P. G. Wodehouse Read Online Free PDF Page A

a burly working-man treads heavily on your gouty
foot. In Ladbroke Grove a passing hansom splashes you with mud.
Reaching home, you find that the cat has been at the cold chicken and
the butler has given notice. You do not connect these things, but they
are all alike the results of your unjust behaviour to your office-boy
in the morning. Or, meeting a ragged little matchseller, you pat his
head and give him six-pence. Next day an anonymous present of champagne
arrives at your address.
    Terrible in their wrath, the Boy Scouts never forget kindness.
*
    The whistle of a Striped Iguanodon sounded softly in the darkness. The
sentry, who was pacing to and fro before the camp-fire, halted, and
peered into the night. As he peered, he uttered the plaintive note of a
zebra calling to its mate.
    A voice from the darkness said, "Een gonyama-gonyama."
    "Invooboo," replied the sentry argumentatively "Yah bo! Yah bo!
Invooboo."
    An indistinct figure moved forward.
    "Who goes there?"
    "A friend."
    "Advance, friend, and give the countersign."
    "Remember Mafeking, and death to Injuns."
    "Pass friend! All's well."
    The figure walked on into the firelight. The sentry started; then
saluted and stood to attention. On his face was a worshipping look of
admiration and awe, such as some young soldier of the Grande Armee
might have worn on seeing Napoleon; for the newcomer was Clarence
Chugwater.
    "Your name?" said Clarence, eyeing the sturdy young warrior.
    "Private William Buggins, sir."
    "You watch well, Private Buggins. England has need of such as you."
    He pinched the young Scout's ear tolerantly. The sentry flushed with
pleasure.
    "My orders have been carried out?" said Clarence.
    "Yes, sir. The patrols are all here."
    "Enumerate them."
    "The Chinchilla Kittens, the Bongos, the Zebras, the Iguanodons, the
Welsh Rabbits, the Snapping Turtles, and a half-patrol of the 33rd
London Gazekas, sir."
    Clarence nodded.
    "'Tis well," he said. "What are they doing?"
    "Some of them are acting a Scout's play, sir; some are doing Cone
Exercises; one or two are practising deep breathing; and the rest are
dancing an Old English Morris Dance."
    Clarence nodded.
    "They could not be better employed. Inform them that I have arrived and
would address them."
    The sentry saluted.
    Standing in an attitude of deep thought, with his feet apart, his hands
clasped behind him, and his chin sunk upon his breast, Clarence made a
singularly impressive picture. He had left his Essex home three weeks
before, on the expiration of his ten days' holiday, to return to his
post of junior sub-reporter on the staff of a leading London evening
paper. It was really only at night now that he got any time to himself.
During the day his time was his paper's, and he was compelled to spend
the weary hours reading off results of races and other sporting items
on the tape-machine. It was only at 6 p.m. that he could begin to
devote himself to the service of his country.
    The Scouts had assembled now, and were standing, keen and alert, ready
to do Clarence's bidding.
    Clarence returned their salute moodily.
    "Scout-master Wagstaff," he said.
    The Scout-master, the leader of the troop formed by the various
patrols, stepped forward.
    "Let the war-dance commence."
    Clarence watched the evolutions absently. His heart was ill-attuned to
dances. But the thing had to be done, so it was as well to get it over.
When the last movement had been completed, he raised his hand.
    "Men," he said, in his clear, penetrating alto, "although you have not
the same facilities as myself for hearing the latest news, you are all,
by this time, doubtless aware that this England of ours lies 'neath the
proud foot of a conqueror. It is for us to save her. (Cheers, and a
voice "Invooboo!") I would call on you here and now to seize your
hockey-sticks and rush upon the invader, were it not, alas! that such
an action would merely result in your destruction. At present the
invader is too strong. We must wait; and something tells