The Swoop! or, How Clarence Saved England: A Tale of the Great Invasion

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Then the truth came out. Neither had any specialities; they wouldsimply appear and deliver lectures.

  The feeling in the music-hall world was strong. The Variety Artists'Federation debated the advisability of another strike. The Water Rats,meeting in mystic secrecy in a Maiden Lane public-house, passed fifteenresolutions in an hour and a quarter. Sir Harry Lauder, interviewed bythe _Era_, gave it as his opinion that both the Grand Duke and thePrince were gowks, who would do well to haud their blether. He himselfproposed to go straight to America, where genuine artists were cheeredin the streets and entertained at haggis dinners, and not forced tocompete with amateur sumphs and gonuphs from other countries.

  Clarence, brooding over the situation like a Providence, was glad tosee that already the new move had weakened the invaders' power. The dayafter the announcement in the press of the approaching _debut_ ofthe other generals, the leader of the army of Monaco had hurried to theagents to secure an engagement for himself. He held out the specialinducement of card-tricks, at which he was highly skilled. The agentshad received him coldly. Brown and Day had asked him to call again.Foster had sent out a message regretting that he was too busy to seehim. At de Freece's he had been kept waiting in the ante-room for twohours in the midst of a bevy of Sparkling Comediennes of pronouncedperoxidity and blue-chinned men in dusty bowler-hats, who told eachother how they had gone with a bang at Oakham and John o'Groats, andhad then gone away in despair.

  On the following day, deeply offended, he had withdrawn his troops fromthe country.

  The strength of the invaders was melting away little by little.

  "How long?" murmured Clarence Chugwater, as he worked at thetape-machine. "How long?"

  Chapter 4

  CLARENCE HEARS IMPORTANT NEWS

  It was Clarence's custom to leave the office of his newspaper at oneo'clock each day, and lunch at a neighbouring Aerated Bread shop. Hedid this on the day following the first appearance of the two generalsat their respective halls. He had brought an early edition of the paperwith him, and in the intervals of dealing with his glass of milk andscone and butter, he read the report of the performances.

  Both, it seemed, had met with flattering receptions, though they hadappeared nervous. The Russian general especially, whose style, said thecritic, was somewhat reminiscent of Mr. T. E. Dunville, had madehimself a great favourite with the gallery. The report concluded bycalling attention once more to the fact that the salaries paid to thetwo--eight hundred and seventy-five pounds a week each--established arecord in music-hall history on this side of the Atlantic.

  Clarence had just finished this when there came to his ear the faintnote of a tarantula singing to its young.

  He looked up. Opposite him, at the next table, was seated a youth offifteen, of a slightly grubby aspect. He was eyeing Clarence closely.

  Clarence took off his spectacles, polished them, and replaced them onhis nose. As he did so, the thin gruffle of the tarantula sounded oncemore. Without changing his expression, Clarence cautiously uttered thedeep snarl of a sand-eel surprised while bathing.

  It was sufficient. The other rose to his feet, holding his right handon a line with his shoulder, palm to the front, thumb resting on thenail of the little finger, and the other three fingers upright.

  Clarence seized his hat by the brim at the back, and moved it swiftlytwice up and down.

  The other, hesitating no longer, came over to his table.

  "Pip-pip!" he said, in an undertone.

  "Toodleoo and God save the King!" whispered Clarence.

  The mystic ceremony which always takes place when two Boy Scouts meetin public was complete.

  "Private Biggs of the Eighteenth Tarantulas, sir," said the boyrespectfully, for he had recognised Clarence.

  Clarence inclined his head.

  "You may sit, Private Biggs," he said graciously. "You have news toimpart?"

  "News, sir, that may be of vital importance."

  "Say on."

  Private Biggs, who had brought his sparkling limado and a bath-bun withhim from the other table, took a sip of the former, and embarked uponhis narrative.

  "I am employed, sir," he said, "as a sort of junior clerk andoffice-boy by Mr. Solly Quhayne, the music-hall agent."

  Clarence tapped his brow thoughtfully; then his face cleared.

  "I remember. It was he who secured the engagements of the generals."

  "The same, sir."

  "Proceed."

  The other resumed his story.

  "It is my duty to sit in a sort of rabbit-hutch in the outer office,take the callers' names, and especially to see that they don't getthrough to Mr. Quhayne till he wishes to receive them. That is the mostexacting part of my day's work. You wouldn't believe how full of thepurest swank some of these pros. are. Tell you they've got anappointment as soon as look at you. Artful beggars!"

  Clarence nodded sympathetically.

  "This morning an Acrobat and Society Contortionist made such a fussthat in the end I had to take his card in to the private office. Mr.Quhayne was there talking to a gentleman whom I recognised as hisbrother, Mr. Colquhoun. They were engrossed in their conversation, anddid not notice me for a moment. With no wish to play the eavesdropper,I could not help but overhear. They were talking about the generals.'Yes, I know they're press-agented at eight seventy-five, dear boy,' Iheard Mr. Quhayne say, 'but between you and me and the door-knob thatisn't what they're getting. The German feller's drawing five hundred ofthe best, but I could only get four-fifty for the Russian. Can't saywhy. I should have thought, if anything, he'd be the bigger draw. Bitof a comic in his way!' And then he saw me. There was some slightunpleasantness. In fact, I've got the sack. After it was over I cameaway to try and find you. It seemed to me that the information might beof importance."

  Clarence's eyes gleamed.

  "You have done splendidly, Private--no, _Corporal_ Biggs. Do notregret your lost position. The society shall find you work. This newsyou have brought is of the utmost--the most vital importance. Dash it!"he cried, unbending in his enthusiasm, "we've got 'em on the hop. Ifthey aren't biting pieces out of each other in the next day or two, I'mjolly well mistaken."

  He rose; then sat down again.

  "Corporal--no, dash it, Sergeant Biggs--you must have something withme. This is an occasion. The news you have brought me may mean thesalvation of England. What would you like?"

  The other saluted joyfully.

  "I think I'll have another sparkling limado, thanks, awfully," he said.

  The beverage arrived. They raised their glasses.

  "To England," said Clarence simply.

  "To England," echoed his subordinate.

  * * * * *

  Clarence left the shop with swift strides, and hurried, deep inthought, to the offices of the _Encore_ in Wellington Street.

  "Yus?" said the office-boy interrogatively.

  Clarence gave the Scout's Siquand, the pass-word. The boy's demeanourchanged instantly. He saluted with the utmost respect.

  "I wish to see the Editor," said Clarence.

  A short speech, but one that meant salvation for the motherland.

  Chapter 5

  SEEDS OF DISCORD

  The days following Clarence's visit to the offices of the _Encore_were marked by a growing feeling of unrest, alike among invaded andinvaders. The first novelty and excitement of the foreign occupation ofthe country was beginning to wear off, and in its place the sturdyindependence so typical of the British character was reassertingitself. Deep down in his heart the genuine Englishman has a ruggeddistaste for seeing his country invaded by a foreign army. People wereasking themselves by what right these aliens had overrun British soil.An ever-growing feeling of annoyance had begun to lay hold of thenation.

  It is probable that the departure of Sir Harry Lauder first broughthome to England what this invasion might mean. The great comedian, inhis manifesto in the _Times_, had not minced his words. Plainlyand crisply he had sta
ted that he was leaving the country because themusic-hall stage was given over to alien gowks. He was sorry forEngland. He liked England. But now, all he could say was, "God blessyou." England shuddered, remembering that last time he had said, "Godbless you till I come back."

  Ominous mutterings began to make themselves heard.

  Other causes contributed to swell the discontent. A regiment ofRussians, out route-marching, had walked across the bowling-screen atKennington Oval during the Surrey _v._ Lancashire match, causingHayward to be bowled for a duck's-egg. A band of German sappers had duga trench right across the turf at Queen's Club.

  The mutterings increased.

  Nor were the invaders satisfied and happy. The late English summer hadset in with all its usual severity, and the Cossacks, reared in thekindlier climate of Siberia, were feeling it terribly. Colds were therule rather than the exception in the Russian lines. The coughing ofthe Germans at Tottenham could be heard in Oxford Street.

  The attitude of the British public, too, was getting on their nerves.They had been prepared for fierce resistance. They had pictured theinvasion as a series of brisk battles--painful perhaps, but exciting.They had anticipated that when they had conquered the country theymight meet with the Glare of Hatred as they patrolled the streets. TheSupercilious Stare unnerved them. There is nothing so terrible to thehighly-strung foreigner as the cold, contemptuous, patronising gaze ofthe Englishman. It gave the invaders a perpetual feeling of doing thewrong thing. They felt like men who had been found travelling in afirst-class carriage with a third-class ticket. They became consciousof the size of their hands and feet. As they marched through theMetropolis they felt their ears growing hot and red. Beneath the chillystare of the populace they experienced all the sensations of a man whohas come to a strange dinner-party in a tweed suit when everybody elsehas dressed. They felt warm and prickly.

  It was dull for them, too. London is never at its best in earlySeptember, even for the _habitue_. There was nothing to do. Mostof the theatres were shut. The streets were damp and dirty. It was allvery well for the generals, appearing every night in the glare andglitter of the footlights; but for the rank and file the occupation ofLondon spelt pure boredom.

  London was, in fact, a human powder-magazine. And it was ClarenceChugwater who with a firm hand applied the match that was to set it ina blaze.

  Chapter 6

  THE BOMB-SHELL

  Clarence had called at the offices of the _Encore_ on a Friday.The paper's publishing day is Thursday. The _Encore_ is the Timesof the music-hall world. It casts its curses here, bestows itsbenedictions (sparely) there. The _Encore_ criticising the latestaction of the Variety Artists' Federation is the nearest modernapproach to Jove hurling the thunderbolt. Its motto is, "Cry havoc, andlet loose the performing dogs of war."

  It so happened that on the Thursday following his momentous visit toWellington Street, there was need of someone on the staff of Clarence'sevening paper to go and obtain an interview from the Russian general.Mr. Hubert Wales had just published a novel so fruity in theme andtreatment that it had been publicly denounced from the pulpit by noless a person than the Rev. Canon Edgar Sheppard, D.D., Sub-Deanof His Majesty's Chapels Royal, Deputy Clerk of the Closet andSub-Almoner to the King. A morning paper had started the question,"Should there be a Censor of Fiction?" and, in accordance with custom,editors were collecting the views of celebrities, preferably of thosewhose opinion on the subject was absolutely valueless.

  All the other reporters being away on their duties, the editor was at aloss.

  "Isn't there anybody else?" he demanded.

  The chief sub-editor pondered.

  "There is young blooming Chugwater," he said.

  (It was thus that England's deliverer was habitually spoken of in theoffice.)

  "Then send him," said the editor.

  * * * * *

  Grand Duke Vodkakoff's turn at the Magnum Palace of Varieties startedevery evening at ten sharp. He topped the bill. Clarence, having beendetained by a review of the Scouts, did not reach the hall till fiveminutes to the hour. He got to the dressing-room as the general wasgoing on to the stage.

  The Grand Duke dressed in the large room with the other male turns.There were no private dressing-rooms at the Magnum. Clarence sat downon a basket-trunk belonging to the Premier Troupe of Bounding Zouavesof the Desert, and waited. The four athletic young gentlemen whocomposed the troupe were dressing after their turn. They took no noticeof Clarence.

  Presently one Zouave spoke.

  "Bit off to-night, Bill. Cold house."

  "Not 'arf," replied his colleague. "Gave me the shivers."

  "Wonder how his nibs'll go."

  Evidently he referred to the Grand Duke.

  "Oh, _'e's_ all right. They eat his sort of swank. Seems to me theprofession's going to the dogs, what with these bloomin' amytoors an'all. Got the 'airbrush, 'Arry?"

  Harry, a tall, silent Zouave, handed over the hairbrush.

  Bill continued.

  "I'd like to see him go on of a Monday night at the old Mogul. They'dsoon show him. It gives me the fair 'ump, it does, these toffs comingin and taking the bread out of our mouths. Why can't he give us chaps achance? Fair makes me rasp, him and his bloomin' eight hundred andseventy-five o' goblins a week."

  "Not so much of your eight hundred and seventy-five, young feller melad," said the Zouave who had spoken first. "Ain't you seen the ragthis week?"

  "Naow. What's in it? How does our advert, look?"

  "Ow, that's all right, never mind that. You look at 'What the_Encore_ Would Like to Know.' That's what'll touch his nibs up."

  He produced a copy of the paper from the pocket of his great-coat whichhung from the door, and passed it to his bounding brother.

  "Read it out, old sort," he said.

  The other took it to the light and began to read slowly and cautiously,as one who is no expert at the art.

  "'What the _Encore_ would like to know:--Whether Prince Otto ofSaxe-Pfennig didn't go particularly big at the Lobelia last week? AndWhether his success hasn't compelled Agent Quhayne to purchase alarger-sized hat? And Whether it isn't a fact that, though they arepress-agented at the same figure, Prince Otto is getting fifty a weekmore than Grand Duke Vodkakoff? And If it is not so, why a little birdhas assured us that the Prince is being paid five hundred a week andthe Grand Duke only four hundred and fifty? And, In any case, whetherthe Prince isn't worth fifty a week more than his Russian friend?'Lumme!"

  An awed silence fell upon the group. To Clarence, who had dictated thematter (though the style was the editor's), the paragraph did not comeas a surprise. His only feeling was one of relief that the editor hadserved up his material so well. He felt that he had been justified inleaving the more delicate literary work to that master-hand.

  "That'll be one in the eye," said the Zouave Harry. "'Ere, I'll stickit up opposite of him when he comes back to dress. Got a pin and apencil, some of you?"

  He marked the quarter column heavily, and pinned it up beside thelooking-glass. Then he turned to his companions.

  "'Ow about not waiting, chaps?" he suggested. "I shouldn't 'arf wonder,from the look of him, if he wasn't the 'aughty kind of a feller who'dcleave you to the bazooka for tuppence with his bloomin' falchion. I'mgoin' to 'urry through with my dressing and wait till to-morrow nightto see how he looks. No risks for Willie!"

  The suggestion seemed thoughtful and good. The Bounding Zouaves, withone accord, bounded into their clothes and disappeared through the doorjust as a long-drawn chord from the invisible orchestra announced theconclusion of the Grand Duke's turn.

  General Vodkakoff strutted into the room, listening complacently to theapplause which was still going on. He had gone well. He felt pleasedwith himself.

  It was not for a moment that he noticed Clarence.

  "Ah," he said, "the interviewer, eh? You wish to--"

  Clarence began to explain his mission. While he was doing so the GrandDuke strolle
d to the basin and began to remove his make-up. Hefavoured, when on the stage, a touch of the Raven Gipsy No. 3grease-paint. It added a picturesque swarthiness to his appearance, andmade him look more like what he felt to be the popular ideal of aRussian general.

  The looking-glass hung just over the basin.

  Clarence, watching him in the glass, saw him start as he read the firstparagraph. A dark flush, almost rivalling the Raven Gipsy No. 3, spreadover his face. He trembled with rage.

  "Who put that paper there?" he roared, turning.

  "With reference, then, to Mr. Hubert Wales's novel," said Clarence.

  The Grand Duke cursed Mr. Hubert Wales, his novel, and Clarence in onesentence.

  "You may possibly," continued Clarence, sticking to his point like agood interviewer, "have read the trenchant, but some say justifiableremarks of the Rev. Canon Edgar Sheppard, D.D., Sub-Dean of HisMajesty's Chapels Royal, Deputy Clerk of the Closet, and Sub-Almoner tothe King."

  The Grand Duke swiftly added that eminent cleric to the list.

  "Did you put that paper on this looking-glass?" he shouted.

  "I did not put that paper on that looking-glass," replied Clarenceprecisely.

  "Ah," said the Grand Duke, "if you had, I'd have come and wrung yourneck like a chicken, and scattered you to the four corners of thisdressing-room."

  "I'm glad I didn't," said Clarence.

  "Have you read this paper on the looking-glass?"