PART 3

"You think the food is unwholesome, then?" said the headmaster after

dinner that night.

"Unwholesome!" said the school doctor. "It must be deadly. It must be

positively lethal. Here we have six ordinary, strong, healthy boys

struck down at one fell swoop as if there were a pestilence raging.

Why----"

"One moment," said the headmaster. "Come in."

A small figure appeared in the doorway.

"Please, sir," said the figure in the strained voice of one speaking a

"piece" which he has committed to memory. "Mr. Seymour says please

would you mind letting the doctor come to his house at once because

Linton is ill."

"What!" exclaimed the doctor. "What's the matter with him?"

"Please, sir, I believe it's buckwheat cakes."

"What! And here's another of them!"

A second small figure had appeared in the doorway.

"Sir, please, sir," said the newcomer, "Mr. Bradfield says may the

doctor----"

"And what boy is it _this_ time?"

"Please, sir, it's Brown. He went to Ring's Stores----"

The headmaster rose.

"Perhaps you had better go at once, Oakes," he said. "This is becoming

serious. That place is a positive menace to the community. I shall put

it out of bounds tomorrow morning."

And when Dunstable and Linton, pale but cheerful, made their way--slowly,

as befitted convalescents--to Cook's two days afterwards, they had to sit

on the counter. All the other seats were occupied.

THE GUARDIAN

In his Sunday suit (with ten shillings in specie in the right-hand

trouser pocket) and a brand-new bowler hat, the youngest of the

Shearnes, Thomas Beauchamp Algernon, was being launched by the

combined strength of the family on his public-school career. It was a

solemn moment. The landscape was dotted with relatives--here a small

sister, awed by the occasion into refraining from insult; there an

aunt, vaguely admonitory. "Well, Tom," said Mr. Shearne, "you'll soon

be off now. You're sure to like Eckleton. Remember to cultivate your

bowling. Everyone can bat nowadays. And play forward, not outside. The

outsides get most of the fun, certainly, but then if you're a forward,

you've got eight chances of getting into a team."

"All right, father."

"Oh, and work hard." This by way of an afterthought.

"All right, father."

"And, Tom," said Mrs. Shearne, "you are sure to be comfortable at

school, because I asked Mrs. Davy to write to her sister, Mrs.

Spencer, who has a son at Eckleton, and tell her to tell him to look

after you when you get there. He is in Mr. Dencroft's house, which is

next door to Mr. Blackburn's, so you will be quite close to one

another. Mind you write directly you get there."

"All right, mother."

"And look here, Tom." His eldest brother stepped to the front and

spoke earnestly. "Look here, don't you forget what I've been telling

you?"

"All right."

"You'll be right enough if you don't go sticking on side. Don't forget

that, however much of a blood you may have been at that rotten little

private school of yours, you're not one at Eckleton."

"All right."

"You look clean, which is the great thing. There's nothing much wrong

with you except cheek. You've got enough of that to float a ship. Keep

it under."

"All right. Keep your hair on."

"There you go," said the expert, with gloomy triumph. "If you say that

sort of thing at Eckleton, you'll get jolly well sat on, by Jove!"

"Bai Jove, old chap!" murmured the younger brother, "we're devils in

the Forty-twoth!"

The other, whose chief sorrow in life was that he could not get the

smaller members of the family to look with proper awe on the fact that

he had just passed into Sandhurst, gazed wistfully at the speaker,

but, realising that there was a locked door between them, tried no

active measures.

"Well, anyhow," he said, "you'll soon get it knocked out of you,

that's one comfort. Look here, if you do get scrapping with anybody,

don't forget all I've taught you. And I should go on boxing there if I

were you, so as to go down to Aldershot some day. You ought to make a

fairly decent featherweight if you practise."

"All right."

"Let's know when Eckleton's playing Haileybury, and I'll come and look

you up. I want to see that match."

"All right."

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Tom."

"Good-bye, Tom, dear."

Chorus of aunts and other supers: "Goodbye, Tom."

Tom (comprehensively): "G'bye."

The train left the station.

* * * * *

Kennedy, the head of Dencroft's, said that when he wanted his study

turned into a beastly furnace, he would take care to let Spencer know.

He pointed out that just because it was his habit to warm the study

during the winter months, there was no reason why Spencer should light

the gas-stove on an afternoon in the summer term when the thermometer

was in the eighties. Spencer thought he might want some muffins cooked

for tea, did he? Kennedy earnestly advised Spencer to give up

thinking, as Nature had not equipped him for the strain. Thinking

necessitated mental effort, and Spencer, in Kennedy's opinion, had no

mind, but rubbed along on a cheap substitute of mud and putty.

More chatty remarks were exchanged, and then Spencer tore himself away

from the pleasant interview, and went downstairs to the junior study,

where he remarked to his friend Phipps that Life was getting a bit

thick.

"What's up now?" inquired Phipps.

"Everything. We've just had a week of term, and I've been in extra

once already for doing practically nothing, and I've got a hundred

lines, and Kennedy's been slanging me for lighting the stove. How was

I to know he didn't want it lit? Wish I was fagging for somebody

else."

"All the while you're jawing," said Phipps, "there's a letter for you

on the mantelpiece, staring at you?"

"So there is. Hullo!"

"What's up? Hullo! is that a postal order? How much for?"

"Five bob. I say, who's Shearne?"

"New kid in Blackburn's. Why?"

"Great Scott! I remember now. They told me to look after him. I

haven't seen him yet. And listen to this: 'Mrs. Shearne has sent me

the enclosed to give to you. Her son writes to say that he is very

happy and getting on very well, so she is sure you must have been

looking after him.' Why, I don't know the kid by sight. I clean forgot

all about him."

"Well, you'd better go and see him now, just to say you've done it."

Spencer perpended.

"Beastly nuisance having a new kid hanging on to you. He's probably a

frightful rotter."

"Well, anyway, you ought to," said Phipps, who possessed the

_scenario_ of a conscience.

"I can't."

"All right, don't, then. But you ought to send back that postal

order."

"Look here, Phipps," said Spencer plaintively, "you needn't be an

idiot, you know."

And the trivial matter of Thomas B. A. Shearne was shelved.

* * * * *

Thomas, as he had stated in his letter to his mother, was exceedingly

happy at Eckleton, and getting on very nicely indeed. It is true that

there had been one or two small unpleasantnesses at first, but those

were over now, and he had settled down completely. The little troubles

alluded to above had begun on his second day at Blackburn's. Thomas,

as the reader may have gathered from his glimpse of him at the station,

was not a diffident youth. He was quite prepared for anything Fate

might have up its sleeve for him, and he entered the junior day-room at

Blackburn's ready for emergencies. On the first day nothing happened.

One or two people asked him his name, but none inquired what his father

was--a question which, he had understood from books of school life, was

invariably put to the new boy. He was thus prevented from replying

"coolly, with his eyes fixed on his questioner's": "A gentleman. What's

yours?" and this, of course, had been a disappointment. But he reconciled

himself to it, and on the whole enjoyed his first day at Eckleton.

On the second there occurred an Episode.

Thomas had inherited from his mother a pleasant, rather meek cast of

countenance. He had pink cheeks and golden hair--almost indecently

golden in one who was not a choirboy.

Now, if you are going to look like a Ministering Child or a Little

Willie, the Sunbeam of the Home, when you go to a public school,

you must take the consequences. As Thomas sat by the window of the

junior day-room reading a magazine, and deeply interested in it,

there fell upon his face such a rapt, angelic expression that the

sight of it, silhouetted against the window, roused Master P. Burge,

his fellow-Blackburnite, as it had been a trumpet-blast. To seize a

Bradley Arnold's Latin Prose Exercises and hurl it across the room

was with Master Burge the work of a moment. It struck Thomas on the

ear. He jumped, and turned some shades pinker. Then he put down his

magazine, picked up the Bradley Arnold, and sat on it. After which he

resumed his magazine.

The acute interest of the junior day-room, always fond of a break in

the monotony of things, induced Burge to go further into the matter.

"You with the face!" said Burge rudely.

Thomas looked up.

"What the dickens are you going with my book? Pass it back!"

"Oh, is this yours?" said Thomas. "Here you are."

He walked towards him, carrying the book. At two yards range he fired

it in. It hit Burge with some force in the waistcoat, and there was a

pause while he collected his wind.

Then the thing may be said to have begun.

Yes, said Burge, interrogated on the point five minutes later, he

_had_ had enough.

"Good," said Thomas pleasantly. "Want a handkerchief?"

That evening he wrote to his mother and, thanking her for kind

inquiries, stated that he was not being bullied. He added, also in

answer to inquiries, that he had not been tossed in a blanket, and

that--so far--no Hulking Senior (with scowl) had let him down from the

dormitory window after midnight by a sheet, in order that he might

procure gin from the local public-house. As far as he could gather,

the seniors were mostly teetotallers. Yes, he had seen Spencer several

times. He did not add that he had seen him from a distance.

* * * * *

"I'm so glad I asked Mrs. Davy to get her nephew to look after Tom,"

said Mrs. Shearne, concluding the reading of the epistle at breakfast.

"It makes such a difference to a new boy having somebody to protect

him at first."

"Only drawback is," said his eldest brother gloomily--"won't get cheek

knocked out of him. Tom's kid wh'ought get'sheadsmacked reg'ly. Be no

holding him."

And he helped himself to marmalade, of which delicacy his mouth was

full, with a sort of magnificent despondency.

By the end of the first fortnight of his school career, Thomas

Beauchamp Algernon had overcome all the little ruggednesses which

relieve the path of the new boy from monotony. He had been taken in by

a primaeval "sell" which the junior day-room invariably sprang on the

new-comer. But as he had sat on the head of the engineer of the same

for the space of ten minutes, despite the latter's complaints of pain

and forecasts of what he would do when he got up, the laugh had not

been completely against him. He had received the honourable

distinction of extra lesson for ragging in French. He had been

"touched up" by the prefect of his dormitory for creating a

disturbance in the small hours. In fact, he had gone through all the

usual preliminaries, and become a full-blown Eckletonian.

His letters home were so cheerful at this point that a second postal

order relieved the dwindling fortune of Spencer. And it was this,

coupled with the remonstrances of Phipps, that induced the Dencroftian

to break through his icy reserve.

"Look here, Spencer," said Phipps, his conscience thoroughly stirred

by this second windfall, "it's all rot. You must either send back that

postal order, or go and see the chap. Besides, he's quite a decent

kid. We're in the same game at cricket. He's rather a good bowler. I'm

getting to know him quite well. I've got a jolly sight more right to

those postal orders than you have."

"But he's an awful ass to look at," pleaded Spencer.

"What's wrong with him? Doesn't look nearly such a goat as you," said

Phipps, with the refreshing directness of youth.

"He's got yellow hair," argued Spencer.

"Why shouldn't he have?"

"He looks like a sort of young Sunday-school kid."

"Well, he jolly well isn't, then, because I happen to know that he's

had scraps with some of the fellows in his house, and simply mopped

them."

"Well, all right, then," said Spencer reluctantly.

The historic meeting took place outside the school shop at the quarter

to eleven interval next morning. Thomas was leaning against the wall,

eating a bun. Spencer approached him with half a jam sandwich in his

hand. There was an awkward pause.

"Hullo!" said Spencer at last.

"Hullo!" said Thomas.

Spencer finished his sandwich and brushed the crumbs off his trousers.

Thomas continued operations on the bun with the concentrated

expression of a lunching python.

"I believe your people know my people," said Spencer.

"We have some awfully swell friends," said Thomas. Spencer chewed this

thoughtfully awhile.

"Beastly cheek," he said at last.

"Sorry," said Thomas, not looking it.

Spencer produced a bag of gelatines.

"Have one?" he asked.

"What's wrong with 'em?"

"All right, don't."

He selected a gelatine and consumed it.

"Ever had your head smacked?" he inquired courteously.

A slightly strained look came into Thomas's blue eyes.

"Not often," he replied politely. "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Spencer. "I was only wondering."

"Oh?"

"Look here," said Spencer, "my mater told me to look after you."

"Well, you can look after me now if you want to, because I'm going."

And Thomas dissolved the meeting by walking off in the direction of

the junior block.

"That kid," said Spencer to his immortal soul, "wants his head

smacked, badly."

At lunch Phipps had questions to ask.

"Saw you talking to Shearne in the interval," he said. "What were you

talking about?"

"Oh, nothing in particular."

"What did you think of him?"

"Little idiot."

"Ask him to tea this afternoon?"

"No."

"You must. Dash it all, you must do something for him. You've had ten

bob out of his people."

Spencer made no reply.

Going to the school shop that afternoon, he found Thomas seated there

with Phipps, behind a pot of tea. As a rule, he and Phipps tea'd

together, and he resented this desertion.

"Come on," said Phipps. "We were waiting for you."

"Pining away," added Thomas unnecessarily.

Spencer frowned austerely.

"Come and look after me," urged Thomas.

Spencer sat down in silence. For a minute no sound could be heard but

the champing of Thomas's jaws as he dealt with a slab of gingerbread.

"Buck up," said Phipps uneasily.

"Give me," said Thomas, "just one loving look."

Spencer ignored the request. The silence became tense once more.

"Coming to the house net, Phipps?" asked Spencer.

"We were going to the baths. Why don't you come?"

"All right," said Spencer.

Doctors tell us that we should allow one hour to elapse between taking

food and bathing, but the rule was not rigidly adhered to at Eckleton.

The three proceeded straight from the tea-table to the baths.

The place was rather empty when they arrived. It was a little earlier

than the majority of Eckletonians bathed. The bath filled up as lock-up

drew near. With the exception of a couple of infants splashing about in

the shallow end, and a stout youth who dived in from the spring-board,

scrambled out, and dived in again, each time flatter than the last, they

had the place to themselves.

"What's it like, Gorrick," inquired Phipps of the stout youth, who had

just appeared above the surface again, blowing like a whale. The

question was rendered necessary by the fact that many years before the

boiler at the Eckleton baths had burst, and had never been repaired,

with the consequence that the temperature of the water was apt to

vary. That is to say, most days it was colder than others.

"Simply boiling," said the man of weight, climbing out. "I say, did I

go in all right then?"

"Not bad," said Phipps.

"Bit flat," added Thomas critically.

Gorrick blinked severely at the speaker. A head-waiter at a

fashionable restaurant is cordial in his manner compared with a boy

who has been at a public school a year, when addressed familiarly by a

new boy. After reflecting on the outrage for a moment, he dived in

again.

"Worse than ever," said Truthful Thomas.

"Look here!" said Gorrick.

"Oh, come _on_!" exclaimed Phipps, and led Thomas away.

"That kid," said Gorrick to Spencer, "wants his head smacked, badly."

"That's just what I say," agreed Spencer, with the eagerness of a

great mind which has found another that thinks alike with itself.

Spencer was the first of the trio ready to enter the water. His

movements were wary and deliberate. There was nothing of the

professional diver about Spencer. First he stood on the edge and

rubbed his arms, regarding the green water beneath with suspicion and

dislike. Then, crouching down, he inserted three toes of his left

foot, drew them back sharply, and said "Oo!" Then he stood up again.

His next move was to slap his chest and dance a few steps, after which

he put his right foot into the water, again remarked "Oo!" and resumed

Position I.

"Thought you said it was warm," he shouted to Gorrick.

"So it is; hot as anything. Come on in."

And Spencer came on in. Not because he wanted to--for, by rights,

there were some twelve more movements to be gone through before he

should finally creep in at the shallow end--but because a cold hand,

placed suddenly on the small of his back, urged him forward. Down he

went, with the water fizzing and bubbling all over and all round him.

He swallowed a good deal of it, but there was still plenty left; and

what there was was colder than one would have believed possible.

He came to the surface after what seemed to him a quarter of an hour,

and struck out for the side. When he got out, Phipps and Thomas had

just got in. Gorrick was standing at the end of the cocoanut matting

which formed a pathway to the spring-board. Gorrick was blue, but

determined.

"I say! Did I go in all right then?" inquired Gorrick.

"How the dickens do I know?" said Spencer, stung to fresh wrath by the

inanity of the question.

"Spencer did," said Thomas, appearing in the water below them and

holding on to the rail.

"Look here!" cried Spencer; "did you shove me in then?"

"Me! Shove!" Thomas's voice expressed horror and pain. "Why, you dived

in. Jolly good one, too. Reminded me of the diving elephants at the

Hippodrome."

And he swam off.

"That kid," said Gorrick, gazing after him, "wants his head smacked."

"Badly," agreed Spencer. "Look here! did he shove me in? Did you see

him?"

"I was doing my dive. But it must have been him. Phipps never rags in

the bath."

Spencer grunted--an expressive grunt--and, creeping down the steps,

entered the water again.

It was Spencer's ambition to swim ten lengths of the bath. He was not

a young Channel swimmer, and ten lengths represented a very respectable

distance to him. He proceeded now to attempt to lower his record. It

was not often that he got the bath so much to himself. Usually, there

was barely standing-room in the water, and long-distance swimming was

impossible. But now, with a clear field, he should, he thought, be able

to complete the desired distance.

He was beginning the fifth length before interruption came. Just as he

reached halfway, a reproachful voice at his side said: "Oh, Percy,

you'll tire yourself!" and a hand on the top of his head propelled him

firmly towards the bottom.

Every schoolboy, as Honble. Macaulay would have put it, knows the

sensation of being ducked. It is always unpleasant--sometimes more,

sometimes less. The present case belonged to the former class. There

was just room inside Spencer for another half-pint of water. He

swallowed it. When he came to the surface, he swam to the side without

a word and climbed out. It was the last straw. Honour could now be

satisfied only with gore.

He hung about outside the baths till Phipps and Thomas appeared, then,

with a steadfast expression on his face, he walked up to the latter

and kicked him.

Thomas seemed surprised, but not alarmed. His eyes grew a little

rounder, and the pink on his cheeks deepened. He looked like a

choir-boy in a bad temper.

"Hullo! What's up, you ass, Spencer?" inquired Phipps.

Spencer said nothing.

"Where shall we go?" asked Thomas.

"Oh, chuck it!" said Phipps the peacemaker.

Spencer and Thomas were eyeing each other warily.

"You chaps aren't going to fight?" said Phipps.

The notion seemed to distress him.

"Unless he cares to take a kicking," said Spencer suavely.

"Not to-day, I think, thanks," replied Thomas without heat.

"Then, look here!" said Phipps briskly, "I know a ripping little place

just off the Lelby Road. It isn't five minutes' walk, and there's no

chance of being booked there. Rot if someone was to come and stop it

half-way through. It's in a field; thick hedges. No one can see. And I

tell you what--I'll keep time. I've got a watch. Two minute rounds,

and half-a-minute in between, and I'm the referee; so, if anybody

fouls the other chap, I'll stop the fight. See? Come on!"

Of the details of that conflict we have no very clear record. Phipps

is enthusiastic, but vague. He speaks in eulogistic terms of a

"corker" which Spencer brought off in the second round, and, again, of

a "tremendous biff" which Thomas appears to have consummated in the

fourth. But of the more subtle points of the fighting he is content

merely to state comprehensively that they were "top-hole." As to the

result, it would seem that, in the capacity of referee, he declared

the affair a draw at the end of the seventh round; and, later, in his

capacity of second to both parties, helped his principals home by back

and secret ways, one on each arm.

The next items to which the chronicler would call the attention of the

reader are two letters.

The first was from Mrs. Shearne to Spencer, and ran as follows--

My Dear Spencer,--I am writing to you direct, instead of through

your aunt, because I want to thank you so much for looking after

my boy so well. I know what a hard time a new boy has at a public

school if he has got nobody to take care of him at first. I heard

from Tom this morning. He seems so happy, and so fond of you. He

says you are "an awfully decent chap" and "the only chap who has

stood up to him at all." I suppose he means "for him." I hope you

will come and spend part of your holidays with us. ("Catch _me!_"

said Spencer.)

_Yours sincerely,_

_Isabel Shearne_

P.S.--I hope you will manage to buy something nice with

the enclosed.

The enclosed was yet another postal order for five shillings. As

somebody wisely observed, a woman's P.S. is always the most important

part of her letter.

"That kid," murmured Spencer between swollen lips, "has got cheek

enough for eighteen! 'Awfully decent chap!'"

He proceeded to compose a letter in reply, and for dignity combined

with lucidity it may stand as a model to young writers.

_5 College Grounds,_

_Eckleton._

Mr. C. F. Spencer begs to present his compliments to Mrs. Shearne,

and returns the postal order, because he doesn't see why he should

have it. He notes your remarks _re_ my being a decent chap in

your favour of the 13th _prox_., but cannot see where it quite

comes in, as the only thing I've done to Mrs. Shearne's son is to

fight seven rounds with him in a field, W. G. Phipps refereeing. It

was a draw. I got a black eye and rather a whack in the mouth, but

gave him beans also, particularly in the wind, which I learned to do

from reading "Rodney Stone"--the bit where Bob Whittaker beats the

Eyetalian Gondoleery Cove. Hoping that this will be taken in the

spirit which is meant,

_I remain_

_Yours sincerely,_

_C. F. Spencer_

_One enclosure._

He sent this off after prep., and retired to bed full of spiritual

pride.

On the following morning, going to the shop during the interval, he

came upon Thomas negotiating a hot bun.

"Hullo!" said Thomas.

As was generally the case after he had had a fair and spirited turn-out

with a fellow human being, Thomas had begun to feel that he loved his

late adversary as a brother. A wholesome respect, which had hitherto

been wanting, formed part of his opinion of him.

"Hullo!" said Spencer, pausing.

"I say," said Thomas.

"What's up?"

"I say, I don't believe we shook hands, did we?"

"I don't remember doing it."

They shook hands. Spencer began to feel that there were points about

Thomas, after all.

"I say," said Thomas.

"Hullo?"

"I'm sorry about in the bath, you know. I didn't know you minded being

ducked."

"Oh, all right!" said Spencer awkwardly.

Eight bars rest.

"I say," said Thomas.

"Hullo!"

"Doing anything this afternoon?"

"Nothing special, Why?"

"Come and have tea?"

"All right. Thanks."

"I'll wait for you outside the house."

"All right."

It was just here that Spencer regretted that he had sent back that

five-shilling postal order. Five good shillings.

Simply chucked away.

Oh, Life, Life!

But they were not, after all. On his plate at breakfast next day Spencer

found a letter. This was the letter--

Messrs. J. K. Shearne (father of T. B. A. Shearne) and P. W. Shearne

(brother of same) beg to acknowledge receipt of Mr. C. F. Spencer's

esteemed communication of yesterday's date, and in reply desire to

inform Mr. Spencer of their hearty approval of his attentions to

Mr. T. B. A. Shearne's wind. It is their opinion that the above,

a nice boy but inclined to cheek, badly needs treatment on these

lines occasionally. They therefore beg to return the postal order,

together with another for a like sum, and trust that this will meet

with Mr. Spencer's approval.

(Signed) _J. K. Shearne,_

_P. W. Shearne._

Two enclosures.

"Of course, what's up really," said Spencer to himself, after reading

this, "is that the whole family's jolly well cracked."

His eye fell on the postal orders.

"Still----!" he said.

That evening he entertained Phipps and Thomas B. A. Shearne lavishly

at tea.

A CORNER IN LINES

Of all the useless and irritating things in this world, lines are

probably the most useless and the most irritating. In fact, I only

know of two people who ever got any good out of them. Dunstable, of

Day's, was one, Linton, of Seymour's, the other. For a portion of one

winter term they flourished on lines. The more there were set, the

better they liked it. They would have been disappointed if masters had

given up the habit of doling them out.

Dunstable was a youth of ideas. He saw far more possibilities in the

routine of life at Locksley than did the majority of his

contemporaries, and every now and then he made use of these

possibilities in a way that caused a considerable sensation in the

school.

In the ordinary way of school work, however, he was not particularly

brilliant, and suffered in consequence. His chief foe was his

form-master, Mr. Langridge. The feud between them had begun on

Dunstable's arrival in the form two terms before, and had continued

ever since. The balance of points lay with the master. The staff has

ways of scoring which the school has not. This story really begins

with the last day but one of the summer term. It happened that

Dunstable's people were going to make their annual migration to

Scotland on that day, and the Headmaster, approached on the subject

both by letter and in person, saw no reason why--the examinations

being over--Dunstable should not leave Locksley a day before the

end of term.

He called Dunstable to his study one night after preparation.

"Your father has written to me, Dunstable," he said, "to ask that you

may be allowed to go home on Wednesday instead of Thursday. I think

that, under the special circumstances, there will be no objection to

this. You had better see that the matron packs your boxes."

"Yes, sir," said Dunstable. "Good business," he added to himself, as

he left the room.

When he got back to his own den, he began to ponder over the matter,

to see if something could not be made out of it. That was Dunstable's

way. He never let anything drop until he had made certain that he had

exhausted all its possibilities.

Just before he went to bed he had evolved a neat little scheme for

scoring off Mr. Langridge. The knowledge of his plans was confined to

himself and the Headmaster. His dorm-master would imagine that he was

going to stay on till the last day of term. Therefore, if he

misbehaved himself in form, Mr. Langridge would set him lines in

blissful ignorance of the fact that he would not be there next day to

show them up. At the beginning of the following term, moreover, he

would not be in Mr. Langridge's form, for he was certain of his move

up.

He acted accordingly.

He spent the earlier part of Wednesday morning in breaches of the

peace. Mr. Langridge, instead of pulling him up, put him on to

translate; Dunstable went on to translate. As he had not prepared the

lesson and was not an adept at construing unseen, his performance was

poor.

After a minute and a half, the form-master wearied.

"Have you looked at this, Dunstable?" he asked.

There was a time-honoured answer to this question.

"Yes, sir," he said.

Public-school ethics do not demand that you should reply truthfully to

the spirit of a question. The letter of it is all that requires

attention. Dunstable had _looked_ at the lesson. He was looking

at it then. Masters should practise exactness of speech. A certain

form at Harrow were in the habit of walking across a copy of a Latin

author before morning-school. They could then say with truth that they

"had been over it." This is not an isolated case.

"Go on," said Mr. Langridge.

Dunstable smiled as he did so.

Mr. Langridge was annoyed.

"What are you laughing at? What do you mean by it? Stand up. You will

write out the lesson in Latin and English, and show it up to me by

four this afternoon. I know what you are thinking. You imagine that

because this is the end of the term you can do as you please, but you

will find yourself mistaken. Mind--by four o'clock."

At four o'clock Dunstable was enjoying an excellent tea in Green

Street, Park Lane, and telling his mother that he had had a most

enjoyable term, marred by no unpleasantness whatever. His holidays

were sweetened by the thought of Mr. Langridge's baffled wrath on

discovering the true inwardness of the recent episode.

* * * * *

When he returned to Locksley at the beginning of the winter term, he

was at once made aware that that episode was not to be considered

closed. On the first evening, Mr. Day, his housemaster, sent for him.

"Well, Dunstable," he said, "where is that imposition?"

Dunstable affected ignorance.

"Please, sir, you set me no imposition."

"No, Dunstable, no." Mr. Day peered at him gravely through his

spectacles. "_I_ set you no imposition; but Mr. Langridge did."

Dunstable imitated that eminent tactician, Br'er Rabbit. He "lay low

and said nuffin."

"Surely," continued Mr. Day, in tones of mild reproach, "you did not

think that you could take Mr. Langridge in?"

Dunstable rather thought he _had_ taken Mr. Langridge in; but he

made no reply.

"Well," said Mr. Day. "I must set you some punishment. I shall give

the butler instructions to hand you a note from me at three o'clock

to-morrow." (The next day was a half-holiday.) "In that note you will

find indicated what I wish you to write out."

Why this comic-opera secret-society business, Dunstable wondered. Then

it dawned upon him. Mr. Day wished to break up his half-holiday

thoroughly.

That afternoon Dunstable retired in disgust to his study to brood over

his wrongs; to him entered Charles, his friend, one C. J. Linton, to

wit, of Seymour's, a very hearty sportsman.

"Good," said Linton. "Didn't think I should find you in. Thought you

might have gone off somewhere as it's such a ripping day. Tell you

what we'll do. Scull a mile or two up the river and have tea

somewhere."

"I should like to awfully," said Dunstable, "but I'm afraid I can't."

And he explained Mr. Day's ingenious scheme for preventing him from

straying that afternoon.

"Rot, isn't it," he said.

"Beastly. Wouldn't have thought old Day had it in him. But I'll tell

you what," he said. "Do the impot now, and then you'll be able to

start at three sharp, and we shall get in a good time on the river.

Day always sets the same thing. I've known scores of chaps get impots

from him, and they all had to do the Greek numerals. He's mad on the

Greek numerals. Never does anything else. You'll be as safe as

anything if you do them. Buck up, I'll help."

They accordingly sat down there and then. By three o'clock an imposing

array of sheets of foolscap covered with badly-written Greek lay on

the study table.

"That ought to be enough," said Linton, laying down his pen. "He can't

set you more than we've done, I should think."

"Rummy how alike our writing looks," said Dunstable, collecting the

sheets and examining them. "You can hardly tell which is which even

when you know. Well, there goes three. My watch is slow, as it always

is. I'll go and get that note."

Two minutes later he returned, full of abusive references to Mr. Day.

The crafty pedagogue appeared to have foreseen Dunstable's attempt to

circumvent him by doing the Greek numerals on the chance of his

setting them. The imposition he had set in his note was ten pages of

irregular verbs, and they were to be shown up in his study before five

o'clock. Linton's programme for the afternoon was out of the question

now. But he loyally gave up any other plans which he might have formed

in order to help Dunstable with his irregular verbs. Dunstable was too

disgusted with fate to be properly grateful.

"And the worst of it is," he said, as they adjourned for tea at

half-past four, having deposited the verbs on Mr. Day's table, "that

all those numerals will be wasted now."

"I should keep them, though," said Linton. "They may come in useful.

You never know."

* * * * *

Towards the end of the second week of term Fate, by way of

compensation, allowed Dunstable a distinct stroke of luck. Mr. Forman,

the master of his new form, set him a hundred lines of Virgil, and

told him to show them up next day. To Dunstable's delight, the next

day passed without mention of them; and when the day after that went

by, and still nothing was said, he came to the conclusion that Mr.

Forman had forgotten all about them.

Which was indeed the case. Mr. Forman was engaged in editing a new

edition of the "Bacchae," and was apt to be absent-minded in

consequence. So Dunstable, with a glad smile, hove the lines into a

cupboard in his study to keep company with the Greek numerals which he

had done for Mr. Day, and went out to play fives with Linton.

Linton, curiously enough, had also had a stroke of luck in a rather

similar way. He told Dunstable about it as they strolled back to the

houses after their game.

"Bit of luck this afternoon," he said. "You remember Appleby setting

me a hundred-and-fifty the day before yesterday? Well, I showed

them up to-day, and he looked through them and chucked them into the

waste-paper basket under his desk. I thought at the time I hadn't seen

him muck them up at all with his pencil, which is his usual game, so

after he had gone at the end of school I nipped to the basket and

fished them out. They were as good as new, so I saved them up in case

I get any more."

Dunstable hastened to tell of his own good fortune. Linton was

impressed by the coincidence.

"I tell you what," he said, "we score either way. Because if we never

get any more lines----"

Dunstable laughed.

"Yes, I know," Linton went on, "we're bound to. But even supposing we

don't, what we've got in stock needn't be wasted."

"I don't see that," said Dunstable. "Going to have 'em bound in cloth

and published? Or were you thinking of framing them?"

"Why, don't you see? Sell them, of course. There are dozens of chaps

in the school who would be glad of a few hundred lines cheap."

"It wouldn't work. They'd be spotted."

"Rot. It's been done before, and nobody said anything. A chap in

Seymour's who left last Easter sold all his stock lines by auction on

the last day of term. They were Virgil mostly and Greek numerals. They

sold like hot cakes. There were about five hundred of them altogether.

And I happen to know that every word of them has been given up and

passed all right."

"Well, I shall keep mine," said Dunstable. "I am sure to want all the

lines in stock that I can get. I used to think Langridge was fairly

bad in the way of impots, but Forman takes the biscuit easily. It

seems to be a sort of hobby of his. You can't stop him."

But it was not until the middle of preparation that the great idea

flashed upon Dunstable's mind.

It was the simplicity of the thing that took his breath away. That and

its possibilities. This was the idea. Why not start a Lines Trust in

the school? An agency for supplying lines at moderate rates to all who

desired them? There did not seem to be a single flaw in the scheme. He

and Linton between them could turn out enough material in a week to

give the Trust a good working capital. And as for the risk of

detection when customers came to show up the goods supplied to them,

that was very slight. As has been pointed out before, there was

practically one handwriting common to the whole school when it came to

writing lines. It resembled the movements of a fly that had fallen

into an ink-pot, and subsequently taken a little brisk exercise on a

sheet of foolscap by way of restoring the circulation. Then, again,

the attitude of the master to whom the lines were shown was not likely

to be critical. So that everything seemed in favour of Dunstable's

scheme.

Linton, to whom he confided it, was inclined to scoff at first, but

when he had had the beauties of the idea explained to him at length,

became an enthusiastic supporter of the scheme.

"But," he objected, "it'll take up all our time. Is it worth it? We

can't spend every afternoon sweating away at impots for other people."

"It's all right," said Dunstable, "I've thought of that. We shall need

to pitch in pretty hard for about a week or ten days. That will give

us a good big stock, and after that if we turn out a hundred each

every day it will be all right. A hundred's not much fag if you spread

them over a day."

Linton admitted that this was sound, and the Locksley Lines Supplying

Trust, Ltd., set to work in earnest.

It must not be supposed that the Agency left a great deal to chance.

The writing of lines in advance may seem a very speculative business;

but both Dunstable and Linton had had a wide experience of Locksley

masters, and the methods of the same when roused, and they were thus

enabled to reduce the element of chance to a minimum. They knew, for

example, that Mr. Day's favourite imposition was the Greek numerals,

and that in nine cases out of ten that would be what the youth who had

dealings with him would need to ask for from the Lines Trust. Mr.

Appleby, on the other hand, invariably set Virgil. The oldest

inhabitant had never known him to depart from this custom. For the

French masters extracts from the works of Victor Hugo would probably

pass muster.

A week from the date of the above conversation, everyone in the

school, with the exception of the prefects and the sixth form, found

in his desk on arriving at his form-room a printed slip of paper.

(Spiking, the stationer in the High Street, had printed it.) It was

nothing less than the prospectus of the new Trust. It set forth in

glowing terms the advantages offered by the agency. Dunstable had

written it--he had a certain amount of skill with his pen--and Linton

had suggested subtle and captivating additions. The whole presented

rather a striking appearance.

The document was headed with the name of the Trust in large letters.

Under this came a number of "scare headlines" such as:

SEE WHAT YOU SAVE!

NO MORE WORRY!

PEACE, PERFECT PEACE!

WHY DO LINES WHEN WE DO THEM

FOR YOU?

Then came the real prospectus:

The Locksley Lines Supplying Trust, Ltd. has been instituted to

meet the growing demand for lines and other impositions. While

there are masters at our public schools there will always be lines.

At Locksley the crop of masters has always flourished--and still

flourishes--very rankly, and the demand for lines has greatly taxed

the powers of those to whom has been assigned the task of supplying

them.

It is for the purpose of affording relief to these that the Lines

Trust has been formed. It is proposed that all orders for lines

shall be supplied out of our vast stock. Our charges are moderate,

and vary between threepence and sixpence per hundred lines. The

higher charge is made for Greek impositions, which, for obvious

reasons, entail a greater degree of labour on our large and

efficient staff of writers.

All orders, which will be promptly executed, should be forwarded to

Mr. P. A. Dunstable, 6 College Grounds, Locksley, or to Mr. C. J.

Linton, 10 College Grounds, Locksley. _Payment must be inclosed

with order, or the latter will not be executed._ Under no

conditions will notes of hand or cheques be accepted as legal

tender. There is no trust about us except the name.

Come in your thousands. We have lines for all. If the Trust's

stock of lines were to be placed end to end it would reach part

of the way to London. "You pay the threepence. We do the rest."

Then a blank space, after which came a few "unsolicited testimonials":

"Lower Fifth" writes: "I was set two hundred lines of Virgil on

Saturday last at one o'clock. Having laid in a supply from your

agency I was enabled to show them up at five minutes past one.

The master who gave me the commission was unable to restrain his

admiration at the rapidity and neatness of my work. You may make

what use of this you please."

"Dexter's House" writes: "Please send me one hundred (100) lines

from _Aeneid, Book Two_. Mr. Dexter was so delighted with the last

I showed him that he has asked me to do some more."

"Enthusiast" writes: "Thank you for your Greek numerals. Day took

them without blinking. So beautifully were they executed that I can

hardly believe even now that I did not write them myself."

* * * * *

There could be no doubt about the popularity of the Trust. It caught

on instantly.

Nothing else was discussed in the form-rooms at the quarter to eleven

interval, and in the houses after lunch it was the sole topic of

conversation. Dunstable and Linton were bombarded with questions and

witticisms of the near personal sort. To the latter they replied with

directness, to the former evasively.

"What's it all _about?_" someone would ask, fluttering the

leaflet before Dunstable's unmoved face.

"You should read it carefully," Dunstable would reply. "It's all

there."

"But what are you playing at?"

"We tried to make it clear to the meanest intelligence. Sorry you

can't understand it."

While at the same time Linton, in his form-room, would be explaining

to excited inquirers that he was sorry, but it was impossible to reply

to their query as to who was running the Trust. He was not at liberty

to reveal business secrets. Suffice it that there the lines were,

waiting to be bought, and he was there to sell them. So that if

anybody cared to lay in a stock, large or small, according to taste,

would he kindly walk up and deposit the necessary coin?

But here the public showed an unaccountable disinclination to deal. It

was gratifying to have acquaintances coming up and saying admiringly:

"You are an ass, you know," as if they were paying the highest of

compliments--as, indeed, they probably imagined that they were. All

this was magnificent, but it was not business. Dunstable and Linton

felt that the whole attitude of the public towards the new enterprise

was wrong. Locksley seemed to regard the Trust as a huge joke, and its

prospectus as a literary _jeu d'esprit_.

In fact, it looked very much as if--from a purely commercial point of

view--the great Lines Supplying Trust was going to be what is known in

theatrical circles as a frost.

For two whole days the public refused to bite, and Dunstable and

Linton, turning over the stacks of lines in their studies, thought

gloomily that this world is no place for original enterprise.

Then things began to move.

It was quite an accident that started them. Jackson, of Dexter's, was

teaing with Linton, and, as was his habit, was giving him a condensed

history of his life since he last saw him. In the course of this he

touched on a small encounter with M. Gaudinois which had occurred that

afternoon.

"So I got two pages of 'Quatre-Vingt Treize' to write," he concluded,

"for doing practically nothing."

All Jackson's impositions, according to him, were given him for doing

practically nothing. Now and then he got them for doing literally

nothing--when he ought to have been doing form-work.

"Done 'em?" asked Linton.

"Not yet; no," replied Jackson. "More tea, please."

"What you want to do, then," said Linton, "is to apply to the Locksley

Lines Supplying Trust. That's what you must do."

"You needn't rot a chap on a painful subject," protested Jackson.

"I wasn't rotting," said Linton. "Why don't you apply to the Lines

Trust?"

"Then do you mean to say that there really is such a thing?" Jackson

said incredulously. "Why I thought it was all a rag."

"I know you did. It's the rotten sort of thing you would think. Rag,

by Jove! Look at this. Now do you understand that this is a genuine

concern?"

He got up and went to the cupboard which filled the space between the

stove and the bookshelf. From this resting-place he extracted a great

pile of manuscript and dumped it down on the table with a bang which

caused a good deal of Jackson's tea to spring from its native cup on

to its owner's trousers.

"When you've finished," protested Jackson, mopping himself with a

handkerchief that had seen better days.

"Sorry. But look at these. What did you say your impot was? Oh, I

remember. Here you are. Two pages of 'Quatre-Vingt Treize.' I don't

know which two pages, but I suppose any will do."

Jackson was amazed.

"Great Scott! what a wad of stuff! When did you do it all?"

"Oh, at odd times. Dunstable's got just as much over at Day's. So you

see the Trust is a jolly big show. Here are your two pages. That looks

just like your scrawl, doesn't it? These would be fourpence in the

ordinary way, but you can have 'em for nothing this time."

"Oh, I say," said Jackson gratefully, "that's awfully good of you."

After that the Locksley Lines Supplying Trust, Ltd. went ahead with

a rush. The brilliant success which attended its first specimen--M.

Gaudinois took Jackson's imposition without a murmur--promoted

confidence in the public, and they rushed to buy. Orders poured in

from all the houses, and by the middle of the term the organisers of

the scheme were able to divide a substantial sum.

"How are you getting on round your way?" asked Linton of Dunstable at

the end of the sixth week of term.

"Ripping. Selling like hot cakes."

"So are mine," said Linton. "I've almost come to the end of my stock.

I ought to have written some more, but I've been a bit slack lately."

"Yes, buck up. We must keep a lot in hand."

"I say, did you hear that about Merrett in our house?" asked Linton.

"What about him?"

"Why, he tried to start a rival show. Wrote a prospectus and

everything. But it didn't catch on a bit. The only chap who bought any

of his lines was young Shoeblossom. He wanted a couple of hundred for

Appleby. Appleby was on to them like bricks. Spotted Shoeblossom

hadn't written them, and asked who had. He wouldn't say, so he got

them doubled. Everyone in the house is jolly sick with Merrett. They

think he ought to have owned up."

"Did that smash up Merrett's show? Is he going to turn out any more?"

"Rather not. Who'd buy 'em?"

It would have been better for the Lines Supplying Trust if Merrett had

not received this crushing blow and had been allowed to carry on a

rival business on legitimate lines. Locksley was conservative in its

habits, and would probably have continued to support the old firm.

As it was, the baffled Merrett, a youth of vindictive nature, brooded

over his defeat, and presently hit upon a scheme whereby things might

be levelled up.

One afternoon, shortly before lock-up, Dunstable was surprised by the

advent of Linton to his study in a bruised and dishevelled condition.

One of his expressive eyes was closed and blackened. He also wore what

is known in ring circles as a thick ear.

"What on earth's up?" inquired Dunstable, amazed at these phenomena.

"Have you been scrapping?"

"Yes--Merrett--I won. What are you up to--writing lines? You may as

well save yourself the trouble. They won't be any good." Dunstable

stared.

"The Trust's bust," said Linton.

He never wasted words in moments of emotion.

"What!"

"'Bust' was what I said. That beast Merrett gave the show away."

"What did he do? Surely he didn't tell a master?"

"Well, he did the next thing to it. He hauled out that prospectus, and

started reading it in form. I watched him do it. He kept it under the

desk and made a foul row, laughing over it. Appleby couldn't help

spotting him. Of course, he told him to bring him what he was reading.

Up went Merrett with the prospectus."

"Was Appleby sick?"

"I don't believe he was, really. At least, he laughed when he read the

thing. But he hauled me up after school and gave me a long jaw, and

made me take all the lines I'd got to his house. He burnt them. I had

it out with Merrett just now. He swears he didn't mean to get the

thing spotted, but I knew he did."

"Where did you scrag him!"

"In the dormitory. He chucked it after the third round."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," shouted Dunstable.

Buxton appeared, a member of Appleby's house.

"Oh, Dunstable, Appleby wants to see you."

"All right," said Dunstable wearily.

Mr. Appleby was in facetious mood. He chaffed Dunstable genially about

his prospectus, and admitted that it had amused him. Dunstable smiled

without enjoyment. It was a good thing, perhaps, that Mr. Appleby saw

the humorous rather than the lawless side of the Trust; but all the

quips in the world could not save that institution from ruin.

Presently Mr. Appleby's manner changed. "I am a funny dog, I know," he

seemed to say; "but duty is duty, and must be done."

"How many lines have you at your house, Dunstable?" he asked.

"About eight hundred, sir."

"Then you had better write me eight hundred lines, and show them up to

me in this room at--shall we say at ten minutes to five? It is now a

quarter to, so that you will have plenty of time."

Dunstable went, and returned five minutes later, bearing an armful of

manuscript.

"I don't think I shall need to count them," said Mr. Appleby. "Kindly

take them in batches of ten sheets, and tear them in half, Dunstable."

"Yes, sir."

The last sheet fluttered in two sections into the surfeited

waste-paper basket.

"It's an awful waste, sir," said Dunstable regretfully.

Mr. Appleby beamed.

"We must, however," he said, "always endeavour to look on the bright

side, Dunstable. The writing of these eight hundred lines will have

given you a fine grip of the rhythm of Virgil, the splendid prose of

Victor Hugo, and the unstudied majesty of the Greek Numerals. Good-night,

Dunstable."

"Good-night, sir," said the President of the Locksley Lines Supplying

Trust, Ltd.

THE AUTOGRAPH HUNTERS

Dunstable had his reasons for wishing to obtain Mr. Montagu Watson's

autograph, but admiration for that gentleman's novels was not one of

them.

It was nothing to him that critics considered Mr. Watson one of the

most remarkable figures in English literature since Scott. If you had

told him of this, he would merely have wondered in his coarse,

material way how much Mr. Watson gave the critics for saying so. To

the reviewer of the _Weekly Booklover_ the great man's latest

effort, "The Soul of Anthony Carrington" (Popgood and Grooly: 6s.)

seemed "a work that speaks eloquently in every line of a genius that

time cannot wither nor custom stale." To Dunstable, who got it out of

the school library, where it had been placed at the request of a

literary prefect, and read the first eleven pages, it seemed rot, and

he said as much to the librarian on returning it.

Yet he was very anxious to get the novelist's autograph. The fact was

that Mr. Day, his house-master, a man whose private life was in other

ways unstained by vicious habits, collected autographs. Also Mr. Day

had behaved in a square manner towards Dunstable on several occasions

in the past, and Dunstable, always ready to punish bad behaviour in a

master, was equally anxious to reward and foster any good trait which

he might exhibit.

On the occasion of the announcement that Mr. Watson had taken the big

white house near Chesterton, a couple of miles from the school, Mr.

Day had expressed in Dunstable's hearing a wish that he could add that

celebrity's signature to his collection. Dunstable had instantly

determined to play the part of a benevolent Providence. He would get

the autograph and present it to the house-master, as who should say,

"see what comes of being good." It would be pleasant to observe the

innocent joy of the recipient, his child-like triumph, and his

amazement at the donor's ingenuity in securing the treasure. A

touching scene--well worth the trouble involved in the quest.

And there would be trouble. For Mr. Montagu Watson was notoriously a

foe to the autograph-hunter. His curt, type-written replies (signed by

a secretary) had damped the ardour of scores of brave men and--more or

less--fair women. A genuine Montagu Watson was a prize in the

autograph market.

Dunstable was a man of action. When Mark, the boot-boy at Day's,

carried his burden of letters to the post that evening, there nestled

among them one addressed to M. Watson, Esq., The White House,

Chesterton. Looking at it casually, few of his friends would have

recognised Dunstable's handwriting. For it had seemed good to that man

of guile to adopt for the occasion the role of a backward youth of

twelve years old. He thought tender years might touch Mr. Watson's

heart.

This was the letter:

_Dear Sir_,--I am only a littel boy, but I think your

books ripping. I often wonder how you think of it all. Will you

please send me your ortograf? I like your books very much. I have

named my white rabit Montagu after you. I punched Jones II in

the eye to-day becos he didn't like your books. I have spent the

only penny I have on the stampe for this letter which I might have

spent on tuck. I want to be like Maltby in "The Soul of Anthony

Carrington" when I grow up.

_Your sincere reader_,

P. A. Dunstable.

It was a little unfortunate, perhaps, that he selected Maltby as his

ideal character. That gentleman was considered by critics a masterly

portrait of the cynical _roué_. But it was the only name he

remembered.

"Hot stuff!" said Dunstable to himself, as he closed the envelope.

"Little beast!" said Mr. Watson to himself as he opened it. It arrived

by the morning post, and he never felt really himself till after

breakfast.

"Here, Morrison," he said to his secretary, later in the morning:

"just answer this, will you? The usual thing--thanks and most deeply

grateful, y'know."

Next day the following was included in Dunstable's correspondence:

Mr. Montagu Watson presents his compliments to Mr. P. A. Dunstable,

and begs to thank him for all the kind things he says about his

work in his letter of the 18th inst., for which he is deeply grateful.

"Foiled!" said Dunstable, and went off to Seymour's to see his friend

Linton.

"Got any notepaper?" he asked.

"Heaps," said Linton. "Why? Want some?"

"Then get out a piece. I want to dictate a letter."

Linton stared.

"What's up? Hurt your hand?"

Dunstable explained.

"Day collects autographs, you know, and he wants Montagu Watson's

badly. Pining away, and all that sort of thing. Won't smile until he

gets it. I had a shot at it yesterday, and got this."

Linton inspected the document.

"So I can't send up another myself, you see."

"Why worry?"

"Oh, I'd like to put Day one up. He's not been bad this term. Come

on."

"All right. Let her rip."

Dunstable let her rip.

_Dear Sir_,--I cannot refrain from writing to tell you what

an inestimable comfort your novels have been to me during years

of sore tribulation and distress----

"Look here," interrupted Linton with decision at this point. "If you

think I'm going to shove my name at the end of this rot, you're making

the mistake of a lifetime."

"Of course not. You're a widow who has lost two sons in South Africa.

We'll think of a good name afterwards. Ready?

"Ever since my darling Charles Herbert and Percy Lionel were

taken from me in that dreadful war, I have turned for consolation

to the pages of 'The Soul of Anthony Carrington' and----"

"What, another?" asked Linton.

"There's one called 'Pancakes.'"

"Sure? Sounds rummy."

"That's all right. You have to get a queer title nowadays if you want

to sell a book."

"Go on, then. Jam it down."

"--and 'Pancakes.' I hate to bother you, but if you could send me

your autograph I should be more grateful than words can say. Yours

admiringly."

"What's a good name? How would Dorothy Maynard do?"

"You want something more aristocratic. What price Hilda Foulke-Ponsonby?"

Dunstable made no objection, and Linton signed the letter with a

flourish.

They installed Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby at Spiking's in the High Street.

It was not a very likely address for a lady whose blood was presumably

of the bluest, but they could think of none except that obliging

stationer who would take in letters for them.

There was a letter for Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby next day. Whatever his

other defects as a correspondent, Mr. Watson was at least prompt with

his responses.

Mr. Montagu Watson presented his compliments, and was deeply grateful

for all the kind things Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby had said about his work

in her letter of the 19th inst. He was, however, afraid that he

scarcely deserved them. Her opportunities of deriving consolation from

"The Soul of Anthony Carrington" had been limited by the fact that

that book had only been published ten days before: while, as for

"Pancakes," to which she had referred in such flattering terms, he

feared that another author must have the credit of any refreshment her

bereaved spirit might have extracted from that volume, for he had

written no work of such a name. His own "Pan Wakes" would, he hoped,

administer an equal quantity of balm.

Mr. Secretary Morrison had slept badly on the night before he wrote

this letter, and had expended some venom upon its composition.

"Sold again!" said Dunstable.

"You'd better chuck it now. It's no good," said Linton.

"I'll have another shot. Then I'll try and think of something else."

Two days later Mr. Morrison replied to Mr. Edgar Habbesham-Morley, of

3a, Green Street, Park Lane, to the effect that Mr. Montagu Watson was

deeply grateful for all the kind things, etc.----

3a, Green Street was Dunstable's home address.

At this juncture the Watson-Dunstable correspondence ceases, and the

relations become more personal.

On the afternoon of the twenty-third of the month, Mr. Watson, taking

a meditative stroll through the wood which formed part of his

property, was infuriated by the sight of a boy.

He was not a man who was fond of boys even in their proper place, and

the sight of one in the middle of his wood, prancing lightly about

among the nesting pheasants, stirred his never too placid mind to its

depths.

He shouted.

The apparition paused.

"Here! Hi! you boy!"

"Sir?" said the stripling, with a winning smile, lifting his cap with

the air of a D'Orsay.

"What business have you in my wood?"

"Not business," corrected the visitor, "pleasure."

"Come here!" shrilled the novelist.

The stranger receded coyly.

Mr. Watson advanced at the double.

His quarry dodged behind a tree.

For five minutes the great man devoted his powerful mind solely to the

task of catching his visitor.

The latter, however, proved as elusive as the point of a half-formed

epigram, and at the end of the five minutes he was no longer within

sight.

Mr. Watson went off and addressed his keeper in terms which made that

worthy envious for a week.

"It's eddication," he said subsequently to a friend at the "Cowslip

Inn." "You and me couldn't talk like that. It wants eddication."

For the next few days the keeper's existence was enlivened by visits

from what appeared to be a most enthusiastic bird's-nester. By no

other theory could he account for it. Only a boy with a collection to

support would run such risks.

To the keeper's mind the human boy up to the age of twenty or so had

no object in life except to collect eggs. After twenty, of course, he

took to poaching. This was a boy of about seventeen.

On the fifth day he caught him, and conducted him into the presence of

Mr. Montagu Watson.

Mr. Watson was brief and to the point. He recognised his visitor as

the boy for whose benefit he had made himself stiff for two days.

The keeper added further damaging facts.

"Bin here every day, he 'as, sir, for the last week. Well, I says to

myself, supposition is he'll come once too often. He'll come once too

often, I says. And then, I says, I'll cotch him. And I cotched him."

The keeper's narrative style had something of the classic simplicity

of Julius Caesar's.

Mr. Watson bit his pen.

"What you boys come for I can't understand," he said irritably.

"You're from the school, of course?"

"Yes," said the captive.

"Well, I shall report you to your house-master. What is your name?"

"Dunstable."

"Your house?"

"Day's."

"Very good. That is all."

Dunstable retired.

His next appearance in public life was in Mr. Day's study. Mr. Day had

sent for him after preparation. He held a letter in his hand, and he

looked annoyed.

"Come in, Dunstable. I have just received a letter complaining of you.

It seems that you have been trespassing."

"Yes, sir."

"I am surprised, Dunstable, that a sensible boy like you should have

done such a foolish thing. It seems so objectless. You know how

greatly the head-master dislikes any sort of friction between the

school and the neighbours, and yet you deliberately trespass in Mr.

Watson's wood."

"I'm very sorry, sir."

"I have had a most indignant letter from him--you may see what he

says. You do not deny it?"

Dunstable ran his eye over the straggling, untidy sentences.

"No, sir. It's quite true."

"In that case I shall have to punish you severely. You will write me

out the Greek numerals ten times, and show them up to me on Tuesday."

"Yes, sir."

"That will do."

At the door Dunstable paused.

"Well, Dunstable?" said Mr. Day.

"Er--I'm glad you've got his autograph after all, sir," he said.

Then he closed the door.

As he was going to bed that night, Dunstable met the house-master on

the stairs.

"Dunstable," said Mr. Day.

"Yes, sir."

"On second thoughts, it would be better if, instead of the Greek

numerals ten times, you wrote me the first ode of the first book of

Horace. The numerals would be a little long, perhaps."

PILLINGSHOT, DETECTIVE

Life at St. Austin's was rendered somewhat hollow and burdensome for

Pillingshot by the fact that he fagged for Scott. Not that Scott was

the Beetle-Browed Bully in any way. Far from it. He showed a kindly

interest in Pillingshot's welfare, and sometimes even did his Latin

verses for him. But the noblest natures have flaws, and Scott's was no

exception. He was by way of being a humorist, and Pillingshot, with

his rather serious outlook on life, was puzzled and inconvenienced by

this.

It was through this defect in Scott's character that Pillingshot first

became a detective.

He was toasting muffins at the study fire one evening, while Scott,

seated on two chairs and five cushions, read "Sherlock Holmes," when

the Prefect laid down his book and fixed him with an earnest eye.

"Do you know, Pillingshot," he said, "you've got a bright, intelligent

face. I shouldn't wonder if you weren't rather clever. Why do you hide

your light under a bushel?"

Pillingshot grunted.

"We must find some way of advertising you. Why don't you go in for a

Junior Scholarship?"

"Too old," said Pillingshot with satisfaction.

"Senior, then?"

"Too young."

"I believe by sitting up all night and swotting----"

"Here, I say!" said Pillingshot, alarmed.

"You've got no enterprise," said Scott sadly. "What are those?

Muffins? Well, well, I suppose I had better try and peck a bit."

He ate four in rapid succession, and resumed his scrutiny of

Pillingshot's countenance.

"The great thing," he said, "is to find out your special line. Till

then we are working in the dark. Perhaps it's music? Singing? Sing me

a bar or two."

Pillingshot wriggled uncomfortably.

"Left your music at home?" said Scott. "Never mind, then. Perhaps it's

all for the best. What are those? Still muffins? Hand me another.

After all, one must keep one's strength up. You can have one if you

like."

Pillingshot's face brightened. He became more affable. He chatted.

"There's rather a row on downstairs," he said. "In the junior day-room."

"There always is," said Scott. "If it grows too loud, I shall get in

amongst them with a swagger-stick. I attribute half my success at

bringing off late-cuts to the practice I have had in the junior

day-room. It keeps the wrist supple."

"I don't mean that sort of row. It's about Evans."

"What about Evans?"

"He's lost a sovereign."

"Silly young ass."

Pillingshot furtively helped himself to another muffin.

"He thinks some one's taken it," he said.

"What! Stolen it?"

Pillingshot nodded.

"What makes him think that?"

"He doesn't see how else it could have gone."

"Oh, I don't--By Jove!"

Scott sat up with some excitement.

"I've got it," he said. "I knew we should hit on it sooner or later.

Here's a field for your genius. You shall be a detective. Pillingshot,

I hand this case over to you. I employ you."

Pillingshot gaped.

"I feel certain that's your line. I've often noticed you walking over

to school, looking exactly like a blood-hound. Get to work. As a start

you'd better fetch Evans up here and question him."

"But, look here----"

"Buck up, man, buck up. Don't you know that every moment is precious?"

Evans, a small, stout youth, was not disposed to be reticent. The gist

of his rambling statement was as follows. Rich uncle. Impecunious

nephew. Visit of former to latter. Handsome tip, one sovereign.

Impecunious nephew pouches sovereign, and it vanishes.

"And I call it beastly rot," concluded Evans volubly. "And if I could

find the cad who's pinched it, I'd jolly well----"

"Less of it," said Scott. "Now, then, Pillingshot, I'll begin this

thing, just to start you off. What makes you think the quid has been

stolen, Evans?"

"Because I jolly well know it has."

"What you jolly well know isn't evidence. We must thresh this thing

out. To begin with, where did you last see it?"

"When I put it in my pocket."

"Good. Make a note of that, Pillingshot. Where's your notebook? Not

got one? Here you are then. You can tear out the first few pages, the

ones I've written on. Ready? Carry on, Evans. When?"

"When what?"

"When did you put it in your pocket?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"What time?"

"About five."

"Same pair of bags you're wearing now?"

"No, my cricket bags. I was playing at the nets when my uncle came."

"Ah! Cricket bags? Put it down, Pillingshot. That's a clue. Work on

it. Where are they?"

"They've gone to the wash."

"About time, too. I noticed them. How do you know the quid didn't go

to the wash as well?"

"I turned both the pockets inside out."

"Any hole in the pocket?"

"No."

"Well, when did you take off the bags? Did you sleep in them?"

"I wore 'em till bed-time, and then shoved them on a chair by the side

of the bed. It wasn't till next morning that I remembered the quid was

in them----"

"But it wasn't," objected Scott.

"I thought it was. It ought to have been."

"He thought it was. That's a clue, young Pillingshot. Work on it.

Well?"

"Well, when I went to take the quid out of my cricket bags, it wasn't

there."

"What time was that?"

"Half-past seven this morning."

"What time did you go to bed?"

"Ten."

"Then the theft occurred between the hours of ten and seven-thirty.

Mind you, I'm giving you a jolly good leg-up, young Pillingshot. But

as it's your first case I don't mind. That'll be all from you, Evans.

Pop off."

Evans disappeared. Scott turned to the detective.

"Well, young Pillingshot," he said, "what do you make of it?"

"I don't know."

"What steps do you propose to take?"

"I don't know."

"You're a lot of use, aren't you? As a start, you'd better examine the

scene of the robbery, I should say."

Pillingshot reluctantly left the room.

"Well?" said Scott, when he returned. "Any clues?"

"No."

"You thoroughly examined the scene of the robbery?"

"I looked under the bed."

"_Under_ the bed? What's the good of that? Did you go over every inch

of the strip of carpet leading to the chair with a magnifying-glass?"

"Hadn't got a magnifying-glass."

"Then you'd better buck up and get one, if you're going to be a

detective. Do you think Sherlock Holmes ever moved a step without his?

Not much. Well, anyhow. Did you find any foot-prints or tobacco-ash?"

"There was a jolly lot of dust about."

"Did you preserve a sample?"

"No."

"My word, you've a lot to learn. Now, weighing the evidence, does

anything strike you?"

"No."

"You're a bright sort of sleuth-hound, aren't you! It seems to me I'm

doing all the work on this case. I'll have to give you another leg-up.

Considering the time when the quid disappeared, I should say that

somebody in the dormitory must have collared it. How many fellows are

there in Evans' dormitory?"

"I don't know."

"Cut along and find out."

The detective reluctantly trudged off once more.

"Well?" said Scott, on his return.

"Seven," said Pillingshot. "Counting Evans."

"We needn't count Evans. If he's ass enough to steal his own quids, he

deserves to lose them. Who are the other six?"

"There's Trent. He's prefect."

"The Napoleon of Crime. Watch his every move. Yes?"

"Simms."

"A dangerous man. Sinister to the core."

"And Green, Berkeley, Hanson, and Daubeny."

"Every one of them well known to the police. Why, the place is a

perfect Thieves' Kitchen. Look here, we must act swiftly, young

Pillingshot. This is a black business. We'll take them in alphabetical

order. Run and fetch Berkeley."

Berkeley, interrupted in a game of Halma, came unwillingly.

"Now then, Pillingshot, put your questions," said Scott. "This is a

black business, Berkeley. Young Evans has lost a sovereign----"

"If you think I've taken his beastly quid----!" said Berkeley warmly.

"Make a note that, on being questioned, the man Berkeley exhibited

suspicious emotion. Go on. Jam it down."

Pillingshot reluctantly entered the statement under Berkeley's

indignant gaze.

"Now then, carry on."

"You know, it's all rot," protested Pillingshot. "I never said

Berkeley had anything to do with it."

"Never mind. Ask him what his movements were on the night of the--what

was yesterday?--on the night of the sixteenth of July."

Pillingshot put the question nervously.

"I was in bed, of course, you silly ass."

"Were you asleep?" inquired Scott.

"Of course I was."

"Then how do you know what you were doing? Pillingshot, make a note of

the fact that the man Berkeley's statement was confused and

contradictory. It's a clue. Work on it. Who's next? Daubeny. Berkeley,

send Daubeny up here."

"All right, Pillingshot, you wait," was Berkeley's exit speech.

Daubeny, when examined, exhibited the same suspicious emotion that

Berkeley had shown; and Hanson, Simms, and Green behaved in a

precisely similar manner.

"This," said Scott, "somewhat complicates the case. We must have

further clues. You'd better pop off now, Pillingshot. I've got a Latin

Prose to do. Bring me reports of your progress daily, and don't

overlook the importance of trifles. Why, in 'Silver Blaze' it was a

burnt match that first put Holmes on the scent."

Entering the junior day-room with some apprehension, the sleuth-hound

found an excited gathering of suspects waiting to interview him.

One sentiment animated the meeting. Each of the five wanted to know

what Pillingshot meant by it.

"What's the row?" queried interested spectators, rallying round.

"That cad Pillingshot's been accusing us of bagging Evans' quid."

"What's Scott got to do with it?" inquired one of the spectators.

Pillingshot explained his position.

"All the same," said Daubeny, "you needn't have dragged us into it."

"I couldn't help it. He made me."

"Awful ass, Scott," admitted Green.

Pillingshot welcomed this sign that the focus of popular indignation

was being shifted.

"Shoving himself into other people's business," grumbled Pillingshot.

"Trying to be funny," Berkeley summed up.

"Rotten at cricket, too."

"Can't play a yorker for nuts."

"See him drop that sitter on Saturday?"

So that was all right. As far as the junior day-room was concerned,

Pillingshot felt himself vindicated.

But his employer was less easily satisfied. Pillingshot had hoped that

by the next day he would have forgotten the subject. But, when he went

into the study to get tea ready, up it came again.

"Any clues yet, Pillingshot?"

Pillingshot had to admit that there were none.

"Hullo, this won't do. You must bustle about. You must get your nose

to the trail. Have you cross-examined Trent yet? No? Well, there you

are, then. Nip off and do it now."

"But, I say, Scott! He's a prefect!"

"In the dictionary of crime," said Scott sententiously, "there is no

such word as prefect. All are alike. Go and take down Trent's

statement."

To tax a prefect with having stolen a sovereign was a task at which

Pillingshot's imagination boggled. He went to Trent's study in a sort

of dream.

A hoarse roar answered his feeble tap. There was no doubt about Trent

being in. Inspection revealed the fact that the prefect was working

and evidently ill-attuned to conversation. He wore a haggard look and

his eye, as it caught that of the collector of statements, was

dangerous.

"Well?" said Trent, scowling murderously.

Pillingshot's legs felt perfectly boneless.

"_Well_?" said Trent.

Pillingshot yammered.

"_Well_?"

The roar shook the window, and Pillingshot's presence of mind deserted

him altogether.

"Have you bagged a sovereign?" he asked.

There was an awful silence, during which the detective, his limbs

suddenly becoming active again, banged the door, and shot off down the

passage.

He re-entered Scott's study at the double.

"Well?" said Scott. "What did he say?"

"Nothing."

"Get out your note-book, and put down, under the heading 'Trent':

'Suspicious silence.' A very bad lot, Trent. Keep him under constant

espionage. It's a clue. Work on it."

Pillingshot made a note of the silence, but later on, when he and the

prefect met in the dormitory, felt inclined to erase it. For silence

was the last epithet one would have applied to Trent on that occasion.

As he crawled painfully into bed Pillingshot became more than ever

convinced that the path of the amateur detective was a thorny one.

This conviction deepened next day.

Scott's help was possibly well meant, but it was certainly

inconvenient. His theories were of the brilliant, dashing order, and

Pillingshot could never be certain who and in what rank of life the

next suspect would be. He spent that afternoon shadowing the Greaser

(the combination of boot-boy and butler who did the odd jobs about the

school house), and in the evening seemed likely to be about to move in

the very highest circles. This was when Scott remarked in a dreamy

voice, "You know, I'm told the old man has been spending a good lot of

money lately...."

To which the burden of Pillingshot's reply was that he would do

anything in reason, but he was blowed if he was going to cross-examine

the head-master.

"It seems to me," said Scott sadly, "that you don't _want_ to

find that sovereign. Don't you like Evans, or what is it?"

It was on the following morning, after breakfast, that the close

observer might have noticed a change in the detective's demeanour. He

no longer looked as if he were weighed down by a secret sorrow. His

manner was even jaunty.

Scott noticed it.

"What's up?" he inquired. "Got a clue?"

Pillingshot nodded.

"What is it? Let's have a look."

"Sh--h--h!" said Pillingshot mysteriously.

Scott's interest was aroused. When his fag was making tea in the

afternoon, he questioned him again.

"Out with it," he said. "What's the point of all this silent mystery

business?"

"Sherlock Holmes never gave anything away."

"Out with it."

"Walls have ears," said Pillingshot.

"So have you," replied Scott crisply, "and I'll smite them in half a

second."

Pillingshot sighed resignedly, and produced an envelope. From this he

poured some dried mud.

"Here, steady on with my table-cloth," said Scott. "What's this?"

"Mud."

"What about it?"

"Where do you think it came from?"

"How should I know? Road, I suppose."

Pillingshot smiled faintly.

"Eighteen different kinds of mud about here," he said patronisingly.

"This is flower-bed mud from the house front-garden."

"Well? What about it?"

"Sh--h--h!" said Pillingshot, and glided out of the room.

* * * * *

"Well?" asked Scott next day. "Clues pouring in all right?"

"Rather."

"What? Got another?"

Pillingshot walked silently to the door and flung it open. He looked

up and down the passage. Then he closed the door and returned to the

table, where he took from his waistcoat-pocket a used match.

Scott turned it over inquiringly.

"What's the idea of this?"

"A clue," said Pillingshot. "See anything queer about it? See that

rummy brown stain on it?"

"Yes."

"Blood!" snorted Pillingshot.

"What's the good of blood? There's been no murder."

Pillingshot looked serious.

"I never thought of that."

"You must think of everything. The worst mistake a detective can make

is to get switched off on to another track while he's working on a

case. This match is a clue to something else. You can't work on it."

"I suppose not," said Pillingshot.

"Don't be discouraged. You're doing fine."

"I know," said Pillingshot. "I shall find that quid all right."

"Nothing like sticking to it."

Pillingshot shuffled, then rose to a point of order.

"I've been reading those Sherlock Holmes stories," he said, "and

Sherlock Holmes always got a fee if he brought a thing off. I think I

ought to, too."

"Mercenary young brute."

"It has been a beastly sweat."

"Done you good. Supplied you with a serious interest in life. Well, I

expect Evans will give you something--a jewelled snuff-box or

something--if you pull the thing off."

"_I_ don't."

"Well, he'll buy you a tea or something."

"He won't. He's not going to break the quid. He's saving up for a

camera."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

Pillingshot kicked the leg of the table.

"_You_ put me on to the case," he said casually.

"What! If you think I'm going to squander----"

"I think you ought to let me off fagging for the rest of the term."

Scott reflected.

"There's something in that. All right."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. You haven't found the quid yet."

"I know where it is."

"Where?"

"Ah!"

"Fool," said Scott.

* * * * *

After breakfast next day Scott was seated in his study when

Pillingshot entered.

"Here you are," said Pillingshot.

He unclasped his right hand and exhibited a sovereign. Scott inspected

it.

"Is this the one?" he said.

"Yes," said Pillingshot.

"How do you know?"

"It _is_. I've sifted all the evidence."

"Who had bagged it?"

"I don't want to mention names."

"Oh, all right. As he didn't spend any of it, it doesn't much matter.

Not that it's much catch having a thief roaming at large about the

house. Anyhow, what put you on to him? How did you get on the track?

You're a jolly smart kid, young Pillingshot. How did you work it?"

"I have my methods," said Pillingshot with dignity.

"Buck up. I shall have to be going over to school in a second."

"I hardly like to tell you."

"Tell me! Dash it all, I put you on to the case. I'm your employer."

"You won't touch me up if I tell you?"

"I will if you don't."

"But not if I do?"

"No."

"And how about the fee?"

"That's all right. Go on."

"All right then. Well, I thought the whole thing over, and I couldn't

make anything out of it at first, because it didn't seem likely that

Trent or any of the other fellows in the dormitory had taken it; and

then suddenly something Evans told me the day before yesterday made it

all clear."

"What was that?"

"He said that the matron had just given him back his quid, which one

of the housemaids had found on the floor by his bed. It had dropped

out of his pocket that first night."

Scott eyed him fixedly. Pillingshot coyly evaded his gaze.

"That was it, was it?" said Scott.

Pillingshot nodded.

"It was a clue," he said. "I worked on it."

End of Project Gutenberg's The Politeness of Princes, by P. G. Wodehouse