Colonel Butler's Wolf

their moustaches, Sam Brownes and puttees, from the '14-'18 war.

'You will not find it easy to recognise me there.'

Butler engaged the bright eyes again. It was time to assert himself. 'Not at all, sir,' he snapped. 'You're third from the left in the cricket picture, second row, on the far right in the rugger one and in the centre of the infantry group.'

Lashless shutters of skin descended half-way across Dingle's eyes in what was presumably an expression of surprise. Which was gratifying even though there was no mystery in the identification: if none of those youthful faces in any way resembled this wrinkled mask there was still one nondescript young face that was common to all the groups and which must therefore be yesteryear's Dingle.

'I'm here rather by accident, sir,' Butler continued stiffly. 'I had intended to call on the headmaster, but it seems that the school is shut up for half term. I was told that you might be able to help me.'

Dingle remained silent.

'I am interested in one of your former pupils, Mr Dingle. I believe you may be able to help me.'

Still the old man said nothing. Butler sensed rather than noticed a wariness in him.

'The name of the man—the boy, that is—was Smith. Neil Smith.'

At last Dingle spoke. 'Smith is not an uncommon name, Major Butler. The Christian name is not significant, I have never addressed a boy by his Christian name. Neil Smith means no more to me than any other Smith, and I have taught a great many of them.'

'I think you may remember this Smith. He was a clever boy.'

Dingle regarded him coolly over his half-glasses.

'Five per cent of all boys are clever, Major. Apart from the wartime interruptions I have been teaching for over half a century. Now, how many clever boys. . . how many clever Smiths... do you think I have dummy2.htm

instructed in Latin grammar and English grammar in half a century?'

Butler sighed. It always had to be either the hard way or the easy way, but with a man like this, with this background, he had a right to expect it to be easy.

'You taught him from 1957 to 1962, Mr Dingle,' he said. 'In 1962 his parents emigrated to New Zealand—he went from Eden Hall to Princess Alice's School, Hokitikoura. Have many of your pupils gone to Hokitikoura?'

Dingle's mouth pursed with distaste: there was no need for Butler to remind him further that on his own testimony he never forgot a name or a face. There could be no doubts now in his mind as to the exact identity of Neil Smith among the five per cent of the clever Smiths.

To soothe his own irritation Butler allowed his eyes to leave Dingle's face and range for a moment over the room: there might be more to be discerned about the man there.

The bookshelves were as he would have expected: seried ranks of Loeb Latin and Greek library classics and the chaste dark spines of Oxford and Cambridge University Press volumes. On the mantlepiece, of course, the well- stocked pipe-rack and tobacco jar, and one silver-framed photograph in pride of place.

'Good lord,' Butler murmured. 'Isn't that Frank Woolley?'

He stood up to look closer, although he knew immediately that his identification was correct: no mistaking the tall lefthander playing forward—making mincemeat of a short, fast ball. A legend caught for posterity.

On the bottom of the photo was written carelessly: 'Best wishes from Frank Woolley to Josh Dingle, who clean bowled him.' There was a date, but it was lost under the edge of the frame.

'Bowled him!' Butler repeated in awe. 'That would be something to remember, by God!'

'Surely you are too young to remember Frank Woolley, Major?' exclaimed Dingle. 'He retired well over thirty years ago—before the war—and he was no chicken then.'

'1938 he retired,' said Butler. 'My Dad took me to see him every time he came anywhere near us—he was past his prime then, but he was still great—Dad always called him 'Stalky'.'

'You're Lancashire, then? That was their name for him wasn't it? I thought I recognised it in your voice.'

'Aye.'

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For one sybaritic half-second Butler was far from the isle of Thanet, out of Frank Woolley's own Kent, and away to the north, sitting beside his father on the edge of the ground at Trent Bridge on a hot summer's afternoon, knowing that he had twopence in his pocket for a big strawberry ice ...

'He played his first innings for Kent against Lancashire, Frank did—in 1906. Or maybe 1907,' said Dingle reflectively. But he could be that old, thought Butler. 'Johnny Tyldesley flogged him all over the ground.'

Johnny Tyldesley! It was like hearing someone casually remember the Duke of Wellington—or King Arthur!

'Lancashire scored over 500 in five hours. Frank missed him twice—and then scored a duck.' Dingle's face suddenly cracked in an unmistakable smile. 'That was the first innings though. In the second Frank flogged Walter Brearley just the way J.T. had flogged him—64 in 60 minutes. That was the start of it.'

Dingle nodded at him happily, and Butler realised that he had allowed his own mouth to drop wide open.

'And just what was it that you desire to know about Smith?' said Dingle. 'A dark-haired boy, rather stocky. I wouldn't have said he was quite as clever as you have suggested—if I have the right Smith. In the top ten per cent, perhaps—beta double plus rather than alpha. What has he done to offend the Ministry of Defense ?'

'I'm afraid I can't tell you that, sir.'