The Swoop

The Swoop

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England
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Title: The Swoop! or How Clarence Saved England A Tale of the Great
Invasion
Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7050] [Yes, we are more than
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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 coloured 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