The White Feather
By P. G. Wodehouse.
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To
My Brother
Dick
The White Feather
Preface
The time of this story is a year and a term later than that of The Gold Bat. The history of Wrykyn in between these two books is dealt with in a number of short stories, some of them brainy in the extreme, which have appeared in various magazines. I wanted Messrs. Black to publish these, but they were light on their feet and kept away—a painful exhibition of the White Feather.
I
Expert Opinions
“With apologies to gent opposite,” said Clowes, “I must say I don’t think much of the team.”
“Don’t apologise to me,” said Allardyce disgustedly, as he filled the teapot, “I think they’re rotten.”
“They ought to have got into form by now, too,” said Trevor. “It’s not as if this was the first game of the term.”
“First game!” Allardyce laughed shortly. “Why, we’ve only got a couple of club matches and the return match with Ripton to end the season. It is about time they got into form, as you say.”
Clowes stared pensively into the fire.
“They struck me,” he said, “as the sort of team who’d get into form somewhere in the middle of the cricket season.”
“That’s about it,” said Allardyce. “Try those biscuits, Trevor. They’re about the only good thing left in the place.”
“School isn’t what it was?” inquired Trevor, plunging a hand into the tin that stood on the floor beside him.
“No,” said Allardyce, “not only in footer but in everything. The place seems absolutely rotten. It’s bad enough losing all our matches, or nearly all. Did you hear that Ripton took thirty-seven points off us last term? And we only just managed to beat Greenburgh by a try to nil.”
“We got thirty points last year,” he went on. “Thirty-three, and forty-two the year before. Why, we’ve always simply walked them. It’s an understood thing that we smash them. And this year they held us all the time, and it was only a fluke that we scored at all. Their back miskicked, and let Barry in.”
“Barry struck me as the best of the outsides today,” said Clowes. “He’s heavier than he was, and faster.”
“He’s all right,” agreed Allardyce. “If only the centres would feed him, we might do something occasionally. But did you ever see such a pair of rotters?”
“The man who was marking me certainly didn’t seem particularly brilliant. I don’t even know his name. He didn’t do anything at footer in my time,” said Trevor.
“He’s a chap called Attell. He wasn’t here with you. He came after the summer holidays. I believe he was sacked from somewhere. He’s no good, but there’s nobody else. Colours have been simply a gift this year to anyone who can do a thing. Only Barry and myself left from last year’s team. I never saw such a clearance as there was after the summer term.”
“Where are the boys of the Old Brigade?” sighed Clowes.
“I don’t know. I wish they were here,” said Allardyce.
Trevor and Clowes had come down, after the Easter term had been in progress for a fortnight, to play for an Oxford A team against the school. The match had resulted in an absurdly easy victory for the visitors by over forty points. Clowes had scored five tries off his own bat, and Trevor, if he had not fed his wing so conscientiously, would probably have scored an equal number. As it was, he had got through twice, and also dropped a goal. The two were now having a late tea with Allardyce in his study. Allardyce had succeeded Trevor as Captain of Football at Wrykyn, and had found the post anything but a sinecure.
For Wrykyn had fallen for the time being on
