The Pothunters, P. G. Wodehouse [digital book reader .TXT] 📗

to seize this excellent opportunity of adding. The only question was, where to go. The surrounding country was a paradise for the naturalist who had no absurd scruples on the subject of trespassing. To the west, in the direction of Stapleton, the woods and hedges were thick with nests. But then, so they were to the east along the Badgwick road. He wavered, but a recollection that there was water in the Badgwick direction, and that he might with luck beard a water wagtail in its lair, decided him. What is life without a water wagtail’s egg? A mere mockery. He turned east.

“Hullo, Barrett, where are you off to?” Grey, of Prater’s House, intercepted him as he was passing.

“Going to see if I can get some eggs. Are you coming?”

Grey hesitated. He was a keen naturalist, too.

“No, I don’t think I will, thanks. Got an uncle coming down to see me.”

“Well, cut off before he comes.”

“No, he’d be too sick. Besides,” he added, ingenuously, “there’s a possible tip. Don’t want to miss that. I’m simply stony. Always am at end of term.”

“Oh,” said Barrett, realising that further argument would be thrown away. “Well, so long, then.”

“So long. Hope you have luck.”

“Thanks. I say.”

“Well?”

“Roll-call, you know. If you don’t see me anywhere about, you might answer my name.”

“All right. And if you find anything decent, you might remember me. You know pretty well what I’ve got already.”

“Right, I will.”

“Magpie’s what I want particularly. Where are you going, by the way?”

“Thought of having a shot at old Venner’s woods. I’m after a water wagtail myself. Ought to be one or two in the Dingle.”

“Heaps, probably. But I should advise you to look out, you know. Venner’s awfully down on trespassing.”

“Yes, the bounder. But I don’t think he’ll get me. One gets the knack of keeping fairly quiet with practice.”

“He’s got thousands of keepers.”

“Millions.”

“Dogs, too.”

“Dash his beastly dogs. I like dogs. Why are you such a croaker today, Grey?”

“Well, you know he’s had two chaps sacked for going in his woods to my certain knowledge, Morton-Smith and Ainsworth. That’s only since I’ve been at the Coll., too. Probably lots more before that.”

“Ainsworth was booked smoking there. That’s why he was sacked. And Venner caught Morton-Smith himself simply staggering under dead rabbits. They sack any chap for poaching.”

“Well, I don’t see how you’re going to show you’ve not been poaching. Besides, it’s miles out of bounds.”

“Grey,” said Barrett, severely, “I’m surprised at you. Go away and meet your beastly uncle. Fancy talking about bounds at your time of life.”

“Well, don’t forget me when you’re hauling in the eggs.”

“Right you are. So long.”

Barrett proceeded on his way, his last difficulty safely removed. He could rely on Grey not to bungle that matter of roll-call. Grey had been there before.

A long white ribbon of dusty road separated St. Austin’s from the lodge gates of Badgwick Hall, the country seat of Sir Alfred Venner, M.P., also of 49A Lancaster Gate, London. Barrett walked rapidly for over half an hour before he came in sight of the great iron gates, flanked on the one side by a trim little lodge and green meadows, and on the other by woods of a darker green. Having got so far, he went on up the hill till at last he arrived at his destination. A small hedge, a sloping strip of green, and then the famous Dingle. I am loath to inflict any scenic rhapsodies on the reader, but really the Dingle deserves a line or two. It was the most beautiful spot in a country noted for its fine scenery. Dense woods were its chief feature. And by dense I mean well supplied not only with trees (excellent things in themselves, but for the most part useless to the nest hunter), but also with a fascinating tangle of undergrowth, where every bush seemed to harbour eggs. All carefully preserved, too. That was the chief charm of the place. Since the sad episodes of Morton-Smith and Ainsworth, the School for the most part had looked askance at the Dingle. Once a select party from Dacre’s House, headed by Babington, who always got himself into hot water when possible, had ventured into the forbidden land, and had returned hurriedly later in the afternoon with every sign of exhaustion, hinting breathlessly at keepers, dogs, and a pursuit that had lasted fifty minutes without a check. Since then no one had been daring enough to brave the terrors so carefully prepared for them by Milord Sir Venner and his minions, and the proud owner of the Dingle walked his woods in solitary state. Occasionally he would personally conduct some favoured guest thither and show him the wonders of the place. But this was not a frequent occurrence. On still-less frequent occasions, there were large shooting parties in the Dingle. But, as a rule, the word was “Keepers only. No others need apply.”

A futile iron railing, some three feet in height, shut in the Dingle. Barrett jumped this lightly, and entered forthwith into paradise. The place was full of nests. As Barrett took a step forward there was a sudden whirring of wings, and a bird rose from a bush close beside him. He went to inspect, and found a nest with seven eggs in it. Only a thrush, of course. As no one ever wants thrushes’ eggs the world is overstocked with them. Still, it gave promise of good things to come. Barrett pushed on through the bushes and the promise was fulfilled. He came upon another nest. Five eggs this time, of a variety he was unable with his moderate knowledge to classify. At any rate, he had not got them in his collection. Nor, to the best of his belief, had Grey. He took one for each of them.

Now this was all very well, thought Barrett, but what he had come for was the ovular deposit of the water wagtail. Through the trees he could see the silver gleam of the brook