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

to anyone. If you start now, you will have just an hour and a half. You should have found him by then. The prefects from the other Houses will help you.”

Daintree put in a pertinent question.

“How about trespassing, sir?”

“Oh, go where you like. In reason, you know. Don’t go getting the School mixed up in any unpleasantness, of course, but remember that your main object is to find Thomson. You all understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Then start at once.”

“By Jove,” said Swift, when he had gone, “what an unholy rag! This suits yours truly. Poor old Jim, though. I wonder what the deuce has happened to him?”

At that very moment the Headmaster, leaving Philpott’s House to go to Prater’s, was wondering the same thing. In spite of Mr. Merevale’s argument, he found himself drifting back to his former belief that Jim had run away. What else could keep him out of his House more than three hours after lockup? And he had had some reason for running away, for the conscia mens recti, though an excellent institution in theory, is not nearly so useful an ally as it should be in practice. The Head knocked at Prater’s door, pondering darkly within himself.

XVII “We’ll Proceed to Search for Thomson if He Be Above the Ground”

“How sweet the moonlight sleeps on yonder haystack,” observed Charteris poetically, as he and Tony, accompanied by Swift and Daintree, made their way across the fields to Parker’s Spinney. Each carried a bicycle lamp, and at irregular intervals each broke into piercing yells, to the marked discomfort of certain birds roosting in the neighbourhood, who burst noisily from the trees, and made their way with visible disgust to quieter spots.

“There’s one thing,” said Swift, “we ought to hear him if he yells on a night like this. A yell ought to travel about a mile.”

“Suppose we try one now,” said Charteris. “Now. A concerted piece, andante in six-eight time. Ready?”

The next moment the stillness of the lovely spring night was shattered by a hideous uproar.

“R.S.V.P.,” said Charteris to space in general, as the echoes died away. But there was no answer, though they waited several minutes on the chance of hearing some sound that would indicate Jim’s whereabouts.

“If he didn’t hear that,” observed Tony, “he can’t be within three miles, that’s a cert. We’d better separate, I think.”

They were at the ploughed field by Parker’s Spinney now.

“Anybody got a coin?” asked Daintree. “Let’s toss for directions.”

Charteris produced a shilling.

“My ewe lamb,” he said. “Tails.”

Tails it was. Charteris expressed his intention of striking westward and drawing the Spinney. He and Tony made their way thither, Swift and Daintree moving off together in the opposite direction.

“This is jolly rum,” said Tony, as they entered the Spinney. “I wonder where the deuce the man has got to?”

“Yes. It’s beastly serious, really, but I’m hanged if I can help feeling as if I were out on a picnic. I suppose it’s the night air.”

“I wonder if we shall find him?”

“Not the slightest chance in my opinion. There’s not the least good in looking through this forsaken Spinney. Still, we’d better do it.”

“Yes. Don’t make a row. We’re trespassing.”

They moved on in silence. Halfway through the wood Charteris caught his foot in a hole and fell.

“Hurt?” said Tony.

“Only in spirit, thanks. The absolute dashed foolishness of this is being rapidly borne in upon me, Tony. What is the good of it? We shan’t find him here.”

Tony put his foot down upon these opinions with exemplary promptitude.

“We must go on trying. Hang it all, if it comes to the worst, it’s better than frousting indoors.”

“Tony, you’re a philosopher. Lead on, Macduff.”

Tony was about to do so, when a form appeared in front of him, blocking the way. He flashed his lamp at the form, and the form, prefacing its remarks with a good, honest swearword⁠—of a variety peculiar to that part of the country⁠—requested him, without any affectation of ceremonious courtesy, to take his something-or-other lamp out of his (the form’s) what’s-its-named face, and state his business briefly.

“Surely I know that voice,” said Charteris. “Archibald, my long-lost brother.”

The keeper failed to understand him, and said so tersely.

“Can you tell me,” went on Charteris, “if you have seen such a thing as a boy in this Spinney lately? We happen to have lost one. An ordinary boy. No special markings. His name is Thomson, on the Grampian Hills⁠—”

At this point the keeper felt that he had had enough. He made a dive for the speaker.

Charteris dodged behind Tony, and his assailant, not observing this, proceeded to lay violent hands upon the latter, who had been standing waiting during the conversation.

“Let go, you fool,” cried he. The keeper’s hand had come smartly into contact with his left eye, and from there had taken up a position on his shoulder. In reply the keeper merely tightened his grip.

“I’ll count three,” said Tony, “and⁠—”

The keeper’s hand shifted to his collar.

“All right, then,” said Tony between his teeth. He hit up with his left at the keeper’s wrist. The hand on his collar loosed its grip. Its owner rushed, and as he came, Tony hit him in the parts about the third waistcoat button with his right. He staggered and fell. Tony hit very hard when the spirit moved him.

“Come on, man,” said Charteris quickly, “before he gets his wind again. We mustn’t be booked trespassing.”

Tony recognised the soundness of the advice. They were out of the Spinney in two minutes.

“Now,” said Charteris, “let’s do a steady double to the road. This is no place for us. Come on, you man of blood.”

When they reached the road they slowed down to a walk again. Charteris laughed.

“I feel just as if we’d done a murder, somehow. What an ass that fellow was to employ violence. He went down all right, didn’t he?”

“Think there’ll be a row?”

“No. Should think not. He didn’t see us properly. Anyhow, he was interfering with an officer