, “is talking right through his hat. My dear old son, are you aware that England has never been so strong all round as she is now? Do you ever read the papers? Don’t you know that we’ve got the Ashes and the Golf Championship, and the Wibbley-wob Championship, and the Spiropole, Spillikins, Puff-Feather, and Animal Grab Championships? Has it come to your notice that our croquet pair beat America last Thursday by eight hoops? Did you happen to hear that we won the Hop-skip-and-jump at the last Olympic Games? You’ve been out in the woods, old sport.”
Clarence’s heart was too full for words. He rose in silence, and quitted the room.
“Got the pip or something!” said Reggie. “Rum kid! I say, Hirst’s bowling well! Five for twenty-three so far!”
Clarence wandered moodily out of the house. The Chugwaters lived in a desirable villa residence, which Mr. Chugwater had built in Essex. It was a typical Englishman’s Home. Its name was Nasturtium Villa.
As Clarence walked down the road, the excited voice of a newspa
per-boy came to him. Presently the boy turned the corner, shouting, “Ker-lapse of Surrey! Sensational bowling at the Oval!”
He stopped on seeing Clarence.
“Paper, General?”
Clarence shook his head. Then he uttered a startled exclamation, for his eye had fallen on the poster.
It ran as follows:—
SURREY
DOING
BADLY
GERMAN ARMY LANDS IN ENGLAND
Chapter 2 - The Invaders
*
Clarence flung the boy a halfpenny, tore a paper from his grasp, and scanned it eagerly. There was nothing to interest him in the body of the journal, but he found what he was looking for in the stop-press space. “Stop press news,” said the paper. “Fry not out, 104. Surrey 147 for 8. A German army landed in Essex this afternoon. Loamshire Handicap: Spring Chicken, 1; Salome, 2; Yip-i-addy, 3. Seven ran.”
Essex! Then at any moment the foe might be at their doors; more, inside their doors. With a passionate cry, Clarence tore back to the house.
He entered the dining-room with the speed of a highly-trained Marathon winner, just in time once more to prevent Mr. Chugwater lowering his record.
“The Germans!” shouted Clarence. “We are invaded!”
This time Mr. Chugwater was really annoyed.
“If I have told you once about your detestable habit of shouting in the house, Clarence, I have told you a hundred times. If you cannot be a Boy Scout quietly, you must stop being one altogether. I had got up to six that time.”
“But, father—”
“Silence! You will go to bed this minute; and I shall consider the question whether you are to have any supper. It will depend largely on your behaviour between now and then. Go!”
“But, father—”
Clarence dropped the paper, shaken with emotion. Mr. Chugwater’s sternness deepened visibly.
“Clarence! Must I speak again?”
He stooped and removed his right slipper.
Clarence withdrew.
Reggie picked up the paper.
“That kid,” he announced judicially, “is off his nut! Hullo! I told you so! Fry not out, 104. Good old Charles!”
“I say,” exclaimed Horace, who sat nearest the window, “there are two rummy-looking chaps coming to the front door, wearing a sort of fancy dress!”
“It must be the Germans,” said Reggie. “The paper says they landed here this afternoon. I expect—”
A thunderous knock rang through the house. The family looked at one another. Voices were heard in the hall, and next moment the door opened and the servant announced “Mr. Prinsotto and Mr. Aydycong.”
“Or, rather,” said the first of the two newcomers, a tall, bearded, soldierly man, in perfect English, “Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig and Captain the Graf von Poppenheim, his aide-de-camp.”
“Just so—just so!” said Mr. Chugwater, affably. “Sit down, won’t you?”
The visitors seated themselves. There was an awkward silence.
“Warm day!” said Mr. Chugwater.
“Very!” said the Prince, a little constrainedly.
“Perhaps a cup of tea? Have you come far?”
“Well—er—pretty far. That is to say, a certain distance. In fact, from Germany.”
“I spent my summer holiday last year at Dresden. Capital place!”
“Just so. The fact is, Mr.—er—”
“Chugwater. By the way—my wife, Mrs. Chugwater.”
The prince bowed. So did his aide-de-camp.
“The fact is, Mr. Jugwater,” resumed the prince, “we are not here on a holiday.”
“Quite so, quite so. Business before pleasure.”
The prince pulled at his moustache. So did his aide-de-camp, who seemed to be a man of but little initiative and conversational resource.
“We are invaders.”
“Not at all, not at all,” protested Mr. Chugwater.
“I must warn you that you will resist at your peril. You wear no uniform—”
“Wouldn’t dream of such a thing. Except at the lodge, of course.”
“You will be sorely tempted, no doubt. Do not think that I do not appreciate your feelings. This is an Englishman’s Home.”
Mr. Chugwater tapped him confidentially on the knee.
“And an uncommonly snug little place, too,” he said. “Now, if you will forgive me for talking business, you, I gather, propose making some stay in this country.”
The prince laughed shortly. So did his aide-de-camp. “Exactly,” continued Mr. Chugwater, “exactly. Then you will want some pied-a-terre, if you follow me. I shall be delighted to let you this house on remarkably easy terms for as long as you please. Just come along into my study for a moment. We can talk it over quietly there. You see, dealing direct with me, you would escape the middleman’s charges, and—”
Gently but firmly he edged the prince out of the room and down the passage.
The aide-de-camp continued to sit staring woodenly at the carpet. Reggie closed quietly in on him.
“Excuse me,” he said; “talking shop and all that. But I’m an agent for the Come One Come All Accident and Life Assurance Office. You have heard of it probably? We can offer you really exceptional terms. You must not miss a chance of this sort. Now here’s a prospectus—”
Horace sidled forward.
“I don’t know if you happen to be a cyclist, Captain—er—Graf; but if you’d like a practically new motorbike, only been used since last November, I can let you—”
There was a swish of skirts as Grace and Alice advanced on the visitor.
“I’m sure,” said Grace winningly, “that you’re fond of the theatre, Captain Poppenheim. We are getting up a performance of ‘Ici on parle Francais,’ in aid of the fund for Supplying Square Meals to Old-Age Pensioners. Such a deserving object, you know. Now, how many tickets will you take?”
“You can sell them to your friends, you know,” added Mrs. Chugwater.
The aide-de-camp gulped convulsively.
*
Ten minutes later two penniless men groped their way, dazed, to the garden gate.
“At last,” said Prince Otto brokenly, for it was he, “at last I begin to realise the horrors of an invasion—for the invaders.”
And together the two men staggered on.
Chapter 3 - England’s Peril
*
When the papers arrived next morning, it was seen that the situation was even worse than had at first been suspected. Not only had the Germans effected a landing in Essex, but, in addition, no fewer than eight other hostile armies had, by some remarkable coincidence, hit on that identical moment for launching their long-prepared blow.
England was not merely beneath the heel of the invader. It was beneath the heels of nine invaders.
There was barely standing-room.
Full details were given in the Press. It seemed that while Germany was landing in Essex, a strong force of Russians, under the Grand Duke Vodkakoff, had occupied Yarmouth. Simultaneously the Mad Mullah had captured Portsmouth; while the Swiss navy had bombarded Lyme Regis, and landed troops immediately to westward of the bathing-machines. At precisely the same moment China, at last awakened, had swooped down upon that picturesque little Welsh watering-place, Lllgxtplll, and, despite desperate resistance on the part of an excursion of Evanses and Joneses from Cardiff, had obtained a secure foothold. While these things were happening in Wales, the army of Monaco had descended on Auchtermuchty, on the Firth of Clyde. Within two minutes of this disaster, by Greenwich time, a boisterous band of Young Turks had seized Scarborough. And, at Brighton and Margate respectively, small but determined armies, the one of Moroccan brigands, under Raisuli, the other of dark-skinned warriors from the distant isle of Bollygolla, had made good their footing.
This was a very serious state of things.
Correspondents of the Daily Mail at the various points of attack had wired such particulars as they were able. The preliminary parley at
Lllgxtplll between Prince Ping Pong Pang, the Chinese general, and Llewellyn Evans, the leader of the Cardiff excursionists, seems to have been impressive to a degree. The former had spoken throughout in pure Chinese, the latter replying in rich Welsh, and the general effect, wired the correspondent, was almost painfully exhilarating.
So sudden had been the attacks that in very few instances was there any real resistance. The nearest approach to it appears to have been seen at Margate.
At the time of the arrival of the black warriors which, like the other onslaughts, took place between one and two o’clock on the afternoon of August Bank Holiday, the sands were covered with happy revellers. When the war canoes approached the beach, the excursionists seem to have mistaken their occupants at first for a troupe of nigger minstrels on an unusually magnificent scale; and it was freely noised abroad in the crowd that they were being presented by Charles Frohmann, who was endeavouring to revive the ancient glories of the Christy Minstrels. Too soon, however, it was perceived that these were no harmless Moore and Burgesses. Suspicion was aroused by the absence of banjoes and tambourines; and when the foremost of the negroes dexterously scalped a small boy, suspicion became certainty.
In this crisis the trippers of Margate behaved well. The Mounted Infantry, on donkeys, headed by Uncle Bones, did much execution. The Ladies’ Tormentor Brigade harassed the enemy’s flank, and a hastily-formed band of sharp-shooters, armed with three-shies-a-penny balls and milky cocos, undoubtedly troubled the advance guard considerably. But superior force told. After half an hour’s fighting the excursionists fled, leaving the beach to the foe.
At Auchtermuchty and Portsmouth no obstacle, apparently, was offered to the invaders. At Brighton the enemy were permitted to land unharmed. Scarborough, taken utterly aback by the boyish vigour of the Young Turks, was an easy prey; and at Yarmouth, though the Grand Duke received a nasty slap in the face from a dexterously-thrown bloater, the resistance appears to have been equally futile.
By tea-time on August the First, nine strongly-equipped forces were firmly established on British soil.
P. G. Wodehouse Page 1
