L'Affaire Uncle John (A Story in Letters)
I
From Richard Venables, of St Austin's School, to his brother Archibald
Venables, of King's College, Cambridge:
Dear Archie--I take up my pen to write to you, not as one hoping for an
answer, but rather in order that (you notice the Thucydidean
construction) I may tell you of an event the most important of those
that have gone before. You may or may not have heard far-off echoes of
my adventure with Uncle John, who has just come back from the
diamond-mines--and looks it. It happened thusly:
Last Wednesday evening I was going through the cricket field to meet
Uncle John, at the station, as per esteemed favour from the governor,
telling me to. Just as I got on the scene, to my horror, amazement, and
disgust, I saw a middle-aged bounder, in loud checks, who, from his
looks, might have been anything from a retired pawnbroker to a
second-hand butler, sacked from his last place for stealing the
sherry, standing in the middle of the field, on the very wicket the
Rugborough match is to be played on next Saturday (tomorrow), and
digging--_digging_--I'll trouble you. Excavating great chunks of
our best turf with a walking-stick. I was so unnerved, I nearly
fainted. It's bad enough being captain of a School team under any
circs., as far as putting you off your game goes, but when you see the
wicket you've been rolling by day, and dreaming about by night, being
mangled by an utter stranger--well! They say a cow is slightly
irritated when her calf is taken away from her, but I don't suppose the
most maternal cow that ever lived came anywhere near the frenzy that
surged up in my bosom at that moment. I flew up to him, foaming at the
mouth. 'My dear sir,' I shrieked, '_are_ you aware that you're
spoiling the best wicket that has ever been prepared since cricket
began?' He looked at me, in a dazed sort of way, and said, 'What?' I
said: 'How on earth do you think we're going to play Rugborough on a
ploughed field?' 'I don't follow, mister,' he replied. A man who calls
you 'mister' is beyond the pale. You are justified in being a little
rude to him. So I said: 'Then you must be either drunk or mad, and I
trust it's the latter.' I believe that's from some book, though I don't
remember which. This did seem to wake him up a bit, but before he could
frame his opinion in words, up came Biffen, the ground-man, to have a
last look at his wicket before retiring for the night. When he saw the
holes--they were about a foot deep, and scattered promiscuously, just
where two balls out of three pitch--he almost had hysterics. I gently
explained the situation to him, and left him to settle with my friend
of the check suit. Biffen was just settling down to a sort of Philippic
when I went, and I knew that I had left the man in competent hands.
Then I went to the station. The train I had been told to meet was the
5.30. By the way, of course, I didn't know in the least what Uncle John
was like, not having seen him since I was about one-and-a-half, but I
had been told to look out for a tall, rather good-looking man. Well,
the 5.30 came in all right, but none of the passengers seemed to answer
to the description. The ones who were tall were not good looking, and
the only man who was good looking stood five feet nothing in his boots.
I did ask him if he was Mr John Dalgliesh; but, his name happening to
be Robinson, he could not oblige. I sat out a couple more trains, and
then went back to the field. The man had gone, but Biffen was still
there. 'Was you expecting anyone today, sir?' he asked, as I came up.
'Yes. Why?' I said. 'That was 'im,' said Biffen. By skilful
questioning, I elicited the whole thing. It seems that the fearsome
bargee, in checks, was the governor's 'tall, good-looking man'; in
other words, Uncle John himself. He had come by the 4.30, I suppose.
Anyway, there he was, and I had insulted him badly. Biffen told me that
he had asked who I was, and that he (Biffen) had given the information,
while he was thinking of something else to say to him about his
digging. By the way, I suppose he dug from force of habit. Thought he'd
find diamonds, perhaps. When Biffen told him this, he said in a nasty
voice: 'Then, when he comes back will you have the goodness to tell him
that my name is John Dalgliesh, and that he will hear more of this.'
And I'm uncommonly afraid I shall. The governor bars Uncle John
awfully, I know, but he wanted me to be particularly civil to him,
because he was to get me a place in some beastly firm when I leave. I
haven't heard from home yet, but I expect to soon. Still, I'd like to
know how I could stand and watch him ruining the wicket for our spot
match of the season. As it is, it won't be as good as it would have
been. The Rugborough slow man will be unplayable if he can find one of
these spots. Altogether, it's a beastly business. Write soon, though I
know you won't--Yours ever, _Dick_
II
Telegram from Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G., to
his son Richard Venables:
Venables, St Austin's. What all this about Uncle John. Says were
grossly rude. Write explanation next post--_Venables_.
III
Letter from Mrs James Anthony (nee Miss Dorothy Venables) to her
brother Richard Venables:
Dear Dick--What _have_ you been doing to Uncle John? Jim and I are
stopping for a fortnight with father, and have just come in for the
whole thing. Uncle John--_isn't_ he a horrible man?--says you were
grossly insolent to him when he went down to see you. _Do_ write
and tell me all about it. I have heard no details as yet. Father
refuses to give them, and gets simply _furious_ when the matter is
mentioned. Jim said at dinner last night that a conscientious boy would
probably feel bound to be rude to Uncle John. Father said 'Conscience
be--'; I forget the rest, but it was awful. Jim says if he gets any
worse we shall have to sit on his head, and cut the traces. He is
getting so dreadfully _horsey_. Do write the very minute you get
this. I want to know all about it.--Your affectionate sister, _Dorothy_
IV
Part of Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his father
Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G.:
... So you see it was really his fault. The Emperor of Germany has no
right to come and dig holes in our best wicket. Take a parallel case.
Suppose some idiot of a fellow (not that Uncle John's that, of course,
but you know what I mean) came and began rooting up your azaleas.
Wouldn't you want to say something cutting? I will apologize to Uncle
John, if you like; but still, I do think he might have gone somewhere
else if he really wanted to dig. So you see, etc., etc.
V
Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his sister Mrs James
Anthony:
Dear Dolly--Thanks awfully for your letter, and thank Jim for his
message. He's a ripper. I'm awfully glad you married him and not that
rotter, Thompson, who used to hang on so. I hope the most marvellous
infant on earth is flourishing. And now about Uncle John. Really, I am
jolly glad I did say all that to him. We played Rugborough yesterday,
and the wicket was simply vile. They won the toss, and made two hundred
and ten. Of course, the wicket was all right at one end, and that's
where they made most of their runs. I was wicket-keeping as usual, and
I felt awfully ashamed of the beastly pitch when their captain asked me
if it was the football-field. Of course, he wouldn't have said that if
he hadn't been a pal of mine, but it was probably what the rest of the
team thought, only they were too polite to say so. When we came to bat
it was worse than ever. I went in first with Welch--that's the fellow
who stopped a week at home a few years ago; I don't know whether you
remember him. He got out in the first over, caught off a ball that
pitched where Uncle John had been prospecting, and jumped up. It was
rotten luck, of course, and worse was to follow, for by half-past five
we had eight wickets down for just over the hundred, and only young
Scott, who's simply a slogger, and another fellow to come in. Well,
Scott came in. I had made about sixty then, and was fairly well
set--and he started simply mopping up the bowling. He gave a chance
every over as regular as clockwork, and it was always missed, and then
he would make up for it with two or three tremendous whangs--a safe
four every time. It wasn't batting. It was more like golf. Well, this
went on for some time, and we began to get hopeful again, having got a
hundred and eighty odd. I just kept up my wicket, while Scott hit. Then
he got caught, and the last man, a fellow called Moore, came in. I'd
put him in the team as a bowler, but he could bat a little, too, on
occasions, and luckily this was one of them. There were only eleven to
win, and I had the bowling. I was feeling awfully fit, and put their
slow man clean over the screen twice running, which left us only three
to get. Then it was over, and Moore played the fast man in grand style,
though he didn't score. Well, I got the bowling again, and half-way
through the over I carted a half-volley into the Pav., and that gave us
the match. Moore hung on for a bit and made about ten, and then got
bowled. We made 223 altogether, of which I had managed to get
seventy-eight, not out. It pulls my average up a good bit. Rather
decent, isn't it? The fellows rotted about a good deal, and chaired me
into the Pav., but it was Scott who won us the match, I think. He made
ninety-four. But Uncle John nearly did for us with his beastly
walking-stick. On a good wicket we might have made any number. I don't
know how the affair will end. Keep me posted up in the governor's
symptoms, and write again soon.--Your affectionate brother, _Dick_
PS.--On looking over this letter, I find I have taken it for granted
that you know all about the Uncle John affair. Probably you do, but, in
case you don't, it was this way. You see, I was going, etc., etc.
VI
From Archibald Venables, of King's College, Cambridge, to Richard
Venables, of St Austin's:
Dear Dick--Just a line to thank you for your letter, and to tell you
that since I got it I have had a visit from the great Uncle John, too.
He _is_ an outsider, if you like. I gave him the best lunch I
could in my rooms, and the man started a long lecture on extravagance.
He doesn't seem to understand the difference between the 'Varsity and a
private school. He kept on asking leading questions about pocket-money
and holidays, and wanted to know if my master allowed me to walk in the
streets in that waistcoat--a remark which cut me to the quick, 'that
waistcoat' being quite the most posh thing of the sort in Cambridge. He
then enquired after my studies; and, finally, when I saw him off at the
station, said that he had decided not to tip me, because he was afraid
that I was inclined to be extravagant. I was quite kind to him,
however, in spite of everything; but I was glad you had spoken to him
like a father. The recollection of it soothed me, though it seemed to
worry him. He talked a good deal about it. Glad you came off against
Rugborough.--Yours ever, _A. Venables_
VII
From Mr John Dalgliesh to Mr Philip Mortimer, of Penge:
Dear Sir--In reply to your letter of the 18th inst., I shall be happy
to recommend your son, Reginald, for the vacant post in the firm of
Messrs Van Nugget, Diomonde, and Mynes, African merchants. I have
written them to that effect, and you will, doubtless, receive a
communication from them shortly.--I am, my dear sir, yours faithfully,
_J. Dalgliesh_
VIII
From Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his father Major-General Sir
Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G.:
Dear Father--Uncle John writes, in answer to my apology, to say that no
apologies will meet the case; and that he has given his nomination in
that rotten City firm of his to a fellow called Mortimer. But rather a
decent thing has happened. There is a chap here I know pretty well, who
is the son of Lord Marmaduke Twistleton, and it appears that the dook
himself was down watching the Rugborough match, and liked my batting.
He came and talked to me after the match, and asked me what I was going
to do when I left, and I said I wasn't certain, and he said that, if I
hadn't anything better on, he could give me a place on his estate up in
Scotland, as a sort of land-agent, as he wanted a chap who could play
cricket, because he was keen on the game himself, and always had a lot
going on in the summer up there. So he says that, if I go up to the
'Varsity for three years, he can guarantee me the place when I come
down, with a jolly good screw and a ripping open-air life, with lots of
riding, and so on, which is just what I've always wanted. So, can I?
It's the sort of opportunity that won't occur again, and you know you
always said the only reason I couldn't go up to the 'Varsity was, that
it would be a waste of time. But in this case, you see, it won't,
because he wants me to go, and guarantees me the place when I come
down. It'll be awfully fine, if I may. I hope you'll see it.--Your
affectionate son, _Dick_
PS.--I think he's writing to you. He asked your address. I think Uncle
John's a rotter. I sent him a rattling fine apology, and this is how he
treats it. But it'll be all right if you like this land-agent idea. If
you like, you might wire your answer.
IX
Telegram from Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G., to
his son Richard Venables, of St Austin's:
Venables, St Austin's. Very well.--_Venables_
X
Extract from Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his
father Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G.:
... Thanks, awfully--
Extract from _The Austinian_ of October:
The following O.A.s have gone into residence this year: At Oxford, J.
Scrymgeour, Corpus Christi; R. Venables, Trinity; K. Crespigny-Brown,
Balliol.
Extract from the _Daily Mail_'s account of the 'Varsity match of
the following summer:
... The St Austin's freshman, Venables, fully justified his inclusion by
scoring a stylish fifty-seven. He hit eight fours, and except for a
miss-hit in the slips, at 51, which Smith might possibly have secured
had he started sooner, gave nothing like a chance. Venables, it will be
remembered, played several good innings for Oxford in the earlier
matches, notably, his not out contribution of 103 against Sussex--
-THE END-
P G Wodehouse's short story: L'Affaire Uncle John (A Story in Letters)
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