“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.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Swoop! or How Clarence Saved England, by P. G. Wodehouse
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