The Gold Bat by P. G. Wodehouse
XV
A SPRAIN AND A VACANT PLACE
"I say," said Clowes, helping him up, "I'm awfully sorry. Did I do it?How did it happen?"
Barry was engaged in making various attempts at standing on the injuredleg. The process seemed to be painful.
"Shall I get a stretcher or anything? Can you walk?"
"If you'd help me over to the house, I could manage all right. What abeastly nuisance! It wasn't your fault a bit. Only you tackled me whenI was just trying to swerve, and my ankle was all twisted."
Drummond came up, carrying Barry's blazer and sweater.
"Hullo, Barry," he said, "what's up? You aren't crocked?"
"Something gone wrong with my ankle. That my blazer? Thanks. Comingover to the house? Clowes was just going to help me over."
Clowes asked a Donaldson's junior, who was lurking near at hand, tofetch his blazer and carry it over to the house, and then made his waywith Drummond and the disabled Barry to Seymour's. Having arrived atthe senior day-room, they deposited the injured three-quarter in achair, and sent M'Todd, who came in at the moment, to fetch the doctor.
Dr Oakes was a big man with a breezy manner, the sort of doctor whohits you with the force of a sledge-hammer in the small ribs, and asksyou if you felt anything _then_. It was on this principle that heacted with regard to Barry's ankle. He seized it in both hands and gaveit a wrench.
"Did that hurt?" he inquired anxiously.
Barry turned white, and replied that it did.
Dr Oakes nodded wisely.
"Ah! H'm! Just so. 'Myes. Ah."
"Is it bad?" asked Drummond, awed by these mystic utterances.
"My dear boy," replied the doctor, breezily, "it is always bad when onetwists one's ankle."
"How long will it do me out of footer?" asked Barry.
"How long? How long? How long? Why, fortnight. Fortnight," said thedoctor.
"Then I shan't be able to play next Saturday?"
"Next Saturday? Next Saturday? My dear boy, if you can put your foot tothe ground by next Saturday, you may take it as evidence that the ageof miracles is not past. Next Saturday, indeed! Ha, ha."
It was not altogether his fault that he treated the matter with suchbrutal levity. It was a long time since he had been at school, and hecould not quite realise what it meant to Barry not to be able to playagainst Ripton. As for Barry, he felt that he had never loathed anddetested any one so thoroughly as he loathed and detested Dr Oakes atthat moment.
"I don't see where the joke comes in," said Clowes, when he had gone."I bar that man."
"He's a beast," said Drummond. "I can't understand why they let a toutlike that be the school doctor."
Barry said nothing. He was too sore for words.
What Dr Oakes said to his wife that evening was: "Over at the school,my dear, this afternoon. This afternoon. Boy with a twisted ankle. Niceyoung fellow. Very much put out when I told him he could not playfootball for a fortnight. But I chaffed him, and cheered him up in notime. I cheered him up in no time, my dear."
"I'm sure you did, dear," said Mrs Oakes. Which shows how differentlythe same thing may strike different people. Barry certainly did notlook as if he had been cheered up when Clowes left the study and wentover to tell Trevor that he would have to find a substitute for hisright wing three-quarter against Ripton.
Trevor had left the field without noticing Barry's accident, and he wastremendously pleased at the result of the game.
"Good man," he said, when Clowes came in, "you saved the match."
"And lost the Ripton match probably," said Clowes, gloomily.
"What do you mean?"
"That last time I brought down Barry I crocked him. He's in his studynow with a sprained ankle. I've just come from there. Oakes has seenhim, and says he mustn't play for a fortnight."
"Great Scott!" said Trevor, blankly. "What on earth shall we do?"
"Why not move Strachan up to the wing, and put somebody else backinstead of him? Strachan is a good wing."
Trevor shook his head.
"No. There's nobody good enough to play back for the first. We mustn'trisk it."
"Then I suppose it must be Rand-Brown?"
"I suppose so."
"He may do better than we think. He played quite a decent game today.That try he got wasn't half a bad one."
"He'd be all right if he didn't funk. But perhaps he wouldn't funkagainst Ripton. In a match like that anybody would play up. I'll askMilton and Allardyce about it."
"I shouldn't go to Milton today," said Clowes. "I fancy he'll want anight's rest before he's fit to talk to. He must be a bit sick aboutthis match. I know he expected Seymour's to win."
He went out, but came back almost immediately.
"I say," he said, "there's one thing that's just occurred to me.This'll please the League. I mean, this ankle business of Barry's."
The same idea had struck Trevor. It was certainly a respite. But heregretted it for all that. What he wanted was to beat Ripton, andBarry's absence would weaken the team. However, it was good in its way,and cleared the atmosphere for the time. The League would hardly doanything with regard to the carrying out of their threat while Barrywas on the sick-list.
Next day, having given him time to get over the bitterness of defeatin accordance with Clowes' thoughtful suggestion, Trevor called onMilton, and asked him what his opinion was on the subject of theinclusion of Rand-Brown in the first fifteen in place of Barry.
"He's the next best man," he added, in defence of the proposal.
"I suppose so," said Milton. "He'd better play, I suppose. There's noone else."
"Clowes thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to shove Strachan on thewing, and put somebody else back."
"Who is there to put?"
"Jervis?"
"Not good enough. No, it's better to be weakish on the wing than atback. Besides, Rand-Brown may do all right. He played well againstyou."
"Yes," said Trevor. "Study looks a bit better now," he added, as he wasgoing, having looked round the room. "Still a bit bare, though."
Milton sighed. "It will never be what it was."
"Forty-three theatrical photographs want some replacing, of course,"said Trevor. "But it isn't bad, considering."
"How's yours?"
"Oh, mine's all right, except for the absence of photographs."
"I say, Trevor."
"Yes?" said Trevor, stopping at the door. Milton's voice had taken onthe tone of one who is about to disclose dreadful secrets.
"Would you like to know what I think?"
"What?"
"Why, I'm pretty nearly sure who it was that ragged my study?"
"By Jove! What have you done to him?"
"Nothing as yet. I'm not quite sure of my man."
"Who is the man?"
"Rand-Brown."
"By Jove! Clowes once said he thought Rand-Brown must be the Presidentof the League. But then, I don't see how you can account for _my_study being wrecked. He was out on the field when it was done."
"Why, the League, of course. You don't suppose he's the only man in it?There must be a lot of them."
"But what makes you think it was Rand-Brown?"
Milton told him the story of Shoeblossom, as Barry had told it to him.The only difference was that Trevor listened without any of thescepticism which Milton had displayed on hearing it. He was gettingexcited. It all fitted in so neatly. If ever there was circumstantialevidence against a man, here it was against Rand-Brown. Take the twocases. Milton had quarrelled with him. Milton's study was wrecked "withthe compliments of the League". Trevor had turned him out of the firstfifteen. Trevor's study was wrecked "with the compliments of theLeague". As Clowes had pointed out, the man with the most obviousmotive for not wishing Barry to play for the school was Rand-Brown. Itseemed a true bill.
"I shouldn't wonder if you're right," he said, "but of course one can'tdo anything yet. You want a lot more evidence. Anyhow, we must play himagainst Ripton, I suppose. Which i
"Ten."
Trevor knocked at the door of study Ten. Rand-Brown was sitting overthe fire, reading. He jumped up when he saw that it was Trevor who hadcome in, and to his visitor it seemed that his face wore a guilty look.
"What do you want?" said Rand-Brown.
It was not the politest way of welcoming a visitor. It increasedTrevor's suspicions. The man was afraid. A great idea darted into hismind. Why not go straight to the point and have it out with him hereand now? He had the League's letter about the bat in his pocket. Hewould confront him with it and insist on searching the study there andthen. If Rand-Brown were really, as he suspected, the writer of theletter, the bat must be in this room somewhere. Search it now, and hewould have no time to hide it. He pulled out the letter.
"I believe you wrote that," he said.
Trevor was always direct.
Rand-Brown seemed to turn a little pale, but his voice when he repliedwas quite steady.
"That's a lie," he said.
"Then, perhaps," said Trevor, "you wouldn't object to proving it."
"How?"
"By letting me search your study?"
"You don't believe my word?"
"Why should I? You don't believe mine."
Rand-Brown made no comment on this remark.
"Was that what you came here for?" he asked.
"No," said Trevor; "as a matter of fact, I came to tell you to turn outfor running and passing with the first tomorrow afternoon. You'replaying against Ripton on Saturday."
Rand-Brown's attitude underwent a complete transformation at the news.He became friendliness itself.
"All right," he said. "I say, I'm sorry I said what I did about lying.I was rather sick that you should think I wrote that rot you showed me.I hope you don't mind."
"Not a bit. Do you mind my searching your study?"
For a moment Rand-Brown looked vicious. Then he sat down with a laugh.
"Go on," he said; "I see you don't believe me. Here are the keys if youwant them."
Trevor thanked him, and took the keys. He opened every drawer andexamined the writing-desk. The bat was in none of these places. Helooked in the cupboards. No bat there.
"Like to take up the carpet?" inquired Rand-Brown.
"No, thanks."
"Search me if you like. Shall I turn out my pockets?"
"Yes, please," said Trevor, to his surprise. He had not expected to betaken literally.
Rand-Brown emptied them, but the bat was not there. Trevor turned togo.
"You've not looked inside the legs of the chairs yet," said Rand-Brown."They may be hollow. There's no knowing."
"It doesn't matter, thanks," said Trevor. "Sorry for troubling you.Don't forget tomorrow afternoon."
And he went, with the very unpleasant feeling that he had been badlyscored off.