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

been rolling to tell him the true facts of the case. Besides, it might do something towards removing the impression which must, he felt, be forming in the stranger’s mind that he was mad.

“You see,” he said, in a burst of confidence, “it was rather a close thing. There were some keepers after me.”

“Ah!” said the man. “Thought so. Trespassing?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Keepers don’t like trespassers. Curious thing⁠—don’t know if it ever occurred to you⁠—if there were no trespassers, there would be no need for keepers. To their interest, then, to encourage trespassers. But do they?”

Barrett admitted that they did not very conspicuously.

“No. Same with all professions. Not poaching, I suppose?”

“Rather not. I was after eggs. By Jove, that reminds me.” He felt in his pocket for the pillboxes. Could they have survived the stormy times through which they had been passing? He heaved a sigh of relief as he saw that the eggs were uninjured. He was so intent on examining them that he missed the stranger’s next remark.

“Sorry. What? I didn’t hear.”

“Asked if I was going right for St. Austin’s School.”

“College!” said Barrett with a convulsive shudder. The most deadly error mortal man can make, with the exception of calling a school a college, is to call a college a school.

“College!” said the man. “Is this the road?”

“Yes. You can’t miss it. I’m going there myself. It’s only about a mile.”

“Ah,” said the man, with a touch of satisfaction in his voice. “Going there yourself, are you? Perhaps you’re one of the scholars?”

“Not much,” said Barrett, “ask our form beak if I’m a scholar. Oh. I see. Yes, I’m there all right.”

Barrett was a little puzzled as to how to class his companion. No old public school man would talk of scholars. And yet he was emphatically not a bargee. Barrett set him down as a sort of superior tourist, a Henry as opposed to an ’Arry.

“Been bit of a disturbance there, hasn’t there? Cricket pavilion. Cups.”

“Rather. But how on earth⁠—”

“How on earth did I get to hear of it, you were going to say. Well, no need to conceal anything. Fact is, down here to look into the matter. Detective. Name, Roberts, Scotland Yard. Now we know each other, and if you can tell me one or two things about this burglary, it would be a great help to me, and I should be very much obliged.”

Barrett had heard that a detective was coming down to look into the affair of the cups. His position was rather a difficult one. In a sense it was simple enough. He had found the cups. He could (keepers permitting) go and fetch them now, and there would⁠—No. There would not be an end of the matter. It would be very pleasant, exceedingly pleasant, to go to the Headmaster and the detective, and present the cups to them with a “Bless you, my children” air. The Headmaster would say, “Barrett, you’re a marvel. How can I thank you sufficiently?” while the detective would observe that he had been in the profession over twenty years, but never had he seen so remarkable an exhibition of sagacity and acumen as this. That, at least, was what ought to take place. But Barrett’s experience of life, short as it was, had taught him the difference between the ideal and the real. The real, he suspected, would in this case be painful. Certain facts would come to light. When had he found the cups? About four in the afternoon? Oh. Roll-call took place at four in the afternoon. How came it that he was not at roll-call? Furthermore, how came it that he was marked on the list as having answered his name at that ceremony? Where had he found the cups? In a hollow tree? Just so. Where was the hollow tree? In Sir Alfred Venner’s woods. Did he know that Sir Alfred Venner’s woods were out of bounds? Did he know that, in consequence of complaints from Sir Alfred Venner, Sir Alfred Venner’s woods were more out of bounds than any other out of bounds woods in the entire county that did not belong to Sir Alfred Venner? He did? Ah! No, the word for his guidance in this emergency, he felt instinctively, was “mum.” Time might provide him with a solution. He might, for instance, abstract the cups secretly from their resting place, place them in the middle of the football field, and find them there dramatically after morning school. Or he might reveal his secret from the carriage window as his train moved out of the station on the first day of the holidays. There was certain to be some way out of the difficulty. But for the present, silence.

He answered his companion’s questions freely, however. Of the actual burglary he knew no more than any other member of the School, considerably less, indeed, than Jim Thomson, of Merevale’s, at present staggering under the weight of a secret even more gigantic than Barrett’s own. In return for his information he extracted sundry reminiscences. The scar on the detective’s cheekbone, barely visible now, was the mark of a bullet, which a certain burglar, named, singularly enough, Roberts, had fired at him from a distance of five yards. The gentleman in question, who, the detective hastened to inform Barrett, was no relation of his, though owning the same name, happened to be a poor marksman and only scored a bad outer, assuming the detective’s face to have been the bull. He also turned up his cuff to show a larger scar. This was another testimonial from the burglar world. A Kensington practitioner had had the bad taste to bite off a piece of that part of the detective. In short, Barrett enlarged his knowledge of the seamy side of things considerably in the mile of road which had to be traversed before St. Austin’s appeared in sight. The two parted at the big gates, Barrett going in the direction of Philpott’s, the detective wheeling his machine towards