Sergeant Cook was recalled from the door, and received the

  orders.

  27

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  “Th

  ey’ve just gone round the corner,” he said, “and that red-’ead-

  ed one ’e says he’s goin’ to wait if he ’as to wait all night.”

  “Quite right,” said Dunstable, approvingly. “Sensible chap,

  Albert. If you see him, you might tell him we shan’t be long, will

  you?”

  A quarter of an hour passed.

  “Kerm out,” shouted a voice from the street.

  Dunstable looked at the others.

  “Perhaps we might be moving now,” he said, getting up

  “Ready?”

  “We must keep together,” said Barry.

  “You goin’ out, Mr Dunstable?” inquired Sergeant Cook.

  “Yes. Good bye. You’ll see that we’re decently buried won’t

  you?”

  Th

  e garrison made its sortie.

  <

  It happened that Drummond and Sheen were also among those

  whom it had struck that afternoon that tea at Cook’s would be pleas-

  ant; and they came upon the combatants some fi ve minutes after

  battle had been joined. Th

  e town contingent were fi lling the air with

  strange cries, Albert’s voice being easily heard above the din, while

  the Wrykinians, as public-school men should, were fi ghting quietly

  and without unseemly tumult.

  “By Jove,” said Drummond, “here’s a row on.”

  Sheen stopped dead, with a queer, sinking feeling within him.

  He gulped. Drummond did not notice these portents. He was ob-

  serving the battle.

  Suddenly he uttered an exclamation.

  “Why, it’s some of our chaps! Th

  ere’s a Seymour’s cap. Isn’t that

  McTodd? And, great Scott! there’s Barry. Come on, man!”

  Sheen did not move.

  “Ought we...to get...mixed up...?” he began.

  Drummond looked at him with open eyes. Sheen babbled on.

  “Th

  e old man might not like – sixth form, you see – oughtn’t we

  to – ?”

  Th

  ere was a yell of triumph from the town army as the red-haired

  Albert, plunging through the fray, sent Barry staggering against the

  28

  THE WHITE FEATHER

  wall. Sheen caught a glimpse of Albert’s grinning face as he turned.

  He had a cut over one eye. It bled.

  “Come on,” said Drummond, beginning to run to the scene of

  action.

  Sheen paused for a moment irresolutely. Th

  en he walked rapidly

  in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 

  The White Feather

  It was not until he had reached his study that Sheen thoroughly

  realised what he had done. All the way home he had been defending

  himself eloquently against an imaginary accuser; and he had built

  up a very sound, thoughtful, and logical series of arguments to show

  that he was not only not to blame for what he had done, but had

  acted in highly statesmanlike and praiseworthy manner. After all,

  he was in the sixth. Not a prefect, it was true, but, still, practically a

  prefect. Th

  e headmaster disliked unpleasantness between school and

  town, much more so between the sixth form of the school and the

  town. Th

  erefore, he had done his duty in refusing to be drawn into

  a fi ght with Albert and friends. Besides, why should he be expected

  to join in whenever he saw a couple of fellows fi ghting? It wasn’t reasonable. It was no business of his. Why, it was absurd. He had no

  quarrel with those fellows. It wasn’t cowardice. It was simply that he

  had kept his head better than Drummond, and seen further into the

  matter. Besides....

  But when he sat down in his chair, this mood changed. Th

  ere is

  a vast diff erence between the view one takes of things when one is

  walking briskly, and that which comes when one thinks the thing

  over coldly. As he sat there, the wall of defence which he had built

  up slipped away brick by brick, and there was the fact staring at him,

  without covering or disguise.

  It was no good arguing against himself. No amount of argu-

  ment could wipe away the truth. He had been afraid, and had shown

  it. And he had shown it when, in a sense, he was representing the

  school, when Wrykyn looked to him to help it keep its end up against

  the town.

  29

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  Th

  e more he refl ected, the more he saw how far-reaching were

  the consequences of that failure in the hour of need. He had dis-

  graced himself. He had disgraced Seymour’s. He had disgraced the

  school. He was an outcast.

  Th

  is mood, the natural reaction from his fi rst glow of almost

  jaunty self-righteousness, lasted till the lock-up bell rang, when it

  was succeeded by another. Th

  is time he took a more reasonable view

  of the aff air. It occurred to him that there was a chance that his

  defection had passed unnoticed. Nothing could make his case seem

  better in his own eyes, but it might be that the thing would end

  there. Th

  e house might not have lost credit.

  An overwhelming curiosity seized him to fi nd out how it had

  all ended. Th

  e ten minutes of grace which followed the ringing of

  the lock-up bell had passed. Drummond and the rest must be back

  by now.

  He went down the passage to Drummond’s study. Somebody

  was inside. He could hear him.

  He knocked at the door.

  Drummond was sitting at the table reading. He looked up, and

  there was a silence. Sheen’s mouth felt dry. He could not think how

  to begin. He noticed that Drummond’s face was unmarked. Look-

  ing down, he saw that one of the knuckles of the hand that held the

  book was swollen and cut.

  “Drummond, I—”

  Drummond lowered the book.

  “Get out,” he said. He spoke without heat, calmly, as if he

  were making some conventional remark by way of starting a

  conversation.

  “I only came to ask—”

  “Get out,” said Drummond again.

  Th

  ere was another pause. Drummond raised his book and went

  on reading.

  Sheen left the room.

  Outside he ran into Linton. Unlike Drummond, Linton bore

  marks of the encounter. As in the case of the hero of Calverley’s

  poem, one of his speaking eyes was sable. Th

  e swelling of his lip

  was increased. Th

  ere was a deep red bruise on his forehead. In spite

  of these injuries, however, he was cheerful. He was whistling when

  Sheen collided with him.

  30

  THE WHITE FEATHER

  “Sorry,” said Linton, and went on into the study.

  “Well,” he said, “how are you feeling, Drummond? Lucky beg-

  gar, you haven’t got a mark. I wish I could duck like you. Well, we

  have fought the good fi ght. Exit Albert – sweep him up. You gave

  him enough to last him for the rest of the term. I couldn’t tackle the

  brute. He’s as strong as a horse. My word, it was lucky you happened

  to come up. Albert was making hay of us. Still, all’s well that ends

  well. We have smitten the Philistines this day. By the way—”

  “What’s up now?”

  “Who was that chap with you when you came up?”

  “Which chap?”

  “I thought I saw some one.”

  “You shouldn’t eat so much tea. You saw double.”

  “Th

  ere wasn’t anybody?”

  “No,” said Drummond.

  “Not Sheen?”

  “No,” said Drummond, irritably. “How many more times do you

  want me to say it?”

  “All right,” said Linton, “I only asked. I met him outside.”

  “Who?”

  “Sheen.”

  “Oh!”

  “You might be sociable.”

  “I know I might. But I want to read.”

  “Lucky man. Wish I could. I can hardly see. Well, good bye,

  then. I’m off .”

  “Good,” grunted Drummond. “You know your way out, don’t you?”

  Linton went back to his own study.

  “It’s all very well,” he said to himself, “for Drummond to deny

  it, but I’ll swear I saw Sheen with him. So did Dunstable. I’ll cut out

  and ask him about it after prep. If he really was there, and cut off ,

  something ought to be done about it. Th

  e chap ought to be kicked.

  He’s a disgrace to the house.”

  Dunstable, questioned after preparation, refused to commit

  himself.

  “I thought I saw somebody with Drummond,” he said, “and I

  had a sort of idea it was Sheen. Still, I was pretty busy at the time,

  and wasn’t paying much attention to anything, except that long, thin

  bargee with the bowler. I wish those men would hit straight. It’s

  31

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  beastly diffi

  cult to guard a round-arm swing. My right ear feels like

  a caulifl ower. Does it look rum?”

  “Beastly. But what about this? You can’t swear to Sheen then?”

  “No. Better give him the benefi t of the doubt. What does Drum-

  mond say? You ought to ask him.”

  “I have. He says he was alone.”

  “Well, that settles it. What an ass you are. If Drummond doesn’t

  know, who does?”

  “I believe he’s simply hushing it up.”

  “Well, let us hush it up, too. It’s no good bothering about it. We

  licked them all right.”

  “But it’s such a beastly thing for the house.”

  “Th

  en why the dickens do you want it to get about? Surely the

  best thing you can do is to dry up and say nothing about it.”

  “But something ought to be done.”

  “What’s the good of troubling about a man like Sheen? He never

  was any good, and this doesn’t make him very much worse. Besides,

  he’ll probably be sick enough on his own account. I know I should,

  if I’d done it. And, anyway, we don’t know that he did do it.”

  “I’m certain he did. I could swear it was him.”

  “Anyhow, for goodness’ sake let the thing drop.”

  “All right. But I shall cut him.”

  “Well, that would be punishment enough for anybody, what-

  ever he’d done. Fancy existence without your bright conversation. It

  doesn’t bear thinking of. You do look a freak with that eye and that

  lump on your forehead. You ought to wear a mask.”

  “Th

  at ear of yours,” said Linton with satisfaction, “will be about

  three times its ordinary size tomorrow. And it always was too large.

  Good night.”

  On his way back to Seymour’s Mason of Appleby’s, who was

  standing at his house gate imbibing fresh air, preparatory to going

  to bed, accosted him.

  “I say, Linton,” he said, “—hullo, you look a wreck, don’t you! – I

  say, what’s all this about your house?”

  “What about my house?”

  “Funking, and all that. Sheen, you know. Stanning has just been

  telling me.”

  “Th

  en he saw him, too!” exclaimed Linton, involuntarily.

  32

  THE WHITE FEATHER

  “Oh, it’s true, then? Did he really cut off like that? Stanning said

  he did, but I wouldn’t believe him at fi rst. You aren’t going? Good

  night.”

  So the thing was out. Linton had not counted on Stanning hav-

  ing seen what he and Dunstable had seen. It was impossible to hush

  it up now. Th

  e scutcheon of Seymour’s was defi nitely blotted. Th

  e

  name of the house was being held up to scorn in Appleby’s probably

  everywhere else as well. It was a nuisance, thought Linton, but it

  could not be helped. After all, it was a judgment on the house for

  harbouring such a specimen as Sheen.

  In Seymour’s there was tumult and an impromptu indignation

  meeting. Stanning had gone to work scientifi cally. From the mo-

  ment that, ducking under the guard of a sturdy town youth, he had

  caught sight of Sheen retreating from the fray, he had grasped the

  fact that here, ready-made, was his chance of working off his grudge

  against him. All he had to do was to spread the news abroad, and

  the school would do the rest. On his return from the town he had

  mentioned the facts of the case to one or two of the more garrulous

  members of his house, and they had passed it on to everybody they

  met during the interval in the middle of preparation. By the end of

  preparation half the school knew what had happened.

  Seymour’s was furious. Th

  e senior day-room to a man con-

  demned Sheen. Th

  e junior day-room was crimson in the face and

  incoherent. Th

  e demeanour of a junior in moments of excitement

  generally lacks that repose which marks the philosopher.

  “He ought to be kicked,” shrilled Renford.

  “We shall get rotted by those kids in Dexter’s,” moaned

  Harvey.

  “Disgracing the house!” thundered Watson.

  “Let’s go and chuck things at his door,” suggested Renford.

  A move was made to the passage in which Sheen’s study was

  situated, and, with divers groans and howls, the junior day-room

  hove football boots and cricket stumps at the door.

  Th

  e success of the meeting, however, was entirely neutralised by

  the fact that in the same passage stood the study of Rigby, the head

  of the house. Also Rigby was trying at the moment to turn into idi-

  omatic Greek verse the words: “Th

  e Days of Peace and Slumberous

  calm have fl ed”, and this corroboration of the statement annoyed

  him to the extent of causing him to dash out and sow lines among

  33

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  the revellers like some monarch scattering largesse. Th

  e junior day-

  room retired to its lair to inveigh against the brutal ways of those in

  authority, and begin working off the commission it had received.

  Th

  e howls in the passage were the fi rst offi

  cial intimation Sheen

  had received that his shortcomings were public property. Th

  e word

  “Funk!” shouted through his keyhole, had not unnaturally given

  him an inkling as to the state of aff airs.

  So Drummond had given him away, he thought. Probably he

  had told Linton the whole story the moment after he, Sheen, had

  met the latter at the door of the study. And perhaps he was now

  telling it to the rest of the house. Of all the mixed sensations from

  which he suff ered as he went to his dormitory that night, one of

  resentment against Drummond was the keenest.

  Sheen was in the fourth dormitory, where the majority of the

  day-room slept. He was in the position of a sort of extra house pre-

  fect, as far as the dormitory was concerned. It was a large dormitory,

  and Mr Seymour had fancied that it might, perhaps, be something

  of a handful for a single prefect. As a matter of fact, however, Drum-

  mond, who was in charge, had shown early in the term that he was

  more than capable of managing the place single handed. He was

  popular and determined. Th

  e dormitory was orderly, partly because

  it liked him, principally because it had to be.

  He had an opportunity of exhibiting his powers of control that

  night. When Sheen came in, the room was full. Drummond was in

  bed, reading his novel. Th

  e other ornaments of the dormitory were

  in various stages of undress.

  As Sheen appeared, a sudden hissing broke out from the farther

  corner of the room. Sheen fl ushed, and walked to his bed. Th

  e hiss-

  ing increased in volume and richness.

  “Shut up that noise,” said Drummond, without looking up from

  his book.

  Th

  e hissing diminished. Only two or three of the more reckless

  kept it up.

  Drummond looked across the room at them.

  “Stop that noise, and get into bed,” he said quietly.

  Th

  e hissing ceased. He went on with his book again.

  Silence reigned in dormitory four.

  34

  THE WHITE FEATHER

  Chapter 

  Albert Redivivus

  By murdering in cold blood a large and respected family, and after-

  wards depositing their bodies in a reservoir, one may gain, we are

  told, much unpopularity in the neighbourhood of one’s crime; while

  robbing a church will get one cordially disliked especially by the

  vicar. But, to be really an outcast, to feel that one has no friend in the

  world, one must break an important public-school commandment.

  Sheen had always been something of a hermit. In his most so-

  ciable moments he had never had more than one or two friends; but

  he had never before known what it meant to be completely isolated.

 

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