A Prefect's Uncle

  [9]

  THE BISHOP FINISHES HIS RIDE

  Gethryn had started on his ride handicapped by two things. He did notknow his way after the first two miles, and the hedges at the roadsidehad just been clipped, leaving the roads covered with small thorns.

  It was the former of these circumstances that first made itselfapparent. For two miles the road ran straight, but after that it wasunexplored country. The Bishop, being in both cricket and footballteams, had few opportunities for cycling. He always brought his machineto School, but he very seldom used it.

  At the beginning of the unexplored country, an irresponsible personrecommended him to go straight on. He couldn't miss the road, said he.It was straight all the way. Gethryn thanked him, rode on, and havinggone a mile came upon three roads, each of which might quite well havebeen considered a continuation of the road on which he was already. Onecurved gently off to the right, the other two equally gently to theleft. He dismounted and the feelings of gratitude which he had bornetowards his informant for his lucid directions vanished suddenly. Hegazed searchingly at the three roads, but to single out one of them asstraighter than the other two was a task that baffled him completely. Asign-post informed him of three things. By following road one he mightget to Brindleham, and ultimately, if he persevered, to Corden. Roadnumber two would lead him to Old Inns, whatever they might be, with thefurther inducement of Little Benbury, while if he cast in his lot withroad three he might hope sooner or later to arrive at MuchMiddlefold-on-the-Hill, and Lesser Middlefold-in-the-Vale. But on thesubject of Anfield and Anfield Junction the board was silent.

  Two courses lay open to him. Should he select a route at random, orwait for somebody to come and direct him? He waited. He went onwaiting. He waited a considerable time, and at last, just as he wasabout to trust to luck, and make for Much Middlefold-on-the-Hill, afigure loomed in sight, a slow-moving man, who strolled down the OldInns road at a pace which seemed to argue that he had plenty of time onhis hands.

  'I say, can you tell me the way to Anfield, please?' said the Bishop ashe came up.

  The man stopped, apparently rooted to the spot. He surveyed the Bishopwith a glassy but determined stare from head to foot. Then he lookedearnestly at the bicycle, and finally, in perfect silence, began toinspect the Bishop again.

  'Eh?' he said at length.

  'Can you tell me the way to Anfield?'

  'Anfield?'

  'Yes. How do I get there?'

  The man perpended, and when he replied did so after the style of thelate and great Ollendorf.

  'Old Inns,' he said dreamily, waving a hand down the road by which hehad come, 'be over there.'

  'Yes, yes, I know,' said Gethryn.

  'Was born at Old Inns, I was,' continued the man, warming to hissubject. 'Lived there fifty-five years, I have. Yeou go straight downthe road an' yeou cam t' Old Inns. Yes, that be the way t' Old Inns.'

  Gethryn nobly refrained from rending the speaker limb from limb.

  'I don't want to know the way to Old Inns,' he said desperately. 'WhereI want to get is Anfield. Anfield, you know. Which way do I go?'

  'Anfield?' said the man. Then a brilliant flash of intelligenceillumined his countenance. 'Whoy, Anfield be same road as Old Inns.Yeou go straight down the road, an'--'

  'Thanks very much,' said Gethryn, and without waiting for furtherrevelations shot off in the direction indicated. A quarter of a milefarther he looked over his shoulder. The man was still there, gazingafter him in a kind of trance.

  The Bishop passed through Old Inns with some way on his machine. He hadmuch lost time to make up. A signpost bearing the legend 'Anfield fourmiles' told him that he was nearing his destination. The notice hadchanged to three miles and again to two, when suddenly he felt thatjarring sensation which every cyclist knows. His back tyre waspunctured. It was impossible to ride on. He got off and walked. He wasstill in his cricket clothes, and the fact that he had on spiked bootsdid not make walking any the easier. His progress was not rapid.

  Half an hour before his one wish had been to catch sight of afellow-being. Now, when he would have preferred to have avoided hisspecies, men seemed to spring up from nowhere, and every man of themhad a remark to make or a question to ask about the punctured tyre.Reserve is not the leading characteristic of the average yokel.

  Gethryn, however, refused to be drawn into conversation on the subject.At last one, more determined than the rest, brought him to bay.

  'Hoy, mister, stop,' called a voice. Gethryn turned. A man was runningup the road towards him.

  He arrived panting.

  'What's up?' said the Bishop.

  'You've got a puncture,' said the man, pointing an accusing finger atthe flattened tyre.

  It was not worth while killing the brute. Probably he was acting fromthe best motives.

  'No,' said Gethryn wearily, 'it isn't a puncture. I always let the airout when I'm riding. It looks so much better, don't you think so? Whydid they let you out? Good-bye.'

  And feeling a little more comfortable after this outburst, he wheeledhis bicycle on into Anfield High Street.

  Minds in the village of Anfield worked with extraordinary rapidity. Thefirst person of whom he asked the way to the Junction answered theriddle almost without thinking. He left his machine out in the road andwent on to the platform. The first thing that caught his eye was thestation clock with its hands pointing to five past four. And when herealized that, his uncle's train having left a clear half hour before,his labours had all been for nothing, the full bitterness of life camehome to him.

  He was turning away from the station when he stopped. Something elsehad caught his eye. On a bench at the extreme end of the platform sat ayouth. And a further scrutiny convinced the Bishop of the fact that theyouth was none other than Master Reginald Farnie, late of Beckford, andshortly, or he would know the reason why, to be once more of Beckford.Other people besides himself, it appeared, could miss trains.

  Farnie was reading one of those halfpenny weeklies which--with a nervewhich is the only creditable thing about them--call themselves comic.He did not see the Bishop until a shadow falling across his papercaused him to look up.

  It was not often that he found himself unequal to a situation. Monk ina recent conversation had taken him aback somewhat, but his feelings onthat occasion were not to be compared with what he felt on seeing theone person whom he least desired to meet standing at his side. His jawdropped limply, _Comic Blitherings_ fluttered to the ground.

  The Bishop was the first to speak. Indeed, if he had waited for Farnieto break the silence, he would have waited long.

  'Get up,' he said. Farnie got up.

  'Come on.' Farnie came.

  'Go and get your machine,' said Gethryn. 'Hurry up. And now you willjolly well come back to Beckford, you little beast.'

  But before that could be done there was Gethryn's back wheel to bemended. This took time. It was nearly half past four before theystarted.

  'Oh,' said Gethryn, as they were about to mount, 'there's that money. Iwas forgetting. Out with it.'

  Ten pounds had been the sum Farnie had taken from the study. Six wasall he was able to restore. Gethryn enquired after the deficit.

  'I gave it to Monk,' said Farnie.

  To Gethryn, in his present frame of mind, the mere mention of Monk wassufficient to uncork the vials of his wrath.

  'What the blazes did you do that for? What's Monk got to do with it?'

  'He said he'd get me sacked if I didn't pay him,' whined Farnie.

  This was not strictly true. Monk had not said. He had hinted. And hehad hinted at flogging, not expulsion.

  'Why?' pursued the Bishop. 'What had you and Monk been up to?'

  Farnie, using his out-of-bounds adventures as a foundation, worked up ahighly artistic narrative of doings, which, if they had actually beenperformed, would certainly have entailed expulsion. He had judgedGethryn's character correctly. If the matter had been simply a case fora flogging, the Bishop would have stoo
d aside and let the thing go on.Against the extreme penalty of School law he felt bound as a matter offamily duty to shield his relative. And he saw a bad time coming forhimself in the very near future. Either he must expose Farnie, which hehad resolved not to do, or he must refuse to explain his absence fromthe M.C.C. match, for by now there was not the smallest chance of hisbeing able to get back in time for the visitors' innings. As he rode onhe tried to imagine what would happen in consequence of that desertion,and he could not do it. His crime was, so far as he knew, absolutelywithout precedent in the School history.

  As they passed the cricket field he saw that it was empty. Stumps wereusually drawn early in the M.C.C. match if the issue of the game wasout of doubt, as the Marylebone men had trains to catch. Evidently thishad happened today. It might mean that the School had won easily--theyhad looked like making a big score when he had left the ground--inwhich case public opinion would be more lenient towards him. After avictory a school feels that all's well that ends well. But it might, onthe other hand, mean quite the reverse.

  He put his machine up, and hurried to the study. Several boys, as hepassed them, looked curiously at him, but none spoke to him.

  Marriott was in the study, reading a book. He was still in flannels,and looked as if he had begun to change but had thought better of it.As was actually the case.

  'Hullo,' he cried, as Gethryn appeared. 'Where the dickens have youbeen all the afternoon? What on earth did you go off like that for?'

  'I'm sorry, old chap,' said the Bishop, 'I can't tell you. I shan't beable to tell anyone.'

  'But, man! Try and realize what you've done. Do you grasp the fact thatyou've gone and got the School licked in the M.C.C. match, and that wehaven't beaten the M.C.C. for about a dozen years, and that if you'dbeen there to bowl we should have walked over this time? Do try andgrasp the thing.'

  'Did they win?'

  'Rather. By a wicket. Two wickets, I mean. We made 213. Your bowlingwould just have done it.'

  Gethryn sat down.

  'Oh Lord,' he said blankly, 'this is awful!'

  'But, look here, Bishop,' continued Marriott, 'this is all rot. Youcan't do a thing like this, and then refuse to offer any explanation,and expect things to go on just as usual.'

  'I don't,' said Gethryn. 'I know there's going to be a row, but I can'texplain. You'll have to take me on trust.'

  'Oh, as far as I am concerned, it's all right,' said Marriott. 'I knowyou wouldn't be ass enough to do a thing like that without a jolly goodreason. It's the other chaps I'm thinking about. You'll find it jollyhard to put Norris off, I'm afraid. He's most awfully sick about thematch. He fielded badly, which always makes him shirty. Jephson, too.You'll have a bad time with Jephson. His one wish after the match wasto have your gore and plenty of it. Nothing else would have pleased hima bit. And think of the chaps in the House, too. Just consider what apull this gives Monk and his mob over you. The House'll want somelooking after now, I fancy.'

  'And they'll get it,' said Gethryn. 'If Monk gives me any of hisbeastly cheek, I'll knock his head off.'

  But in spite of the consolation which such a prospect afforded him, hedid not look forward with pleasure to the next day, when he would haveto meet Norris and the rest. It would have been bad in any case. He didnot care to think what would happen when he refused to offer theslightest explanation.