two or three years now. It’s a School House feud really, but Dexter’s

  13

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  are mixed up in it somehow. If a School House fag goes down town

  he runs like an antelope along the High Street, unless he’s got one

  or two friends with him. I saved dozens of kids from destruction

  when I was at school. Th

  e St Jude’s fellows lie in wait, and dash out

  on them. I used to fi nd School House fags fi ghting for their lives

  in back alleys. Th

  e enemy fl ed on my approach. My air of majesty

  overawed them.”

  “But a junior school feud matters very little,” said Mr Seymour.

  “You say it has been going on for three years; and I have never heard

  of it till now. It is when the bigger fellows get mixed up with the

  town that we have to interfere. I wish the headmaster would put the

  place out of bounds entirely until the election is over. Except at elec-

  tion time, the town seems to go to sleep.”

  “Th

  at’s what we ought to be doing,” said Clowes to Trevor. “I

  think we had better be off now, sir. We promised Mr Donaldson to

  be in some time tonight.”

  “It’s later than I thought,” said Mr Seymour. “Good night,

  Clowes. How many tries was it that you scored this afternoon? Five?

  I wish you were still here, to score them for instead of against us.

  Good night, Trevor. I was glad to see they tried you for Oxford,

  though you didn’t get your blue. You’ll be in next year all right.

  Good night.”

  Th

  e two Old Wrykinians walked along the road towards Don-

  aldson’s. It was a fi ne night, but misty.

  “Jove, I’m quite tired,” said Clowes. “Hullo!”

  “What’s up?”

  Th

  ey were opposite Appleby’s at the moment. Clowes drew him

  into the shadow of the fence.

  “Th

  ere’s a chap breaking out. I saw him shinning down a rope.

  Let’s wait, and see who it is.”

  A moment later somebody ran softly through the gateway and

  disappeared down the road that led to the town.

  “Who was it?” said Trevor. “I couldn’t see.”

  “I spotted him all right. It was that chap who was marking me

  today, Stanning. Wonder what he’s after. Perhaps he’s gone to tar the

  statue, like O’Hara. Rather a sportsman.”

  “Rather a silly idiot,” said Trevor. “I hope he gets caught.”

  “You always were one of those kind sympathetic chaps,” said

  Clowes. “Come on, or Donaldson’ll be locking us out.”

  14

  THE WHITE FEATHER

  Chapter 

  Sheen at Home

  On the afternoon following the Oxford A match, Sheen, of Sey-

  mour’s, was sitting over the gas-stove in his study with a Th

  ucy-

  dides. He had been staying in that day with a cold. He was always

  staying in. Everyone has his hobby. Th

  at was Sheen’s.

  Nobody at Wrykyn, even at Seymour’s, seemed to know

  Sheen very well, with the exception of Drummond; and those

  who troubled to think about the matter at all rather wondered

  what Drummond saw in him. To the superfi cial observer the two

  had nothing in common. Drummond was good at games – he was

  in the fi rst fi fteen and the second eleven, and had won the Feath-

  er Weights at Aldershot – and seemed to have no interests outside

  them. Sheen, on the other hand, played fi ves for the house, and

  that was all. He was bad at cricket, and had given up football by

  special arrangement with Allardyce, on the plea that he wanted

  all his time for work. He was in for an in-school scholarship, the

  Gotford. Allardyce, though professing small sympathy with such

  a degraded ambition, had given him a special dispensation, and

  since then Sheen had retired from public life even more than he

  had done hitherto. Th

  e examination for the Gotford was to come

  off towards the end of the term.

  Th

  e only other Wrykinians with whom Sheen was known

  to be friendly were Stanning and Attell, of Appleby’s. And here

  those who troubled to think about it wondered still more, for

  Sheen, whatever his other demerits, was not of the type of Stan-

  ning and Attell. Th

  ere are certain members of every public school,

  just as there are certain members of every college at the universi-

  ties, who are “marked men”. Th

  ey have never been detected in any

  glaring breach of the rules, and their manner towards the powers

  that be is, as a rule, suave, even deferential. Yet it is one of the

  things which everybody knows, that they are in the black books

  of the authorities, and that sooner or later, in the picturesque

  phrase of the New Yorker, they will “get it in the neck”. To this

  class Stanning and Attell belonged. It was plain to all that the

  former was the leading member of the fi rm. A glance at the latter

  was enough to show that, whatever ambitions he may have had in

  15

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  the direction of villainy, he had not the brains necessary for really

  satisfactory evildoing. As for Stanning, he pursued an even course

  of life, always rigidly obeying the eleventh commandment, “thou

  shalt not be found out”. Th

  is kept him from collisions with the au-

  thorities; while a ready tongue and an excellent knowledge of the

  art of boxing – he was, after Drummond, the best Light-Weight in

  the place – secured him at least tolerance at the hand of the school:

  and, as a matter of fact, though most of those who knew him dis-

  liked him, and particularly those who, like Drummond, were what

  Clowes had called the Old Brigade, he had, nevertheless, a toler-

  ably large following. A fi rst fi fteen man, even in a bad year, can

  generally fi nd boys anxious to be seen about with him.

  Th

  at Sheen should have been amongst these surprised one or

  two people, notably Mr Seymour, who, being games’ master had

  come a good deal into contact with Stanning, and had not been

  favourably impressed. Th

  e fact was that the keynote of Sheen’s

  character was a fear of giving off ence. Within limits this is not

  a reprehensible trait in a person’s character, but Sheen overdid it,

  and it frequently complicated his aff airs. Th

  ere come times when

  one has to choose which of two people one shall off end. By acting

  in one way, we off end A. By acting in the opposite way, we annoy

  B. Sheen had found himself faced by this problem when he began

  to be friendly with Drummond. Th

  eir acquaintance, begun over a

  game of fi ves, had progressed. Sheen admired Drummond, as the

  type of what he would have liked to have been, if he could have

  managed it. And Drummond felt interested in Sheen because no-

  body knew much about him. He was, in a way, mysterious. Also,

  he played the piano really well; and Drummond at that time would

  have courted anybody who could play for his benefi t “Mumblin’

  Mose”, and didn’t mind obliging with unlimited encores.

  So the two struck up an alliance, and as Drummond hated Stan-

  ning only a shade less than Stanning hated him, Sheen was under

  the painful necessity of choosing between them. He chose Drum-

  mond. Whereby he undoubtedly did wisely.

  Sheen sat with his Th

  ucydides over the gas-stove, and tried to

  interest himself in the doings of the Athenian expedition at Syra-

  cuse. His brain felt heavy and fl abby. He realised dimly that this

  was because he took too little exercise, and he made a resolution to

  diminish his hours of work per diem by one, and to devote that one

  16

  THE WHITE FEATHER

  to fi ves. He would mention it to Drummond when he came in. He

  would probably come in to tea. Th

  e board was spread in anticipation

  of a visit from him. Herbert, the boot-boy, had been despatched to

  the town earlier in the afternoon, and had returned with certain

  food-stuff s which were now stacked in an appetising heap on the

  table.

  Sheen was just making something more or less like sense out of

  an involved passage of Nikias’ speech, in which that eminent gen-

  eral himself seemed to have only a hazy idea of what he was talking

  about, when the door opened.

  He looked up, expecting to see Drummond, but it was Stan-

  ning. He felt instantly that “warm shooting” sensation from which

  David Copperfi eld suff ered in moments of embarrassment. Since

  the advent of Drummond he had avoided Stanning, and he could

  not see him without feeling uncomfortable. As they were both in the

  sixth form, and sat within a couple of yards of one another every day,

  it will be realised that he was frequently uncomfortable.

  “Great Scott!” said Stanning, “swotting?”

  Sheen glanced almost guiltily at his Th

  ucydides. Still, it was

  something of a relief that the other had not opened the conversation

  with an indictment of Drummond.

  “You see,” he said apologetically, “I’m in for the Gotford.”

  “So am I. What’s the good of swotting, though? I’m not going

  to do a stroke.”

  As Stanning was the only one of his rivals of whom he had any

  real fear, Sheen might have replied with justice that, if that was the

  case, the more he swotted the better. But he said nothing. He looked

  at the stove, and dog’s-eared the Th

  ucydides.

  “What a worm you are, always staying in!” said Stanning.

  “I caught a cold watching the match yesterday.”

  “You’re as fl abby as—” Stanning looked round for a simile, “as a

  dough-nut. Why don’t you take some exercise?”

  “I’m going to play fi ves, I think. I do need some exercise.”

  “Fives? Why don’t you play footer?”

  “I haven’t time. I want to work.”

  “What rot. I’m not doing a stroke.”

  Stanning seemed to derive a spiritual pride from this

  admission.

  17

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  “Tell you what, then,” said Stanning, “I’ll play you tomorrow

  after school.”

  Sheen looked a shade more uncomfortable, but he made an ef-

  fort, and declined the invitation.

  “I shall probably be playing Drummond,” he said.

  “Oh, all right,” said Stanning. “I don’t care. Play whom you like.”

  Th

  ere was a pause.

  “As a matter of fact,” resumed Stanning, “what I came here for

  was to tell you about last night. I got out, and went to Mitchell’s.

  Why didn’t you come? Didn’t you get my note? I sent a kid with it.”

  Mitchell was a young gentleman of rich but honest parents, who

  had left the school at Christmas. He was in his father’s offi

  ce, and

  lived in his father’s house on the outskirts of the town. From time to

  time his father went up to London on matters connected with busi-

  ness, leaving him alone in the house. On these occasions Mitchell

  the younger would write to Stanning, with whom when at school

  he had been on friendly terms; and Stanning, breaking out of his

  house after everybody had gone to bed, would make his way to the

  Mitchell residence, and spend a pleasant hour or so there. Mitchell

  senior owned Turkish cigarettes and a billiard table. Stanning ap-

  preciated both. Th

  ere was also a piano, and Stanning had brought

  Sheen with him one night to play it. Th

  e getting-out and the subse-

  quent getting-in had nearly whitened Sheen’s hair, and it was only

  by a series of miracles that he had escaped detection. Once, he felt,

  was more than enough; and when a fag from Appleby’s had brought

  him Stanning’s note, containing an invitation to a second jaunt of

  the kind, he had refused to be lured into the business again.

  “Yes, I got the note,” he said.

  “Th

  en why didn’t you come? Mitchell was asking where you were.”

  “It’s so beastly risky.”

  “Risky! Rot.”

  “We should get sacked if we were caught.”

  “Well, don’t get caught, then.”

  Sheen registered an internal vow that he would not.

  “He wanted us to go again on Monday. Will you come?”

  “I – don’t think I will, Stanning,” said Sheen. “It isn’t worth it.”

  “You mean you funk it. Th

  at’s what’s the matter with you.”

  “Yes, I do,” admitted Sheen.

  18

  THE WHITE FEATHER

  As a rule – in stories – the person who owns that he is afraid

  gets unlimited applause and adulation, and feels a glow of conscious

  merit. But with Sheen it was otherwise. Th

  e admission made him if

  possible, more uncomfortable than he had been before.

  “Mitchell will be sick,” said Stanning.

  Sheen said nothing.

  Stanning changed the subject.

  “Well, at anyrate,” he said, “give us some tea. You seem to have

  been victualling for a siege.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” said Sheen, turning a deeper shade of red

  and experiencing a redoubled attack of the warm shooting, “but the

  fact is, I’m waiting for Drummond.”

  Stanning got up, and expressed his candid opinion of Drum-

  mond in a few words.

  He said more. He described Sheen, too in unfl attering terms.

  “Look here,” he said, “you may think it jolly fi ne to drop me

  just because you’ve got to know Drummond a bit, but you’ll be sick

  enough that you’ve done it before you’ve fi nished.”

  “It isn’t that—” began Sheen.

  “I don’t care what it is. You slink about trying to avoid me all

  day, and you won’t do a thing I ask you to do.”

  “But you see—”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Stanning.

  Chapter 

  Sheen Receives Visitors and Advice

  While Sheen had been interviewing Stanning, in study twelve,

  farther down the passage, Linton and his friend Dunstable, who

  was in Day’s house, were discussing ways and means. Like Stanning,

  Dunstable had demanded tea, and had been informed that there was

  none for him.

  “Well, you are a bright specimen, aren’t you?” said Dunstable,

  seating himself on the table which should have been groaning under

  the weight of cake and biscuits. “I should like to know where you ex-

  pect to go to. You lure me in here, and then have the cheek to tell me

  you haven’t got anything to eat. What have you done with it all?”

  19

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  “Th

  ere was half a cake—”

  “Bring it on.”

  “Young Menzies bagged it after the match yesterday. His broth-

  er came down with the Oxford A team, and he had to give him tea

  in his study. Th

  en there were some biscuits—”

  “What’s the matter with biscuits? Th ey’re all right. Bring them

  on. Biscuits forward. Show biscuits.”

  “Menzies took them as well.”

  Dunstable eyed him sorrowfully.

  “You always were a bit of a maniac,” he said, “but I never thought

  you were quite such a complete gibberer as to let Menzies get away

  with all your grub. Well, the only thing to do is to touch him for tea.

  He owes us one. Come on.”

  Th

  ey proceeded down the passage and stopped at the door of

  study three.

  “Hullo!” said Menzies, as they entered.

  “We’ve come to tea,” said Dunstable. “Cut the satisfying sand-

  wich. Let’s see a little more of that hissing urn of yours, Menzies.

  Bustle about, and be the dashing host.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I can’t help your troubles,” said Dunstable.

  “I’ve not got anything. I was thinking of coming to you,

  Linton.”

  “Where’s that cake?”

  “Finished. My brother simply walked into it.”

  “Greed,” said Dunstable unkindly, “seems to be the besetting

  sin of the Menzies’. Well, what are you going to do about it? I don’t

  wish to threaten, but I’m a demon when I’m roused. Being done out

  of my tea is sure to rouse me. And owing to unfortunate accident of

  being stonily broken, I can’t go to the shop. You’re responsible for

  the slump in provisions, Menzies, and you must see us through this.

  What are you going to do about it?”

  “Do either of you chaps know Sheen at all?”

  “I don’t,” said Linton. “Not to speak to.”

  “You can’t expect us to know all your shady friends,” said Dun-

  stable. “Why?”

  “He’s got a tea on this evening. If you knew him well enough,

 

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