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 housemaster. 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 headmaster 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 housemaster 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?”
