Mike

After the first novelty of the thing had worn off, the school had taken a rooted dislike to fire drill.  It was a matter for self-congratulation among them that Mr. Downing had never been able to induce the headmaster to allow the alarm bell to be sounded for fire drill at night.  The headmaster, a man who had his views on the amount of sleep necessary for the growing boy, had drawn the line at night operations.  “Sufficient unto the day” had been the gist of his reply.  If the alarm bell were to ring at night when there was no fire, the school might mistake a genuine alarm of fire for a bogus one, and refuse to hurry themselves.

So Mr. Downing had had to be content with day drill.

The alarm bell hung in the archway leading into the school grounds.  The end of the rope, when not in use, was fastened to a hook half-way up the wall.

Mike, as he raced over the cricket field, made up his mind in a flash that his only chance of getting out of this tangle was to shake his pursuer off for a space of time long enough to enable him to get to the rope and tug it.  Then the school would come out.  He would mix with them, and in the subsequent confusion get back to bed unnoticed.

The task was easier than it would have seemed at the beginning of the chase.  Mr. Downing, owing to the two facts that he was not in the strictest training, and that it is only an Alfred Shrubb who can run for any length of time at top speed shouting “Who is that?  Stop!  Who is that?  Stop!” was beginning to feel distressed.  There were bellows to mend in the Downing camp.  Mike perceived this, and forced the pace.  He rounded the pavilion ten yards to the good.  Then, heading for the gate, he put all he knew into one last sprint.  Mr. Downing was not equal to the effort.  He worked gamely for a few strides, then fell behind.  When Mike reached the gate, a good forty yards separated them.

As far as Mike could judge—­he was not in a condition to make nice calculations—­he had about four seconds in which to get busy with that bell rope.

Probably nobody has ever crammed more energetic work into four seconds than he did then.

The night was as still as only an English summer night can be, and the first clang of the clapper sounded like a million iron girders falling from a height on to a sheet of tin.  He tugged away furiously, with an eye on the now rapidly advancing and loudly shouting figure of the housemaster.

And from the darkened house beyond there came a gradually swelling hum, as if a vast hive of bees had been disturbed.

The school was awake.

CHAPTER XLVI THE DECORATION OF SAMMY

Psmith leaned against the mantelpiece in the senior day-room at Outwood’s—­since Mike’s innings against Downing’s the Lost Lambs had been received as brothers by that centre of disorder, so that even Spiller was compelled to look on the hatchet as buried—­and gave his views on the events of the preceding night, or, rather, of that morning, for it was nearer one than twelve when peace had once more fallen on the school.

“Nothing that happens in this luny-bin,” said Psmith, “has power to surprise me now.  There was a time when I might have thought it a little unusual to have to leave the house through a canvas shoot at one o’clock in the morning, but I suppose it’s quite the regular thing here.  Old school tradition, &c.  Men leave the school, and find that they’ve got so accustomed to jumping out of window that they look on it as a sort of affectation to go out by the door.  I suppose none of you merchants can give me any idea when the next knockabout entertainment of this kind is likely to take place?”

“I wonder who rang that bell!” said Stone.  “Jolly sporting idea.”

“I believe it was Downing himself.  If it was, I hope he’s satisfied.”

Jellicoe, who was appearing in society supported by a stick, looked meaningly at Mike, and giggled, receiving in answer a stony stare.  Mike had informed Jellicoe of the details of his interview with Mr. Barley at the “White Boar,” and Jellicoe, after a momentary splutter of wrath against the practical joker, was now in a particularly light-hearted mood.  He hobbled about, giggling at nothing and at peace with all the world.

“It was a stirring scene,” said Psmith.  “The agility with which Comrade Jellicoe boosted himself down the shoot was a triumph of mind over matter.  He seemed to forget his ankle.  It was the nearest thing to a Boneless Acrobatic Wonder that I have ever seen.”

“I was in a beastly funk, I can tell you.”

Stone gurgled.

“So was I,” he said, “for a bit.  Then, when I saw that it was all a rag, I began to look about for ways of doing the thing really well.  I emptied about six jugs of water on a gang of kids under my window.”

“I rushed into Downing’s, and ragged some of the beds,” said Robinson.