Once a Week by A. A. Milne
THE RENASCENCE OF BRITAIN
Peter Riley was one of those lucky people who take naturally to games.Actually he got his blue for cricket, rugger, and boxing, but hisperfect eye and wrist made him a beautiful player of any game with aball. Also he rode and shot well, and knew all about the inside of acar. But, although he was always enthusiastic about anything he wasdoing, he was not really keen on games. He preferred wandering about thecountry looking for birds' nests or discovering the haunts of rarebutterflies; he liked managing a small boat single-handed in a stiffbreeze; he would have enjoyed being upset and having to swim a long wayto shore. Most of all, perhaps, he loved to lie on the top of the cliffsand think of the wonderful things that he would do for England when hewas a Cabinet Minister. For politics was to be his profession, and hehad just taken a first in History by way of preparation for it.
There were a lot of silly people who envied Peter's mother. Theythought, poor dears, that she must be very, very proud of him, for theyregarded Peter as the ideal of the modern young Englishman. "If only myboy grows up to be like Peter Riley!" they used to say to themselves;and then add quickly, "But of course he'll be much nicer." In theirignorance they didn't see that it was the Peters of England who weremaking our country the laughing-stock of the world.
If you had been in Berlin in 1916, you would have seen Peter; for he hadbeen persuaded, much against his will, to uphold the honour of GreatBritain in the middle-weights at the Olympic Games. He got a position inthe papers as "P. Riley, disqualified"--the result, he could onlysuppose, of his folly in allowing his opponent to butt him in thestomach. He was both annoyed and amused about it; offered to fight hisvanquisher any time in England; and privately thanked Heaven that hecould now get back to London in time for his favourite sister's wedding.
But he didn't. The English trainer, who had been sent, at the publicexpense, to America for a year, to study the proper methods, got hold ofhim.
"I've been watching you, young man," he said. "You'll have to giveyourself up to me now. You're the coming champion."
"I'm sorry," said Peter politely, "but I shan't be fighting again."
"Fighting!" said the trainer scornfully. "Don't you worry; I'll takegood care that you don't fight any more. The event _you're_ going to winis 'Pushing the Chisel.' I've been watching you, and you've got the mostperfect neck and calf-muscles for it I've ever seen. No more fightingfor you, my boy; nor cricket, nor anything else. I'm not going to letyou spoil those muscles."
"I don't think I've ever pushed the Chisel," said Peter. "Besides, it'sover, isn't it?"
"Over? Of course it's over, and that confounded American won. 'Poor oldEngland,' as all the papers said."
"Then it's too late to begin to practise," said Peter thankfully.
"Well, it's too late for the 1920 games. But we can do a lot in eightyears, and I think I can get you fit for the 1924 games at Pekin."
Peter stared at him in amazement.
"My good man," he said at last, "in 1924 I shall be in London; and Ihope in the House of Commons."
"And what about the honour of your country? Do you want to read thejeers in the American papers when we lose 'Pushing the Chisel' in 1924?"
"I don't care a curse what the American papers say," said Peter angrily.
"Then you're very different from other Englishmen," said the trainersternly.
. . . . .
Of course, Peter was persuaded; he couldn't let England be thelaughing-stock of the world. So for eight years he lived under the eyeof the trainer, rising at five and retiring to bed at seven-thirty. Thisprevented him from taking much part in the ordinary social activities ofthe evening; and even his luncheon and garden-party invitations had tobe declined in some such words as "Mr. Peter Riley regrets that he isunable to accept Lady Vavasour's kind invitation for Monday the 13th, ashe will be hopping round the garden on one leg then." His career, too,had to be abandoned; for it was plain that, even if he had the leisureto get into Parliament, the early hours he kept would not allow him totake part in any important divisions.
But there were compensations. As he watched his calves swell; as helooked in the glass and noticed each morning that his head was a littlemore on one side--sure sign of the expert Chisel-pusher; as, still surersign, his hands became more knuckly and his mouth remained morepermanently open, he knew that his devotion to duty would not be withoutits reward. He saw already his country triumphing, and heard the chorusof congratulation in the newspapers that England was still a nation ofsportsmen....
In 1924 Pekin was crowded. There were, of course, the ordinary millioninhabitants; and, in addition, people had thronged from all parts tosee the great Chisel-pusher of whom so much had been heard. That theydid not come in vain, we in London knew one July morning as we openedour papers.
"PUSHING THE CHISEL (_Free Style_).
"1. P. Riley (Great Britain), 5-3/4 in. (World's Record). 2. H. Biffpoffer (America), 5-1/2 in. A. Wafer (America) was disqualified for going outside the wood."
. . . . .
And so England was herself again. There was only one discordant note inher triumph. Mr. P. A. Vaile pointed out in all the papers that PeterRiley, in the usual pig-headed English way, had been employing entirelythe wrong grip. Mr. Vaile's book, _How to Push the Chisel_, illustratedwith 50 full plates of Mr. Vaile in knickerbockers pushing the Chisel,explained the correct method.