'I fear I shall be compelled to run up to London today. I have an important appointment with the father of a boy who is coming to the school. He wishes--ah--to see me.'
This might be the Little Nugget at last.
I was right. During the interval before school, Augustus Beckford approached me. Lord Mountry's brother was a stolid boy with freckles. He had two claims to popular fame. He could hold his breath longer than any other boy in the school, and he always got hold of any piece of gossip first.
'There's a new kid coming tonight, sir,' he said--'an American kid. I heard him talking about it to the matron. The kid's name's Ford, I believe the kid's father's awfully rich. Would you like to be rich, sir? I wish I was rich. If I was rich, I'd buy all sorts of things. I believe I'm going to be rich when I grow up. I heard father talking to a lawyer about it. There's a new parlour-maid coming soon, sir. I heard cook telling Emily. I'm blowed if I'd like to be a parlour-maid, would you, sir? I'd much rather be a cook.'
He pondered the point for a moment. When he spoke again, it was to touch on a still more profound problem.
'If you wanted a halfpenny to make up twopence to buy a lizard, what would you do, sir?'
He got it.
Ogden Ford, the El Dorado of the kidnapping industry, entered Sanstead House at a quarter past nine that evening. He was preceded by a Worried Look, Mr Arnold Abney, a cabman bearing a large box, and the odd-job man carrying two suitcases. I have given precedence to the Worried Look because it was a thing by itself. To say that Mr Abney wore it would be to create a wrong impression. Mr Abney simply followed in its wake. He was concealed behind it much as Macbeth's army was concealed behind the woods of Dunsinane.
I only caught a glimpse of Ogden as Mr Abney showed him into his study. He seemed a self-possessed boy, very like but, if anything, uglier than the portrait of him which I had seen at the Hotel Guelph.
A moment later the door opened, and my employer came out. He appeared relieved at seeing me.
'Ah, Mr Burns, I was about to go in search of you. Can you spare me a moment? Let us go into the dining-room.'
'That is a boy called Ford, Mr Burns,' he said, when he had closed the door. 'A rather--er--remarkable boy. He is an American, the son of a Mr Elmer Ford. As he will be to a great extent in your charge, I should like to prepare you for his--ah--peculiarities.'
'Is he peculiar?'
A faint spasm disturbed Mr Abney's face. He applied a silk handkerchief to his forehead before he replied.
'In many ways, judged by the standard of the lads who have passed through my hands--boys, of course, who, it is only fair to add, have enjoyed the advantages of a singularly refined home-life--he may be said to be--ah--somewhat peculiar. While I have no doubt that -au fond... au fond- he is a charming boy, quite charming, at present he is--shall I say?--peculiar. I am disposed to imagine that he has been, from childhood up, systematically indulged. There has been in his life, I suspect, little or no discipline. The result has been to make him curiously unboylike. There is a complete absence of that diffidence, that childish capacity for surprise, which I for one find so charming in our English boys. Little Ford appears to be completely blase'. He has tastes and ideas which are precocious, and--unusual in a boy of his age.... He expresses himself in a curious manner sometimes.... He seems to have little or no reverence for--ah--constituted authority.'
He paused while he passed his handkerchief once more over his forehead.
'Mr Ford, the boy's father, who struck me as a man of great ability, a typical American merchant prince, was singularly frank with me about his domestic affairs as they concerned his son. I cannot recall his exact words, but the gist of what he said was that, until now, Mrs Ford had had sole charge of the boy's upbringing, and--Mr Ford was singularly outspoken--was too indulgent, in fact--ah--spoilt him. Indeed--you will, of course, respect my confidence--that was the real reason for the divorce which--ah--has unhappily come about. Mr Ford regards this school as in a measure--shall I say?--an antidote. He wishes there to be no lack of wholesome discipline. So that I shall expect you, Mr Burns, to check firmly, though, of course, kindly, such habits of his as--ah--cigarette-smoking. On our journey down he smoked incessantly. I found it impossible--without physical violence--to induce him to stop. But, of course, now that he is actually at the school, and subject to the discipline of the school...'
'Exactly,' I said.
'That was all I wished to say. Perhaps it would be as well if you saw him now, Mr Burns. You will find him in the study.'
He drifted away, and I went to the study to introduce myself.
A cloud of tobacco-smoke rising above the back of an easy-chair greeted me as I opened the door. Moving into the room, I perceived a pair of boots resting on the grate. I stepped to the light, and the remainder of the Little Nugget came into view.
He was lying almost at full length in the chair, his eyes fixed in dreamy abstraction upon the ceiling. As I came towards him, he drew at the cigarette between his fingers, glanced at me, looked away again, and expelled another mouthful of smoke. He was not interested in me.
Perhaps this indifference piqued me, and I saw him with prejudiced eyes. At any rate, he seemed to me a singularly unprepossessing youth. That portrait had flattered him. He had a stout body and a round, unwholesome face. His eyes were dull, and his mouth dropped discontentedly. He had the air of one who is surfeited with life.
I am disposed to imagine, as Mr Abney would have said, that my manner in addressing him was brisker and more incisive than Mr Abney's own. I was irritated by his supercilious detachment.
'Throw away that cigarette,' I said.
To my amazement, he did, promptly. I was beginning to wonder whether I had not been too abrupt--he gave me a curious sensation of being a man of my own age--when he produced a silver case from his pocket and opened it. I saw that the cigarette in the fender was a stump.
I took the case from his hand and threw it on to a table. For the first time he seemed really to notice my existence.
'You've got a hell of a nerve,' he said.
He was certainly exhibiting his various gifts in rapid order, This, I took it, was what Mr Abney had called 'expressing himself in a curious manner'.
'And don't swear,' I said.
We eyed each other narrowly for the space of some seconds.
'Who are you?' he demanded.
I introduced myself.
'What do you want to come butting in for?'
'I am paid to butt in. It's the main duty of an assistant-master.'
'Oh, you're the assistant-master, are you?'
'One of them. And, in passing--it's a small technical point--you're supposed to call me "sir" during these invigorating little chats of ours.'
'Call you what? Up an alley!'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Fade away. Take a walk.'
I gathered that he was meaning to convey that he had considered my proposition, but regretted his inability to entertain it.
'Didn't you call your tutor "sir" when you were at home?'
'Me? Don't make me laugh. I've got a cracked lip.'
'I gather you haven't an overwhelming respect for those set in authority over you.'
'If you mean my tutors, I should say nix.'
'You use the plural. Had you a tutor before Mr Broster?'
He laughed.
'Had I? Only about ten million.'
'Poor devils!' I said.
'Who's swearing now?'
The point was well taken. I corrected myself.
'Poor brutes! What happened to them? Did they commit suicide?'
'Oh, they quit. And I don't blame them. I'm a pretty tough proposition, and you don't want to forget it.'
He reached out for the cigarette-case. I pocketed it.
'You make me tired,' he said.
'The sensation's mutual.'
'Do you think you can swell around, stopping me doing things?'
'You've defined my job exactly.'
>
'Guess again. I know all about this joint. The hot-air merchant was telling me about it on the train.'
I took the allusion to be to Mr Arnold Abney, and thought it rather a happy one.
'He's the boss, and nobody but him is allowed to hit the fellows. If you tried it, you'd lose your job. And he ain't going to, because the Dad's paying double fees, and he's scared stiff he'll lose me if there's any trouble.'
'You seem to have a grasp of the position.'
'Bet your life I have.'
I looked at him as he sprawled in the chair.
'You're a funny kid,' I said.
He stiffened, outraged. His little eyes gleamed.
'Say, it looks to me as if you wanted making a head shorter. You're a darned sight too fresh. Who do you think you are, anyway?'
'I'm your guardian angel,' I replied. 'I'm the fellow who's going to take you in hand and make you a little ray of sunshine about the home. I know your type backwards. I've been in America and studied it on its native asphalt. You superfatted millionaire kids are all the same. If Dad doesn't jerk you into the office before you're out of knickerbockers, you just run to seed. You get to think you're the only thing on earth, and you go on thinking it till one day somebody comes along and shows you you're not, and then you get what's coming to you--good and hard.'
He began to speak, but I was on my favourite theme, one I had studied and brooded upon since the evening when I had received a certain letter at my club.
'I knew a man,' I said, 'who started out just like you. He always had all the money he wanted: never worked: grew to think himself a sort of young prince. What happened?'
He yawned.
'I'm afraid I'm boring you,' I said.
'Go on. Enjoy yourself,' said the Little Nugget.
'Well, it's a long story, so I'll spare you it. But the moral of it was that a boy who is going to have money needs to be taken in hand and taught sense while he's young.'
He stretched himself.
'You talk a lot. What do you reckon you're going to do?'
I eyed him thoughtfully.
'Well, everything's got to have a beginning,' I said. 'What you seem to me to want most is exercise. I'll take you for a run every day. You won't know yourself at the end of a week.'
'Say, if you think you're going to get -me- to run--'
'When I grab your little hand, and start running, you'll find you'll soon be running too. And, years hence, when you win the Marathon at the Olympic Games, you'll come to me with tears in your eyes, and you'll say--'
'Oh, slush!'
'I shouldn't wonder.' I looked at my watch. 'Meanwhile, you had better go to bed. It's past your proper time.'
He stared at me in open-eyed amazement.
'Bed!'
'Bed.'
He seemed more amused than annoyed.
'Say, what time do you think I usually go to bed?'
'I know what time you go here. Nine o'clock.'
As if to support my words, the door opened, and Mrs Attwell, the matron, entered.
'I think it's time he came to bed, Mr Burns.'
'Just what I was saying, Mrs Attwell.'
'You're crazy,' observed the Little Nugget. 'Bed nothing!'
Mrs Attwell looked at me despairingly.
'I never saw such a boy!'
The whole machinery of the school was being held up by this legal infant. Any vacillation now, and Authority would suffer a set-back from which it would be hard put to it to recover. It seemed to me a situation that called for action.
I bent down, scooped the Little Nugget out of his chair like an oyster, and made for the door. Outside he screamed incessantly. He kicked me in the stomach and then on the knee. He continued to scream. He screamed all the way upstairs. He was screaming when we reached his room.
. . . . .
Half an hour later I sat in the study, smoking thoughtfully. Reports from the seat of war told of a sullen and probably only temporary acquiescence with Fate on the part of the enemy. He was in bed, and seemed to have made up his mind to submit to the position. An air of restrained jubilation prevailed among the elder members of the establishment. Mr Abney was friendly and Mrs Attwell openly congratulatory. I was something like the hero of the hour.
But was I jubilant? No, I was inclined to moodiness. Unforeseen difficulties had arisen in my path. Till now, I had regarded this kidnapping as something abstract. Personality had not entered into the matter. If I had had any picture in my mind's eye, it was of myself stealing away softly into the night with a docile child, his little hand laid trustfully in mine. From what I had seen and heard of Ogden Ford in moments of emotion, it seemed to me that whoever wanted to kidnap him with any approach to stealth would need to use chloroform.
Things were getting very complex.
CHAPTER 3
I have never kept a diary, and I have found it, in consequence, somewhat difficult, in telling this narrative, to arrange the minor incidents of my story in their proper sequence. I am writing by the light of an imperfect memory; and the work is complicated by the fact that the early days of my sojourn at Sanstead House are a blur, a confused welter like a Futurist picture, from which emerge haphazard the figures of boys--boys working, boys eating, boys playing football, boys whispering, shouting, asking questions, banging doors, jumping on beds, and clattering upstairs and along passages, the whole picture faintly scented with a composite aroma consisting of roast beef, ink, chalk, and that curious classroom smell which is like nothing else on earth.
I cannot arrange the incidents. I can see Mr Abney, furrowed as to the brow and drooping at the jaw, trying to separate Ogden Ford from a half-smoked cigar-stump. I can hear Glossop, feverishly angry, bellowing at an amused class. A dozen other pictures come back to me, but I cannot place them in their order; and perhaps, after all, their sequence is unimportant. This story deals with affairs which were outside the ordinary school life.
With the war between the Little Nugget and Authority, for instance, the narrative has little to do. It is a subject for an epic, but it lies apart from the main channel of the story, and must be avoided. To tell of his gradual taming, of the chaos his advent caused until we became able to cope with him, would be to turn this story into a treatise on education. It is enough to say that the process of moulding his character and exorcising the devil which seemed to possess him was slow.
It was Ogden who introduced tobacco-chewing into the school, with fearful effects one Saturday night on the aristocratic interiors of Lords Gartridge and Windhall and Honourables Edwin Bellamy and Hildebrand Kyne. It was the ingenious gambling-game imported by Ogden which was rapidly undermining the moral sense of twenty-four innocent English boys when it was pounced upon by Glossop. It was Ogden who, on the one occasion when Mr Abney reluctantly resorted to the cane, and administered four mild taps with it, relieved his feelings by going upstairs and breaking all the windows in all the bedrooms.
We had some difficult young charges at Sanstead House. Abney's policy of benevolent toleration ensured that. But Ogden Ford stood alone.
. . . . .
I have said that it is difficult for me to place the lesser events of my narrative in their proper order. I except three, however which I will call the Affair of the Strange American, the Adventure of the Sprinting Butler, and the Episode of the Genial Visitor.
I will describe them singly, as they happened.
It was the custom at Sanstead House for each of the assistant masters to take half of one day in every week as a holiday. The allowance was not liberal, and in most schools, I believe, it is increased; but Mr Abney was a man with peculiar views on other people's holidays, and Glossop and I were accordingly restricted.
My day was Wednesday; and on the Wednesday of which I write I strolled towards the village. I had in my mind a game of billiards at the local inn. Sanstead House and its neighbourhood were lacking in the fiercer metropolitan excitements, and billiards at the 'Feathers' constituted for the pleasure-seeker t
he beginning and end of the Gay Whirl.
There was a local etiquette governing the game of billiards at the 'Feathers'. You played the marker a hundred up, then you took him into the bar-parlour and bought him refreshment. He raised his glass, said, 'To you, sir', and drained it at a gulp. After that you could, if you wished, play another game, or go home, as your fancy dictated.
There was only one other occupant of the bar-parlour when we adjourned thither, and a glance at him told me that he was not ostentatiously sober. He was lying back in a chair, with his feet on the side-table, and crooning slowly, in a melancholy voice, the following words:
-'I don't care--if he wears--a crown, He--can't--keep kicking my--dawg aroun'.'-
He was a tough, clean-shaven man, with a broken nose, over which was tilted a soft felt hat. His wiry limbs were clad in what I put down as a mail-order suit. I could have placed him by his appearance, if I had not already done so by his voice, as an East-side New Yorker. And what an East-side New Yorker could be doing in Sanstead it was beyond me to explain.
We had hardly seated ourselves when he rose and lurched out. I saw him pass the window, and his assertion that no crowned head should molest his dog came faintly to my ears as he went down the street.
'American!' said Miss Benjafield, the stately barmaid, with strong disapproval. 'They're all alike.'
I never contradict Miss Benjafield--one would as soon contradict the Statue of Liberty--so I merely breathed sympathetically.
'What's he here for I'd like to know?'
It occurred to me that I also should like to know. In another thirty hours I was to find out.
I shall lay myself open to a charge of denseness such as even Doctor Watson would have scorned when I say that, though I thought of the matter a good deal on my way back to the school, I did not arrive at the obvious solution. Much teaching and taking of duty had dulled my wits, and the presence at Sanstead House of the Little Nugget did not even occur to me as a reason why strange Americans should be prowling in the village.
We now come to the remarkable activity of White, the butler.
It happened that same evening.
It was not late when I started on my way back to the house, but the short January day was over, and it was very dark as I turned in at the big gate of the school and made my way up the drive. The drive at Sanstead House was a fine curving stretch of gravel, about two hundred yards in length, flanked on either side by fir trees and rhododendrons. I stepped out briskly, for it had begun to freeze. Just as I caught sight through the trees of the lights of the windows, there came to me the sound of running feet.
P G Wodehouse - Little Nugget Page 6