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

history
was well under way; and the thing had to be discussed.
    In the
masters’ library Mr. Wain and Mr. Shields, the spokesmen of the Common Room,
were breaking the news to the headmaster.
    The
headmaster was a man who rarely betrayed emotion in his public capacity. He
heard Mr. Shields’s rambling remarks, punctuated by Mr. Wain’s “Exceedinglys,”
to an end. Then he gathered up his cap and gown.
    “You
say that the whole school is absent?” he remarked quietly.
    Mr.
Shields, in a long-winded flow of words, replied that that was what he did say.
    “Ah!” said
the headmaster.
    There
was a silence.
    “‘M!“
said the headmaster.
    There
was another silence.
    “Ye—e—s
!” said the headmaster.
    He them
led the way into the Hall.
    Conversation
ceased abruptly as he entered. The school, like an audience at a theatre when
the hero has just appeared on the stage, felt that the serious interest of the
drama had begun. There was a dead silence at every table as he strode up the
room and on to the dais.
    There
was something titanic in his calmness. Every eye was on his face as he passed
up the Hall, but not a sign of perturbation could the school read. To judge
from his expression, he might have been unaware of the emptiness around him.
    The
master who looked after the music of the school, and incidentally accompanied
the hymn with which prayers at Wrykyn opened, was waiting, puzzled, at the foot
of the dais. It seemed improbable that things would go on as usual, and he did
not know whether he was expected to be at the organ, or not. The headmaster’s
placid face reassured him. He went to his post.
    The
hymn began. It was a long hymn, and one which the school liked for its swing
and noise. As a rule, when it was sung, the Hall re-echoed. Today, the thin
sound of the voices had quite an uncanny effect. The organ boomed through the
deserted room.
    The
school, or the remnants of it, waited impatiently while the prefect whose turn
it was to read stammered nervously through the lesson. They were anxious to get
on to what the Head was going to say at the end of prayers. At last it was
over. The school waited, all ears.
    The
headmaster bent down from the dais and called to Firby-Smith, who was standing
in his place with the Sixth.
    The
Gazeka, blushing warmly, stepped forward. “Bring me a school list,
Firby-Smith,” said the headmaster.
    The
Gazeka was wearing a pair of very squeaky shoes that morning. They sounded
deafening as he walked out of the room.
    The
school waited.
    Presently
a distant squeaking was heard, and Firby-Smith returned, bearing a large sheet
of paper.
    The
headmaster thanked him, and spread it out on the reading-desk.
    Then,
calmly, as if it were an occurrence of every day, he began to call the roll.
    “Abney.”
    No
answer.
    “Adams.”
    No
answer.
    “Allenby.”
    “Here,
sir,” from a table at the end of the room. Allenby was a prefect, in the
Science Sixth.
    The
headmaster made a mark against his name with a pencil.
    “Arkwright.”
    No
answer.
    He
began to call the names more rapidly. “Arlington. Arthur. Ashe. Aston.”
    “Here,
sir,” in a shrill treble from the rider in motorcars.
    The
headmaster made another tick.
    The
list came to an end after what seemed to the school an unconscionable time, and
he rolled up the paper again, and stepped to the edge of the dais.
    “All
boys not in the Sixth Form,” he said, “will go to their form-rooms and get
their books and writing materials, and return to the Hall.”
    (“ Good
work,” murmured Mr. Seymour to himself. “Looks as if we should get that holiday
after all.”)
    “The
Sixth Form will go to their form-room as usual. I should like to speak to the
masters for a moment.”
    He
nodded dismissal to the school.
    The
masters collected on the dais.
    “I find
that I shall not require your services today,” said the headmaster. “If you
will kindly set the boys in your forms some work that will keep them occupied,
I will look after