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THE SWOOP!

or

How Clarence Saved England

_A Tale of the Great Invasion_





by P. G. Wodehouse

1909





PREFACE

It may be thought by some that in the pages which follow I have painted
in too lurid colours the horrors of a foreign invasion of England.
Realism in art, it may be argued, can be carried too far. I prefer to
think that the majority of my readers will acquit me of a desire to be
unduly sensational. It is necessary that England should be roused to a
sense of her peril, and only by setting down without flinching the
probable results of an invasion can this be done. This story, I may
mention, has been written and published purely from a feeling of
patriotism and duty. Mr. Alston Rivers' sensitive soul will be jarred
to its foundations if it is a financial success. So will mine. But in a
time of national danger we feel that the risk must be taken. After all,
at the worst, it is a small sacrifice to make for our country.

P. G. WODEHOUSE.

_The Bomb-Proof Shelter,_ _London, W._





Part One




Chapter 1

AN ENGLISH BOY'S HOME


_August the First, 19--_

Clarence Chugwater looked around him with a frown, and gritted his
teeth.

"England--my England!" he moaned.

Clarence was a sturdy lad of some fourteen summers. He was neatly, but
not gaudily, dressed in a flat-brimmed hat, a  handkerchief, a
flannel shirt, a bunch of ribbons, a haversack, football shorts, brown
boots, a whistle, and a hockey-stick. He was, in fact, one of General
Baden-Powell's Boy Scouts.

Scan him closely. Do not dismiss him with a passing glance; for you are
looking at the Boy of Destiny, at Clarence MacAndrew Chugwater, who
saved England.

To-day those features are familiar to all. Everyone has seen the
Chugwater Column in Aldwych, the equestrian statue in Chugwater Road
(formerly Piccadilly), and the picture-postcards in the stationers'
windows. That bulging forehead, distended with useful information; that
massive chin; those eyes, gleaming behind their spectacles; that
_tout ensemble_; that _je ne sais quoi_.

In a word, Clarence!

He could do everything that the Boy Scout must learn to do. He could
low like a bull. He could gurgle like a wood-pigeon. He could imitate
the cry of the turnip in order to deceive rabbits. He could smile and
whistle simultaneously in accordance with Rule 8 (and only those who
have tried this know how difficult it is). He could spoor, fell trees,
tell the character from the boot-sole, and fling the squaler. He did
all these things well, but what he was really best at was flinging the
squaler.

       *       *       *       *       *

Clarence, on this sultry August afternoon, was tensely occupied
tracking the family cat across the dining-room carpet by its
foot-prints. Glancing up for a moment, he caught sight of the other
members of the family.

"England, my England!" he moaned.

It was indeed a sight to extract tears of blood from any Boy Scout. The
table had been moved back against the wall, and in the cleared space
Mr. Chugwater, whose duty it was to have set an example to his
children, was playing diabolo. Beside him, engrossed in cup-and-ball,
was his wife. Reggie Chugwater, the eldest son, the heir, the hope of
the house, was reading the cricket news in an early edition of the
evening paper. Horace, his brother, was playing pop-in-taw with his
sister Grace and Grace's _fiance_, Ralph Peabody. Alice, the other
Miss Chugwater, was mending a Badminton racquet.

Not a single member of that family was practising with the rifle, or
drilling, or learning to make bandages.

Clarence groaned.

"If you can't play without snorting like that, my boy," said Mr.
Chugwater, a little irritably, "you must find some other game. You made
me jump just as I was going to beat my record."

"Talking of records," said Reggie, "Fry's on his way to his eighth
successive century. If he goes on like this, Lancashire will win the
championship."

"I thought he was playing for Somerset," said Horace.

"That was a fortnight ago. You ought to keep up to date in an important
subject like cricket."

Once more Clarence snorted bitterly.

"I'm sure you ought not to be down on the floor, Clarence," said Mr.
Chugwater anxiously. "It is so draughty, and you have evidently got a
nasty cold. _Must_ you lie on the floor?"

"I am spooring," said Clarence with simple dignity.

"But I'm sure you can spoor better sitting on a chair with a nice
book."

"_I_ think the kid's sickening for something," put in Horace
critically. "He's deuced roopy. What's up, Clarry?"

"I was thinking," said Clarence, "of my country--of England."

"What's the matter with England?"

"_She's_ all right," murmured Ralph Peabody.

"My fallen country!" sighed Clarence, a not unmanly tear bedewing the