Mike

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER XIX

  MIKE GOES TO SLEEP AGAIN

  Mike was a stout supporter of the view that sleep in large quantitiesis good for one. He belonged to the school of thought which holds thata man becomes plain and pasty if deprived of his full spell in bed. Heaimed at the peach-bloom complexion.

  To be routed out of bed a clear hour before the proper time, even on asummer morning, was not, therefore, a prospect that appealed to him.

  When he woke it seemed even less attractive than it had done whenhe went to sleep. He had banged his head on the pillow six timesover-night, and this silent alarm proved effective, as it alwaysdoes. Reaching out a hand for his watch, he found that it was fiveminutes past six.

  This was to the good. He could manage another quarter of an hourbetween the sheets. It would only take him ten minutes to wash and getinto his flannels.

  He took his quarter of an hour, and a little more. He woke from a sortof doze to find that it was twenty-five past.

  Man's inability to get out of bed in the morning is a curious thing.One may reason with oneself clearly and forcibly without the slightesteffect. One knows that delay means inconvenience. Perhaps it may spoilone's whole day. And one also knows that a single resolute heave willdo the trick. But logic is of no use. One simply lies there.

  Mike thought he would take another minute.

  And during that minute there floated into his mind the question, Who_was_ Firby-Smith? That was the point. Who _was_ he, after all?

  This started quite a new train of thought. Previously Mike had firmlyintended to get up--some time. Now he began to waver.

  The more he considered the Gazeka's insignificance and futility andhis own magnificence, the more outrageous did it seem that he shouldbe dragged out of bed to please Firby-Smith's vapid mind. Here was he,about to receive his first eleven colours on this very day probably,being ordered about, inconvenienced--in short, put upon by a worm whohad only just scraped into the third.

  Was this right, he asked himself. Was this proper?

  And the hands of the watch moved round to twenty to.

  What was the matter with his fielding? _It_ was all right. Makethe rest of the team fag about, yes. But not a chap who, dash it all,had got his first _for_ fielding!

  It was with almost a feeling of self-righteousness that Mike turnedover on his side and went to sleep again.

  And outside in the cricket-field, the massive mind of the Gazeka wasfilled with rage, as it was gradually borne in upon him that this wasnot a question of mere lateness--which, he felt, would be bad enough,for when he said six-thirty he meant six-thirty--but of actualdesertion. It was time, he said to himself, that the foot of Authoritywas set firmly down, and the strong right hand of Justice allowed toput in some energetic work. His comments on the team's fielding thatmorning were bitter and sarcastic. His eyes gleamed behind theirpince-nez.

  The painful interview took place after breakfast. The head of thehouse despatched his fag in search of Mike, and waited. He paced upand down the room like a hungry lion, adjusting his pince-nez (athing, by the way, which lions seldom do) and behaving in otherrespects like a monarch of the desert. One would have felt, looking athim, that Mike, in coming to his den, was doing a deed which wouldmake the achievement of Daniel seem in comparison like the tentativeeffort of some timid novice.

  And certainly Mike was not without qualms as he knocked at the door,and went in in response to the hoarse roar from the other side of it.

  Firby-Smith straightened his tie, and glared.

  "Young Jackson," he said, "look here, I want to know what it allmeans, and jolly quick. You weren't at house-fielding this morning.Didn't you see the notice?"

  Mike admitted that he had seen the notice.

  "Then you frightful kid, what do you mean by it? What?"

  Mike hesitated. Awfully embarrassing, this. His real reason for notturning up to house-fielding was that he considered himself above suchthings, and Firby-Smith a toothy weed. Could he give this excuse? Hehad not his Book of Etiquette by him at the moment, but he ratherfancied not. There was no arguing against the fact that the head ofthe house _was_ a toothy weed; but he felt a firm conviction thatit would not be politic to say so.

  Happy thought: over-slept himself.

  He mentioned this.

  "Over-slept yourself! You must jolly well not over-sleep yourself.What do you mean by over-sleeping yourself?"

  Very trying this sort of thing.

  "What time did you wake up?"

  "Six," said Mike.

  It was not according to his complicated, yet intelligible code ofmorality to tell lies to save himself. When others were concerned hecould suppress the true and suggest the false with a face of brass.

  "Six!"

  "Five past."

  "Why didn't you get up then?"

  "I went to sleep again."

  "Oh, you went to sleep again, did you? Well, just listen to me. I'vehad my eye on you for some time, and I've seen it coming on. You'vegot swelled head, young man. That's what you've got. Frightful swelledhead. You think the place belongs to you."

  "I don't," said Mike indignantly.

  "Yes, you do," said the Gazeka shrilly. "You think the whole frightfulplace belongs to you. You go siding about as if you'd bought it. Justbecause you've got your second, you think you can do what you like;turn up or not, as you please. It doesn't matter whether I'm only inthe third and you're in the first. That's got nothing to do with it.The point is that you're one of the house team, and I'm captain of it,so you've jolly well got to turn out for fielding with the others whenI think it necessary. See?"

  Mike said nothing.

  "Do--you--see, you frightful kid?"

  "DO--YOU--SEE, YOU FRIGHTFUL KID?"]

  Mike remained stonily silent. The rather large grain of truth in whatFirby-Smith had said had gone home, as the unpleasant truth aboutourselves is apt to do; and his feelings were hurt. He was determinednot to give in and say that he saw even if the head of the houseinvoked all the majesty of the prefects' room to help him, as he hadnearly done once before. He set his teeth, and stared at a photographon the wall.

  Firby-Smith's manner became ominously calm. He produced aswagger-stick from a corner.

  "Do you see?" he asked again.

  Mike's jaw set more tightly.

  What one really wants here is a row of stars.

  * * * * *

  Mike was still full of his injuries when Wyatt came back. Wyatt wasworn out, but cheerful. The school had finished sixth for theAshburton, which was an improvement of eight places on their lastyear's form, and he himself had scored thirty at the two hundred andtwenty-seven at the five hundred totals, which had put him in a verygood humour with the world.

  "Me ancient skill has not deserted me," he said, "That's the cats. Theman who can wing a cat by moonlight can put a bullet where he likes ona target. I didn't hit the bull every time, but that was to give theother fellows a chance. My fatal modesty has always been a hindranceto me in life, and I suppose it always will be. Well, well! And whatof the old homestead? Anything happened since I went away? Me oldfather, is he well? Has the lost will been discovered, or is there amortgage on the family estates? By Jove, I could do with a stoup ofMalvoisie. I wonder if the moke's gone to bed yet. I'll go down andlook. A jug of water drawn from the well in the old courtyard where myancestors have played as children for centuries back would just aboutsave my life."

  He left the dormitory, and Mike began to brood over his wrongs oncemore.

  Wyatt came back, brandishing a jug of water and a glass.

  "Oh, for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, theblushful Hippocrene! Have you ever tasted Hippocrene, young Jackson?Rather like ginger-beer, with a dash of raspberry-vinegar. Very heady.Failing that, water will do. A-ah!"

  He put down the glass, and surveyed Mike, who had maintained a moodysilence throughout this speech.

  "What's your trouble?" he asked. "For pains in th
e back try Ju-jar. Ifit's a broken heart, Zam-buk's what you want. Who's been quarrellingwith you?"

  "It's only that ass Firby-Smith."

  "Again! I never saw such chaps as you two. Always at it. What was thetrouble this time? Call him a grinning ape again? Your passion for thetruth'll be getting you into trouble one of these days."

  "He said I stuck on side."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know."

  "I mean, did he buttonhole you on your way to school, and say,'Jackson, a word in your ear. You stick on side.' Or did he lead up toit in any way? Did he say, 'Talking of side, you stick it on.' Whathad you been doing to him?"

  "It was the house-fielding."

  "But you can't stick on side at house-fielding. I defy any one to.It's too early in the morning."

  "I didn't turn up."

  "What! Why?"

  "Oh, I don't know."

  "No, but, look here, really. Did you simply bunk it?"

  "Yes."

  Wyatt leaned on the end of Mike's bed, and, having observed itsoccupant thoughtfully for a moment, proceeded to speak wisdom for thegood of his soul.

  "I say, I don't want to jaw--I'm one of those quiet chaps withstrong, silent natures; you may have noticed it--but I must put ina well-chosen word at this juncture. Don't pretend to be droppingoff to sleep. Sit up and listen to what your kind old uncle's got tosay to you about manners and deportment. Otherwise, blood as you areat cricket, you'll have a rotten time here. There are some things yousimply can't do; and one of them is bunking a thing when you're putdown for it. It doesn't matter who it is puts you down. If he'scaptain, you've got to obey him. That's discipline, that 'ere is. Thespeaker then paused, and took a sip of water from the carafe whichstood at his elbow. Cheers from the audience, and a voice 'Hear!Hear!'"

  Mike rolled over in bed and glared up at the orator. Most of his facewas covered by the water-jug, but his eyes stared fixedly from aboveit. He winked in a friendly way, and, putting down the jug, drew adeep breath.

  "Nothing like this old '87 water," he said. "Such body."

  "I like you jawing about discipline," said Mike morosely.

  "And why, my gentle che-ild, should I not talk about discipline?"

  "Considering you break out of the house nearly every night."

  "In passing, rather rum when you think that a burglar would get ithot for breaking in, while I get dropped on if I break out. Whyshould there be one law for the burglar and one for me? But you weresaying--just so. I thank you. About my breaking out. When you're awhite-haired old man like me, young Jackson, you'll see that thereare two sorts of discipline at school. One you can break if you feellike taking the risks; the other you mustn't ever break. I don't knowwhy, but it isn't done. Until you learn that, you can never hope tobecome the Perfect Wrykynian like," he concluded modestly, "me."

  Mike made no reply. He would have perished rather than admit it, butWyatt's words had sunk in. That moment marked a distinct epoch in hiscareer. His feelings were curiously mixed. He was still furious withFirby-Smith, yet at the same time he could not help acknowledging tohimself that the latter had had the right on his side. He saw andapproved of Wyatt's point of view, which was the more impressive tohim from his knowledge of his friend's contempt for, or, rather,cheerful disregard of, most forms of law and order. If Wyatt, recklessthough he was as regarded written school rules, held so rigid arespect for those that were unwritten, these last must be things whichcould not be treated lightly. That night, for the first time in hislife, Mike went to sleep with a clear idea of what the public schoolspirit, of which so much is talked and written, really meant.