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Peter Burns' Narrative: Chapter 2
Sanstead House was an imposing building in the Georgian style. It
stood, foursquare, in the midst of about nine acres of land. For
the greater part of its existence, I learned later, it had been
the private home of a family of the name of Boone, and in its
early days the estate had been considerable. But the progress of
the years had brought changes to the Boones. Money losses had
necessitated the sale of land. New roads had come into being,
cutting off portions of the estate from their centre. New
facilities for travel had drawn members of the family away from
home. The old fixed life of the country had changed, and in the
end the latest Boone had come to the conclusion that to keep up so
large and expensive a house was not worth his while.
That the place should have become a school was the natural process
of evolution. It was too large for the ordinary purchaser, and the
estate had been so whittled down in the course of time that it was
inadequate for the wealthy. Colonel Boone had been glad to let it
to Mr Abney, and the school had started its career.
It had all the necessary qualifications for a school. It was
isolated. The village was two miles from its gates. It was near
the sea. There were fields for cricket and football, and inside
the house a number of rooms of every size, suitable for classrooms
and dormitories.
The household, when I arrived, consisted, besides Mr Abney, myself,
another master named Glossop, and the matron, of twenty-four boys,
the butler, the cook, the odd-job-man, two housemaids, a scullery-maid,
and a parlour-maid. It was a little colony, cut off from the outer
world.
With the exception of Mr Abney and Glossop, a dismal man of nerves
and mannerisms, the only person with whom I exchanged speech on my
first evening was White, the butler. There are some men one likes
at sight. White was one of them. Even for a butler he was a man of
remarkably smooth manners, but he lacked that quality of austere
aloofness which I have noticed in other butlers.
He helped me unpack my box, and we chatted during the process. He
was a man of medium height, square and muscular, with something,
some quality of springiness, as it were, that seemed unusual in a
butler. From one or two things he said, I gathered that he had
travelled a good deal. Altogether he interested me. He had humour,
and the half-hour which I had spent with Glossop made me set a
premium on humour. I found that he, like myself, was a new-comer.
His predecessor had left at short notice during the holidays, and
he had secured the vacancy at about the same time that I was
securing mine. We agreed that it was a pretty place. White, I
gathered, regarded its isolation as a merit. He was not fond of
village society.
On the following morning, at eight o'clock, my work began.
My first day had the effect of entirely revolutionizing what ideas
I possessed of the lot of the private-school assistant-master.
My view, till then, had been that the assistant-master had an easy
time. I had only studied him from the outside. My opinion was
based on observations made as a boy at my own private school, when
masters were an enviable race who went to bed when they liked, had
no preparation to do, and couldn't be caned. It seemed to me then
that those three facts, especially the last, formed a pretty good
basis on which to build up the Perfect Life.
I had not been at Sanstead House two days before doubts began to
creep in on this point. What the boy, observing the assistant-master
standing about in apparently magnificent idleness, does not realize
is that the unfortunate is really putting in a spell of exceedingly
hard work. He is 'taking duty'. And 'taking duty' is a thing to be
remembered, especially by a man who, like myself, has lived a life
of fatted ease, protected from all the minor annoyances of life by
a substantial income.
Sanstead House educated me. It startled me. It showed me a hundred
ways in which I had allowed myself to become soft and inefficient,
without being aware of it. There may be other professions which
call for a fiercer display of energy, but for the man with a
private income who has loitered through life at his own pace, a
little school-mastering is brisk enough to be a wonderful tonic.
I needed it, and I got it.
It was almost as if Mr Abney had realized intuitively how excellent
the discipline of work was for my soul, for the kindly man allowed
me to do not only my own, but most of his as well. I have talked
with assistant-masters since, and I have gathered from them that
headmasters of private schools are divided into two classes: the
workers and the runners-up-to-London. Mr Abney belonged to the
latter class. Indeed, I doubt if a finer representative of the
class could have been found in the length and breadth of southern
England. London drew him like a magnet.
After breakfast he would take me aside. The formula was always the
same.
'Ah--Mr Burns.'
Myself (apprehensively, scenting disaster, 'like some wild
creature caught within a trap, who sees the trapper coming through
the wood'). 'Yes? Er--yes?'
'I am afraid I shall be obliged to run up to London today. I have
received an important letter from--' And then he would name some
parent or some prospective parent. (By 'prospective' I mean one
who was thinking of sending his son to Sanstead House. You may
have twenty children, but unless you send them to his school, a
schoolmaster will refuse to dignify you with the name of parent.)
Then, 'He wishes--ah--to see me,' or, in the case of titled
parents, 'He wishes--ah--to talk things over with me.' The
distinction is subtle, but he always made it.
And presently the cab would roll away down the long drive, and my
work would begin, and with it that soul-discipline to which I have
alluded.
'Taking duty' makes certain definite calls upon a man. He has to
answer questions; break up fights; stop big boys bullying small
boys; prevent small boys bullying smaller boys; check stone-throwing,
going-on-the-wet-grass, worrying-the-cook, teasing-the-dog,
making-too-much-noise, and, in particular, discourage all forms
of _hara-kiri_ such as tree-climbing, water-spout-scaling,
leaning-too-far-out-of-the-window, sliding-down-the-banisters,
pencil-swallowing, and ink-drinking-because-somebody-dared-me-to.
At intervals throughout the day there are further feats to
perform. Carving the joint, helping the pudding, playing football,
reading prayers, teaching, herding stragglers in for meals, and
going round the dormitories to see that the lights are out, are a
few of them.
I wanted to oblige Cynthia, if I could, but there were moments
during the first day or so when I wondered how on earth I was
going to snatch the necessary time to combine kidnapping with my
other duties. Of all the learned professions it seemed to me that
that of the kidnapper most urgently demanded certain intervals for
leisured thought, in which schemes and plots might be matured.
Schools vary. Sanstead House belonged to the more difficult class.
Mr Abney's constant flittings did much to add to the burdens of
his assistants, and his peculiar reverence for the aristocracy did
even more. His endeavour to make Sanstead House a place where the
delicately nurtured scions of the governing class might feel as
little as possible the temporary loss of titled mothers led him
into a benevolent tolerance which would have unsettled angels.
Success or failure for an assistant-master is, I consider, very
much a matter of luck. My colleague, Glossop, had most of the
qualities that make for success, but no luck. Properly backed up
by Mr Abney, he might have kept order. As it was, his class-room
was a bear-garden, and, when he took duty, chaos reigned.
I, on the other hand, had luck. For some reason the boys agreed to
accept me. Quite early in my sojourn I enjoyed that sweetest triumph
of the assistant-master's life, the spectacle of one boy smacking
another boy's head because the latter persisted in making a noise
after I had told him to stop. I doubt if a man can experience so
keenly in any other way that thrill which comes from the knowledge
that the populace is his friend. Political orators must have the
same sort of feeling when their audience clamours for the ejection
of a heckler, but it cannot be so keen. One is so helpless with boys,
unless they decide that they like one.
It was a week from the beginning of the term before I made the
acquaintance of the Little Nugget.
I had kept my eyes open for him from the beginning, and when I
discovered that he was not at school, I had felt alarmed. Had
Cynthia sent me down here, to work as I had never worked before,
on a wild-goose chase?
Then, one morning, Mr Abney drew me aside after breakfast.
'Ah--Mr Burns.'
It was the first time that I had heard those soon-to-be-familiar
words.
'I fear I shall be compelled to run up to London today. I have an
important appointment with the father of a boy who is coming to
the school. He wishes--ah--to see me.'
This might be the Little Nugget at last.
I was right. During the interval before school, Augustus Beckford
approached me. Lord Mountry's brother was a stolid boy with
freckles. He had two claims to popular fame. He could hold his
breath longer than any other boy in the school, and he always got
hold of any piece of gossip first.
'There's a new kid coming tonight, sir,' he said--'an American
kid. I heard him talking about it to the matron. The kid's name's
Ford, I believe the kid's father's awfully rich. Would you like to
be rich, sir? I wish I was rich. If I was rich, I'd buy all sorts
of things. I believe I'm going to be rich when I grow up. I heard
father talking to a lawyer about it. There's a new parlour-maid
coming soon, sir. I heard cook telling Emily. I'm blowed if I'd
like to be a parlour-maid, would you, sir? I'd much rather be a
cook.'
He pondered the point for a moment. When he spoke again, it was to
touch on a still more profound problem.
'If you wanted a halfpenny to make up twopence to buy a lizard,
what would you do, sir?'
He got it.
Ogden Ford, the El Dorado of the kidnapping industry, entered
Sanstead House at a quarter past nine that evening. He was
preceded by a Worried Look, Mr Arnold Abney, a cabman bearing a
large box, and the odd-job man carrying two suitcases. I have
given precedence to the Worried Look because it was a thing by
itself. To say that Mr Abney wore it would be to create a wrong
impression. Mr Abney simply followed in its wake. He was concealed
behind it much as Macbeth's army was concealed behind the woods of
Dunsinane.
I only caught a glimpse of Ogden as Mr Abney showed him into his
study. He seemed a self-possessed boy, very like but, if anything,
uglier than the portrait of him which I had seen at the Hotel
Guelph.
A moment later the door opened, and my employer came out. He
appeared relieved at seeing me.
'Ah, Mr Burns, I was about to go in search of you. Can you spare
me a moment? Let us go into the dining-room.'
'That is a boy called Ford, Mr Burns,' he said, when he had closed
the door. 'A rather--er--remarkable boy. He is an American, the
son of a Mr Elmer Ford. As he will be to a great extent in your
charge, I should like to prepare you for his--ah--peculiarities.'
'Is he peculiar?'
A faint spasm disturbed Mr Abney's face. He applied a silk
handkerchief to his forehead before he replied.
'In many ways, judged by the standard of the lads who have passed
through my hands--boys, of course, who, it is only fair to add,
have enjoyed the advantages of a singularly refined home-life--he
may be said to be--ah--somewhat peculiar. While I have no doubt
that _au fond ... au fond_ he is a charming boy, quite charming,
at present he is--shall I say?--peculiar. I am disposed to imagine
that he has been, from childhood up, systematically indulged.
There has been in his life, I suspect, little or no discipline.
The result has been to make him curiously unboylike. There is a
complete absence of that diffidence, that childish capacity for
surprise, which I for one find so charming in our English boys.
Little Ford appears to be completely blase'. He has tastes and ideas
which are precocious, and--unusual in a boy of his age.... He
expresses himself in a curious manner sometimes.... He seems to have
little or no reverence for--ah--constituted authority.'
He paused while he passed his handkerchief once more over his
forehead.
'Mr Ford, the boy's father, who struck me as a man of great
ability, a typical American merchant prince, was singularly frank
with me about his domestic affairs as they concerned his son. I
cannot recall his exact words, but the gist of what he said was
that, until now, Mrs Ford had had sole charge of the boy's
upbringing, and--Mr Ford was singularly outspoken--was too
indulgent, in fact--ah--spoilt him. Indeed--you will, of course,
respect my confidence--that was the real reason for the divorce
which--ah--has unhappily come about. Mr Ford regards this school
as in a measure--shall I say?--an antidote. He wishes there to be
no lack of wholesome discipline. So that I shall expect you, Mr
Burns, to check firmly, though, of course, kindly, such habits of
his as--ah--cigarette-smoking. On our journey down he smoked
incessantly. I found it impossible--without physical violence--to
induce him to stop. But, of course, now that he is actually at the
school, and subject to the discipline of the school ...'
'Exactly,' I said.
'That was all I wished to say. Perhaps it would be as well if you
saw him now, Mr Burns. You will find him in the study.'
He drifted away, and I went to the study to introduce myself.
A cloud of tobacco-smoke rising above the back of an easy-chair
greeted me as I opened the door. Moving into the room, I perceived
a pair of boots resting on the grate. I stepped to the light, and
the remainder of the Little Nugget came into view.
He was lying almost at full length in the chair, his eyes fixed in
dreamy abstraction upon the ceiling. As I came towards him, he
drew at the cigarette between his fingers, glanced at me, looked
away again, and expelled another mouthful of smoke. He was not
interested in me.
Perhaps this indifference piqued me, and I saw him with prejudiced
eyes. At any rate, he seemed to me a singularly unprepossessing
youth. That portrait had flattered him. He had a stout body and a
round, unwholesome face. His eyes were dull, and his mouth dropped
discontentedly. He had the air of one who is surfeited with life.
I am disposed to imagine, as Mr Abney would have said, that my
manner in addressing him was brisker and more incisive than Mr
Abney's own. I was irritated by his supercilious detachment.
'Throw away that cigarette,' I said.
To my amazement, he did, promptly. I was beginning to wonder
whether I had not been too abrupt--he gave me a curious sensation
of being a man of my own age--when he produced a silver case from
his pocket and opened it. I saw that the cigarette in the fender
was a stump.
I took the case from his hand and threw it on to a table. For the
first time he seemed really to notice my existence.
'You've got a hell of a nerve,' he said.
He was certainly exhibiting his various gifts in rapid order,
This, I took it, was what Mr Abney had called 'expressing himself
in a curious manner'.
'And don't swear,' I said.
We eyed each other narrowly for the space of some seconds.
'Who are you?' he demanded.
I introduced myself.
'What do you want to come butting in for?'
'I am paid to butt in. It's the main duty of an assistant-master.'
'Oh, you're the assistant-master, are you?'
'One of them. And, in passing--it's a small technical point--you're
supposed to call me "sir" during these invigorating little chats
of ours.'
'Call you what? Up an alley!'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Fade away. Take a walk.'
I gathered that he was meaning to convey that he had considered my
proposition, but regretted his inability to entertain it.
'Didn't you call your tutor "sir" when you were at home?'
'Me? Don't make me laugh. I've got a cracked lip.'
'I gather you haven't an overwhelming respect for those set in
authority over you.'
'If you mean my tutors, I should say nix.'
'You use the plural. Had you a tutor before Mr Broster?'
He laughed.
'Had I? Only about ten million.'
'Poor devils!' I said.
'Who's swearing now?'
The point was well taken. I corrected myself.
'Poor brutes! What happened to them? Did they commit suicide?'
'Oh, they quit. And I don't blame them. I'm a pretty tough
proposition, and you don't want to forget it.'
He reached out for the cigarette-case. I pocketed it.
'You make me tired,' he said.
'The sensation's mutual.'
'Do you think you can swell around, stopping me doing things?'
'You've defined my job exactly.'
'Guess again. I know all about this joint. The hot-air merchant
was telling me about it on the train.'
I took the allusion to be to Mr Arnold Abney, and thought it
rather a happy one.
'He's the boss, and nobody but him is allowed to hit the fellows.
If you tried it, you'd lose your job. And he ain't going to,
because the Dad's paying double fees, and he's scared stiff he'll
lose me if there's any trouble.'
'You seem to have a grasp of the position.'
'Bet your life I have.'
I looked at him as he sprawled in the chair.
'You're a funny kid,' I said.
He stiffened, outraged. His little eyes gleamed.
'Say, it looks to me as if you wanted making a head shorter.
You're a darned sight too fresh. Who do you think you are,
anyway?'
'I'm your guardian angel,' I replied. 'I'm the fellow who's going
to take you in hand and make you a little ray of sunshine about
the home. I know your type backwards. I've been in America and
studied it on its native asphalt. You superfatted millionaire kids
are all the same. If Dad doesn't jerk you into the office before
you're out of knickerbockers, you just run to seed. You get to
think you're the only thing on earth, and you go on thinking it
till one day somebody comes along and shows you you're not, and
then you get what's coming to you--good and hard.'
He began to speak, but I was on my favourite theme, one I had
studied and brooded upon since the evening when I had received a
certain letter at my club.
'I knew a man,' I said, 'who started out just like you. He always
had all the money he wanted: never worked: grew to think himself a
sort of young prince. What happened?'
He yawned.
'I'm afraid I'm boring you,' I said.
'Go on. Enjoy yourself,' said the Little Nugget.
'Well, it's a long story, so I'll spare you it. But the moral of
it was that a boy who is going to have money needs to be taken in
hand and taught sense while he's young.'
He stretched himself.
'You talk a lot. What do you reckon you're going to do?'
I eyed him thoughtfully.
'Well, everything's got to have a beginning,' I said. 'What you
seem to me to want most is exercise. I'll take you for a run every
day. You won't know yourself at the end of a week.'
'Say, if you think you're going to get _me_ to run--'
'When I grab your little hand, and start running, you'll find
you'll soon be running too. And, years hence, when you win the
Marathon at the Olympic Games, you'll come to me with tears in
your eyes, and you'll say--'
'Oh, slush!'
'I shouldn't wonder.' I looked at my watch. 'Meanwhile, you had
better go to bed. It's past your proper time.'
He stared at me in open-eyed amazement.
'Bed!'
'Bed.'
He seemed more amused than annoyed.
'Say, what time do you think I usually go to bed?'
'I know what time you go here. Nine o'clock.'
As if to support my words, the door opened, and Mrs Attwell, the
matron, entered.
'I think it's time he came to bed, Mr Burns.'
'Just what I was saying, Mrs Attwell.'
'You're crazy,' observed the Little Nugget. 'Bed nothing!'
Mrs Attwell looked at me despairingly.
'I never saw such a boy!'
The whole machinery of the school was being held up by this legal
infant. Any vacillation now, and Authority would suffer a set-back
from which it would be hard put to it to recover. It seemed to me
a situation that called for action.
I bent down, scooped the Little Nugget out of his chair like an
oyster, and made for the door. Outside he screamed incessantly. He
kicked me in the stomach and then on the knee. He continued to
scream. He screamed all the way upstairs. He was screaming when we
reached his room.
* * * * *
Half an hour later I sat in the study, smoking thoughtfully.
Reports from the seat of war told of a sullen and probably only
temporary acquiescence with Fate on the part of the enemy. He was
in bed, and seemed to have made up his mind to submit to the
position. An air of restrained jubilation prevailed among the
elder members of the establishment. Mr Abney was friendly and Mrs
Attwell openly congratulatory. I was something like the hero of
the hour.
But was I jubilant? No, I was inclined to moodiness. Unforeseen
difficulties had arisen in my path. Till now, I had regarded this
kidnapping as something abstract. Personality had not entered into
the matter. If I had had any picture in my mind's eye, it was of
myself stealing away softly into the night with a docile child,
his little hand laid trustfully in mine. From what I had seen and
heard of Ogden Ford in moments of emotion, it seemed to me that
whoever wanted to kidnap him with any approach to stealth would
need to use chloroform.
Things were getting very complex.
Content of Part 2 - Peter Burns' Narrative: Chapter 2 [P G Wodehouse's novel: The Little Nugget]
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