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

discussion was interrupted by the sound of the bell ringing for second lesson. The problem was left unsolved. It was evident that the burglar had been interrupted, but how or why nobody knew. The suggestion that he had heard Master R. Robinson training for his quarter-mile, and had thought it was an earthquake, found much favour with the junior portion of the assembly. Simpson, on whom Robinson had been given start in the race, expressed an opinion that he, Robinson, ran like a cow. At which Robinson smiled darkly, and advised the other to wait till Sports Day and then he’d see, remarking that, meanwhile, if he gave him any of his cheek he might not be well enough to run at all.

“This sort of thing,” said Barrett to Reade, as they walked to their form room, “always makes me feel beastly. Once start a row like this, and all the beaks turn into regular detectives and go ferreting about all over the place, and it’s ten to one they knock up against something one doesn’t want them to know about.”

Reade was feeling hurt. He had objected to the way in which Barrett had spoiled a story that might easily have been true, and really was true in parts. His dignity was offended. He said “Yes” to Barrett’s observation in a tone of reserved hauteur. Barrett did not notice.

“It’s an awful nuisance. For one thing it makes them so jolly strict about bounds.”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to go for a bike ride this afternoon. There’s nothing on at the School.”

“Why don’t you?”

“What’s the good if you can’t break bounds? A ride of about a quarter of a mile’s no good. There’s a ripping place about ten miles down the Stapleton Road. Big wood, with a ripping little hollow in the middle, all ferns and moss. I was thinking of taking a book out there for the afternoon. Only there’s roll-call.”

He paused. Ordinarily, this would have been the cue for Reade to say, “Oh, I’ll answer your name at roll-call.” But Reade said nothing. Barrett looked surprised and disappointed.

“I say, Reade,” he said.

“Well?”

“Would you like to answer my name at roll-call?” It was the first time he had ever had occasion to make the request.

“No,” said Reade.

Barrett could hardly believe his ears. Did he sleep? Did he dream? Or were visions about?

“What!” he said.

No answer.

“Do you mean to say you won’t?”

“Of course I won’t. Why the deuce should I do your beastly dirty work for you?”

Barrett did not know what to make of this. Curiosity urged him to ask for explanations. Dignity threw cold water on such a scheme. In the end Dignity had the best of it.

“Oh, very well,” he said, and they went on in silence. In all the three years of their acquaintance they had never before happened upon such a crisis.

The silence lasted until they reached the form room. Then Barrett determined, in the interests of the common good⁠—he and Reade shared a study, and icy coolness in a small study is unpleasant⁠—to chain up Dignity for the moment, and give Curiosity a trial.

“What’s up with you today?” he asked.

He could hardly have chosen a worse formula. The question has on most people precisely the same effect as that which the query, “Do you know where you lost it?” has on one who is engaged in looking for mislaid property.

“Nothing,” said Reade. Probably at the same moment hundreds of other people were making the same reply, in the same tone of voice, to the same question.

“Oh,” said Barrett.

There was another silence.

“You might as well answer my name this afternoon,” said Barrett, tentatively.

Reade walked off without replying, and Barrett went to his place feeling that curiosity was a fraud, and resolving to confine his attentions for the future to Dignity. This was byproduct number one of the Pavilion burglary.

IV Certain Revelations

During the last hour of morning school, Tony got a note from Jim.

“Graham,” said Mr. Thompson, the Master of the Sixth, sadly, just as Tony was about to open it.

“Yes, sir?”

“Kindly tear that note up, Graham.”

“Note, sir?”

“Kindly tear that note up, Graham. Come, you are keeping us waiting.”

As the hero of the novel says, further concealment was useless. Tony tore the note up unread.

“Hope it didn’t want an answer,” he said to Jim after school. “Constant practice has made Thompson a sort of amateur lynx.”

“No. It was only to ask you to be in the study directly after lunch. There’s a most unholy row going to occur shortly, as far as I can see.”

“What, about this burglary business?”

“Yes. Haven’t time to tell you now. See you after lunch.”

After lunch, having closed the study door, Jim embarked on the following statement.

It appeared that on the previous night he had left a book of notes, which were of absolutely vital importance for the examination which the Sixth had been doing in the earlier part of the morning, in the identical room in which the prizes had been placed. Or rather, he had left it there several days before, and had not needed it till that night. At half-past six the Pavilion had been locked up, and Biffen, the ground-man, had taken the key away with him, and it was only after tea had been consumed and the evening paper read, that Jim, thinking it about time to begin work, had discovered his loss. This was about half-past seven.

Being a House prefect, Jim did not attend preparation in the Great Hall with the common herd of the Houses, but was part owner with Tony of a study.

The difficulties of the situation soon presented themselves to him. It was only possible to obtain the notes in three ways⁠—firstly, by going to the rooms of the Sixth Form Master, who lived out of College; secondly, by borrowing from one of the other Sixth Form members of the House; and thirdly, by the desperate expedient of burgling the Pavilion. The objections to the first course were two. In the first