Free Mike at Wrykyn by P.G. Wodehouse Page A

them.”
    “What
does it all mean?” exclaimed Mr. Appleby. “If you ask me,” said Mr. Seymour, “I
should say that it meant that the school, holding the sensible view that first
thoughts are best, have ignored the head’s change of mind, and are taking their
holiday as per original programme.”
    “They
surely cannot—!”
    “Well,
where are they then?”
    “Do you
seriously mean that the entire school has—has rebelled?”
    “‘Nay,
sire,’” quoted Mr. Spence, “‘a revolution!’”
    “I
never heard of such a thing!”
    “We’re
making history,” said Mr. Seymour.
    “It
will be rather interesting,” said Mr. Spence, “to see how the head will deal
with a situation like this. One can rely on him to do the statesmanlike thing,
but I’m bound to say I shouldn’t care to be in his place. It seems to me these
boys hold all the cards. You can’t expel a whole school. There’s safety in
numbers. The thing is colossal.”
    “It is
deplorable,” said Mr. Wain, with austerity. “Exceedingly so.”
    “I try
to think so,” said Mr. Spence, “but it’s a struggle. There’s a Napoleonic touch
about the business that appeals to one. Disorder on a small scale is bad, but
this is immense. I’ve never heard of anything like it at any public school.
When I was at Winchester, my last year there, there was pretty nearly a
revolution because the captain of cricket was expelled on the eve of the Eton
match. I remember making inflammatory speeches myself on that occasion. But we
stopped on the right side of the line. We were satisfied with growling. But
this—!”
    Mr.
Seymour got up.
    “It’s
an ill wind,” he said. “With any luck we ought to get the day off, and it’s
ideal weather for a holiday. The head can hardly ask us to sit indoors,
teaching nobody. If I have to stew in my form-room all day, instructing
Pickersgill II, I shall make things exceedingly sultry for that youth. He will
wish that the Pickersgill progeny had stopped short at his elder brother. He
will not value life. In the meantime, as it’s already ten past, hadn’t we better
be going up to the Hall to see what the orders of the day are?”
    “Look
at Shields,” said Mr. Spence. “He might be posing for a statue to be called
‘Despair!’ He reminds me of Macduff. Macbeth, Act IV, somewhere near the
end. ‘What, all my pretty chickens, at one fell swoop?’ That’s what Shields is
saying to himself.”
    “It’s
all very well to make a joke of it, Spence,” said Mr. Shields querulously, “but
it is most disturbing.
    Most.”
    “Exceedingly,”
agreed Mr. Wain.
    The
bereaved company of masters walked on up the stairs that led to the Great Hall.

 
     
     
    CHAPTER
XI
     
    THE CONCLUSION OF THE PICNIC
     
    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 dais 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
firsts in Mods or Greats, or achieved any other recognized 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 hooked 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. Everyone realized by this time that the biggest row in Wrykyn