P. G. Wodehouse

It may be thought by some that in the pages which follow I have painted
in too lurid colours the horrors of a foreign invasion of England.
Realism in art, it may be argued, can be carried too far. I prefer to
think that the majority of my readers will acquit me of a desire to be
unduly sensational. It is necessary that England should be roused to a
sense of her peril, and only by setting down without flinching the
probable results of an invasion can this be done. This story, I may
mention, has been written and published purely from a feeling of
patriotism and duty. Mr. Alston Rivers' sensitive soul will be jarred
to its foundations if it is a financial success. So will mine. But in a
time of national danger we feel that the risk must be taken. After all,
at the worst, it is a small sacrifice to make for our country.

P. G. WODEHOUSE.

The Bomb-Proof Shelter,
London, W.

August the First, 19—

Clarence Chugwater looked around him with a frown, and gritted his
teeth.

"England—my England!" he moaned.

Clarence was a sturdy lad of some fourteen summers. He was neatly, but
not gaudily, dressed in a flat-brimmed hat, a coloured handkerchief, a
flannel shirt, a bunch of ribbons, a haversack, football shorts, brown
boots, a whistle, and a hockey-stick. He was, in fact, one of General
Baden-Powell's Boy Scouts.

Scan him closely. Do not dismiss him with a passing glance; for you are
looking at the Boy of Destiny, at Clarence MacAndrew Chugwater, who
saved England.

To-day those features are familiar to all. Everyone has seen the
Chugwater Column in Aldwych, the equestrian statue in Chugwater Road
(formerly Piccadilly), and the picture-postcards in the stationers'
windows. That bulging forehead, distended with useful information; that
massive chin; those eyes, gleaming behind their spectacles; that
tout ensemble
; that
je ne sais quoi
.

In a word, Clarence!

He could do everything that the Boy Scout must learn to do. He could
low like a bull. He could gurgle like a wood-pigeon. He could imitate
the cry of the turnip in order to deceive rabbits. He could smile and
whistle simultaneously in accordance with Rule 8 (and only those who
have tried this know how difficult it is). He could spoor, fell trees,
tell the character from the boot-sole, and fling the squaler. He did
all these things well, but what he was really best at was flinging the
squaler.

Clarence, on this sultry August afternoon, was tensely occupied
tracking the family cat across the dining-room carpet by its
foot-prints. Glancing up for a moment, he caught sight of the other
members of the family.

"England, my England!" he moaned.

It was indeed a sight to extract tears of blood from any Boy Scout. The
table had been moved back against the wall, and in the cleared space
Mr. Chugwater, whose duty it was to have set an example to his
children, was playing diabolo. Beside him, engrossed in cup-and-ball,
was his wife. Reggie Chugwater, the eldest son, the heir, the hope of
the house, was reading the cricket news in an early edition of the
evening paper. Horace, his brother, was playing pop-in-taw with his
sister Grace and Grace's
fiance
, Ralph Peabody. Alice, the other
Miss Chugwater, was mending a Badminton racquet.

Not a single member of that family was practising with the rifle, or
drilling, or learning to make bandages.

Clarence groaned.

"If you can't play without snorting like that, my boy," said Mr.
Chugwater, a little irritably, "you must find some other game. You made
me jump just as I was going to beat my record."

"Talking of records," said Reggie, "Fry's on his way to his eighth
successive century. If he goes on like this, Lancashire will win the
championship."

"I thought he was playing for Somerset," said Horace.

"That was a fortnight ago. You ought to keep up to date in an important
subject like cricket."

Once more Clarence snorted bitterly.

"I'm sure you ought not to be down on the floor, Clarence," said Mr.
Chugwater anxiously. "It is so draughty, and you have evidently got a
nasty cold.
Must
you lie on the floor?"

"I am spooring," said Clarence with simple dignity.

"But I'm sure you can spoor better sitting on a chair with a nice
book."

"
I
think the kid's sickening for something," put in Horace
critically. "He's deuced roopy. What's up, Clarry?"

"I was thinking," said Clarence, "of my country—of England."

"What's the matter with England?"

"
She's
all right," murmured Ralph Peabody.

"My fallen country!" sighed Clarence, a not unmanly tear bedewing the
glasses of his spectacles. "My fallen, stricken country!"

"That kid," said Reggie, laying down his paper, "is talking right
through his hat. My dear old son, are you aware that England has never
been so strong all round as she is now? Do you
ever
read the
papers? Don't you know that we've got the Ashes and the Golf
Championship, and the Wibbley-wob Championship, and the Spiropole,
Spillikins, Puff-Feather, and Animal Grab Championships? Has it come to
your notice that our croquet pair beat America last Thursday by eight
hoops? Did you happen to hear that we won the Hop-skip-and-jump at the
last Olympic Games? You've been out in the woods, old sport."

Clarence's heart was too full for words. He rose in silence, and
quitted the room.

"Got the pip or something!" said Reggie. "Rum kid! I say, Hirst's
bowling well! Five for twenty-three so far!"

Clarence wandered moodily out of the house. The Chugwaters lived in a
desirable villa residence, which Mr. Chugwater had built in Essex. It
was a typical Englishman's Home. Its name was Nasturtium Villa.

As Clarence walked down the road, the excited voice of a newspaper-boy
came to him. Presently the boy turned the corner, shouting, "Ker-lapse
of Surrey! Sensational bowling at the Oval!"

He stopped on seeing Clarence.

"Paper, General?"

Clarence shook his head. Then he uttered a startled exclamation, for
his eye had fallen on the poster.

It ran as follows:—

SURREY
DOING
BADLY
GERMAN ARMY LANDS IN ENGLAND

Clarence flung the boy a halfpenny, tore a paper from his grasp, and
scanned it eagerly. There was nothing to interest him in the body of
the journal, but he found what he was looking for in the stop-press
space. "Stop press news," said the paper. "Fry not out, 104. Surrey 147
for 8. A German army landed in Essex this afternoon. Loamshire
Handicap: Spring Chicken, 1; Salome, 2; Yip-i-addy, 3. Seven ran."

Essex! Then at any moment the foe might be at their doors; more, inside
their doors. With a passionate cry, Clarence tore back to the house.

He entered the dining-room with the speed of a highly-trained Marathon
winner, just in time once more to prevent Mr. Chugwater lowering his
record.

"The Germans!" shouted Clarence. "We are invaded!"

This time Mr. Chugwater was really annoyed.

"If I have told you once about your detestable habit of shouting in the
house, Clarence, I have told you a hundred times. If you cannot be a
Boy Scout quietly, you must stop being one altogether. I had got up to
six that time."

"But, father—"

"Silence! You will go to bed this minute; and I shall consider the
question whether you are to have any supper. It will depend largely on
your behaviour between now and then. Go!"

"But, father—"

Clarence dropped the paper, shaken with emotion. Mr. Chugwater's
sternness deepened visibly.

"Clarence! Must I speak again?"

He stooped and removed his right slipper.

Clarence withdrew.

Reggie picked up the paper.

"That kid," he announced judicially, "is off his nut! Hullo! I told you
so! Fry not out, 104. Good old Charles!"

"I say," exclaimed Horace, who sat nearest the window, "there are two
rummy-looking chaps coming to the front door, wearing a sort of fancy
dress!"

"It must be the Germans," said Reggie. "The paper says they landed here
this afternoon. I expect—"

A thunderous knock rang through the house. The family looked at one
another. Voices were heard in the hall, and next moment the door opened
and the servant announced "Mr. Prinsotto and Mr. Aydycong."

"Or, rather," said the first of the two newcomers, a tall, bearded,
soldierly man, in perfect English, "Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig and
Captain the Graf von Poppenheim, his aide-de-camp."

"Just so—just so!" said Mr. Chugwater, affably. "Sit down, won't you?"

The visitors seated themselves. There was an awkward silence.

"Warm day!" said Mr. Chugwater.

"Very!" said the Prince, a little constrainedly.

"Perhaps a cup of tea? Have you come far?"

"Well—er—pretty far. That is to say, a certain distance. In fact,
from Germany."

"I spent my summer holiday last year at Dresden. Capital place!"

"Just so. The fact is, Mr.—er—"

"Chugwater. By the way—my wife, Mrs. Chugwater."

The prince bowed. So did his aide-de-camp.

"The fact is, Mr. Jugwater," resumed the prince, "we are not here on a
holiday."

"Quite so, quite so. Business before pleasure."

The prince pulled at his moustache. So did his aide-de-camp, who seemed
to be a man of but little initiative and conversational resource.

"We are invaders."

"Not at all, not at all," protested Mr. Chugwater.

"I must warn you that you will resist at your peril. You wear no
uniform—"

"Wouldn't dream of such a thing. Except at the lodge, of course."

"You will be sorely tempted, no doubt. Do not think that I do not
appreciate your feelings. This is an Englishman's Home."