P. G. Wodehouse (8 page)

The rest—A. G. Hales, Frederick Villiers, Charles Hands, and the
others—met, on a smaller scale, the same fate as Edgar Wallace. Hales,
starting for Tottenham, arrived in Croydon, very tired, with a nail in
his boot. Villiers, equally unlucky, fetched up at Richmond. The most
curious fate of all was reserved for Charles Hands. As far as can be
gathered, he got on all right till he reached Leicester Square. There
he lost his bearings, and seems to have walked round and round
Shakespeare's statue, under the impression that he was going straight
to Tottenham. After a day and a-half of this he sat down to rest, and
was there found, when the fog had cleared, by a passing policeman.

And all the while the unseen guns boomed and thundered, and strange,
thin shoutings came faintly through the darkness.

It was the afternoon of Wednesday, September the Sixteenth. The battle
had been over for twenty-four hours. The fog had thinned to a light
lemon colour. It was raining.

By now the country was in possession of the main facts. Full details
were not to be expected, though it is to the credit of the newspapers
that, with keen enterprise, they had at once set to work to invent
them, and on the whole had not done badly.

Broadly, the facts were that the Russian army, outmanoeuvered, had been
practically annihilated. Of the vast force which had entered England
with the other invaders there remained but a handful. These, the Grand
Duke Vodkakoff among them, were prisoners in the German lines at
Tottenham.

The victory had not been gained bloodlessly. Not a fifth of the German
army remained. It is estimated that quite two-thirds of each army must
have perished in that last charge of the Germans up the Hampstead
heights, which ended in the storming of Jack Straw's Castle and the
capture of the Russian general.

Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig lay sleeping in his tent at Tottenham. He
was worn out. In addition to the strain of the battle, there had been
the heavy work of seeing the interviewers, signing autograph-books,
sitting to photographers, writing testimonials for patent medicines,
and the thousand and one other tasks, burdensome but unavoidable, of
the man who is in the public eye. Also he had caught a bad cold during
the battle. A bottle of ammoniated quinine lay on the table beside him
now as he slept.

As he lay there the flap of the tent was pulled softly aside. Two
figures entered. Each was dressed in a flat-brimmed hat, a coloured
handkerchief, a flannel shirt, football shorts, stockings, brown boots,
and a whistle. Each carried a hockey-stick. One, however, wore
spectacles and a look of quiet command which showed that he was the
leader.

They stood looking at the prostrate general for some moments. Then the
spectacled leader spoke.

"Scout-Master Wagstaff."

The other saluted.

"Wake him!"

Scout-Master Wagstaff walked to the side of the bed, and shook the
sleeper's shoulder. The Prince grunted, and rolled over on to his other
side. The Scout-Master shook him again. He sat up, blinking.

As his eyes fell on the quiet, stern, spectacled figure, he leaped from
the bed.

"What—what—what," he stammered. "What's the beadig of this?"

He sneezed as he spoke, and, turning to the table, poured out and
drained a bumper of ammoniated quinine.

"I told the sedtry pardicularly not to let adybody id. Who are you?"

The intruder smiled quietly.

"My name is Clarence Chugwater," he said simply.

"Jugwater? Dod't doe you frob Adab. What do you want? If you're forb
sub paper, I cad't see you now. Cub to-borrow bordig."

"I am from no paper."

"Thed you're wud of these photographers. I tell you, I cad't see you."

"I am no photographer."

"Thed what are you?"

The other drew himself up.

"I am England," he said with a sublime gesture.

"Igglud! How do you bead you're Igglud? Talk seds."

Clarence silenced him with a frown.

"I say I am England. I am the Chief Scout, and the Scouts are England.
Prince Otto, you thought this England of ours lay prone and helpless.
You were wrong. The Boy Scouts were watching and waiting. And now their
time has come. Scout-Master Wagstaff, do your duty."

The Scout-Master moved forward. The Prince, bounding to the bed, thrust
his hand under the pillow. Clarence's voice rang out like a trumpet.

"Cover that man!"

The Prince looked up. Two feet away Scout-Master Wagstaff was standing,
catapult in hand, ready to shoot.

"He is never known to miss," said Clarence warningly.

The Prince wavered.

"He has broken more windows than any other boy of his age in South
London."

The Prince sullenly withdrew his hand—empty.

"Well, whad do you wad?" he snarled.

"Resistance is useless," said Clarence. "The moment I have plotted and
planned for has come. Your troops, worn out with fighting, mere shadows
of themselves, have fallen an easy prey. An hour ago your camp was
silently surrounded by patrols of Boy Scouts, armed with catapults and
hockey-sticks. One rush and the battle was over. Your entire army, like
yourself, are prisoners."

"The diggids they are!" said the Prince blankly.

"England, my England!" cried Clarence, his face shining with a holy
patriotism. "England, thou art free! Thou hast risen from the ashes of
the dead self. Let the nations learn from this that it is when
apparently crushed that the Briton is to more than ever be feared."

"Thad's bad grabbar," said the Prince critically.

"It isn't," said Clarence with warmth.

"It
is
, I tell you. Id's a splid idfididive."

Clarence's eyes flashed fire.

"I don't want any of your beastly cheek," he said. "Scout-Master
Wagstaff, remove your prisoner."

"All the sabe," said the Prince, "id
is
a splid idfididive."

Clarence pointed silently to the door.

"And you doe id is," persisted the Prince. "And id's spoiled your big
sbeech. Id—"

"Come on, can't you," interrupted Scout-Master Wagstaff.

"I
ab
cubbing, aren't I? I was odly saying—"

"I'll give you such a whack over the shin with this hockey-stick in a
minute!" said the Scout-Master warningly. "Come
on
!"

The Prince went.

The brilliantly-lighted auditorium of the Palace Theatre.

Everywhere a murmur and stir. The orchestra is playing a selection. In
the stalls fair women and brave men converse in excited whispers. One
catches sentences here and there.

"Quite a boy, I believe!"

"How perfectly sweet!"

"'Pon honour, Lady Gussie, I couldn't say. Bertie Bertison, of the
Bachelors', says a feller told him it was a clear thousand."

"Do you hear that? Mr. Bertison says that this boy is getting a
thousand a week."

"Why, that's more than either of those horrid generals got."

"It's a lot of money, isn't it?"

"Of course, he did save the country, didn't he?"

"You may depend they wouldn't give it him if he wasn't worth it."

"Met him last night at the Duchess's hop. Seems a decent little chap.
No side and that, if you know what I mean. Hullo, there's his number!"

The orchestra stops. The number 7 is displayed. A burst of applause,
swelling into a roar as the curtain rises.

A stout man in crinkled evening-dress walks on to the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, "I 'ave the 'onour to-night to
introduce to you one whose name is, as the saying goes, a nouse'old
word. It is thanks to 'im, to this 'ero whom I 'ave the 'onour to
introduce to you to-night, that our beloved England no longer writhes
beneath the ruthless 'eel of the alien oppressor. It was this 'ero's
genius—and, I may say—er—I may say genius—that, unaided, 'it upon
the only way for removing the cruel conqueror from our beloved 'earths
and 'omes. It was this 'ero who, 'aving first allowed the invaders to
claw each other to 'ash (if I may be permitted the expression) after
the well-known precedent of the Kilkenny cats, thereupon firmly and
without flinching, stepped bravely in with his fellow-'eros—need I say
I allude to our gallant Boy Scouts?—and dexterously gave what-for in
no uncertain manner to the few survivors who remained."

Here the orator bowed, and took advantage of the applause to replenish
his stock of breath. When his face had begun to lose the purple tinge,
he raised his hand.

"I 'ave only to add," he resumed, "that this 'ero is engaged
exclusively by the management of the Palace Theatre of Varieties, at a
figure previously undreamed of in the annals of the music-hall stage.
He is in receipt of the magnificent weekly salary of no less than one
thousand one 'undred and fifty pounds a week."

Thunderous applause.

"I 'ave little more to add. This 'ero will first perform a few of those
physical exercises which have made our Boy Scouts what they are, such
as deep breathing, twisting the right leg firmly round the neck, and
hopping on one foot across the stage. He will then give an exhibition
of the various calls and cries of the Boy Scouts—all, as you doubtless
know, skilful imitations of real living animals. In this connection I
'ave to assure you that he 'as nothing whatsoever in 'is mouth, as it
'as been sometimes suggested. In conclusion he will deliver a short
address on the subject of 'is great exploits. Ladies and gentlemen, I
have finished, and it only now remains for me to retire, 'aving duly
announced to you England's Darling Son, the Country's 'Ero, the
Nation's Proudest Possession—Clarence Chugwater."

A moment's breathless suspense, a crash from the orchestra, and the
audience are standing on their seats, cheering, shouting, stamping.

A small sturdy, spectacled figure is on the stage.

It is Clarence, the Boy of Destiny.