01 The Pothunters

Barrett was a little puzzled as to how to class his companion. No old public school man would talk of scholars. And yet he was emphatically not a bargee. Barrett set him down as a sort of superior tourist, a Henry as opposed to an ‘Arry.

‘Been bit of a disturbance there, hasn’t there? Cricket pavilion. Cups.’

‘Rather. But how on earth—’

‘How on earth did I get to hear of it, you were going to say. Well, no need to conceal anything. Fact is, down here to look into the matter. Detective. Name, Roberts, Scotland Yard. Now we know each other, and if you can tell me one or two things about this burglary, it would be a great help to me, and I should be very much obliged.’

Barrett had heard that a detective was coming down to look into the affair of the cups. His position was rather a difficult one. In a sense it was simple enough. He had found the cups. He could (keepers permitting) go and fetch them now, and there would—No. There would not be an end of the matter. It would be very pleasant, exceedingly pleasant, to go to the Headmaster and the detective, and present the cups to them with a ‘Bless you, my children’ air. The Headmaster would say, ‘Barrett, you’re a marvel. How can I thank you sufficiently?’ while the detective would observe that he had been in the profession over twenty years, but never had he seen so remarkable an exhibition of sagacity and acumen as this. That, at least, was what ought to take place. But Barrett’s experience of life, short as it was, had taught him the difference between the ideal and the real. The real, he suspected, would in this case be painful. Certain facts would come to light. When had he found the cups? About four in the afternoon? Oh. Roll-call took place at four in the afternoon. How came it that he was not at roll- call? Furthermore, how came it that he was marked on the list as having answered his name at that ceremony? Where had he found the cups? In a hollow tree? Just so. Where was the hollow tree? In Sir Alfred Venner’s woods. Did he know that Sir Alfred Venner’s woods were out of bounds? Did he know that, in consequence of complaints from Sir Alfred Venner, Sir Alfred Venner’s woods were more out of bounds than any other out of bounds woods in the entire county that did not belong to Sir Alfred Venner? He did? Ah! No, the word for his guidance in this emergency, he felt instinctively, was ‘mum’. Time might provide him with a solution. He might, for instance, abstract the cups secretly from their resting-place, place them in the middle of the football field, and find them there dramatically after morning school. Or he might reveal his secret from the carriage window as his train moved out of the station on the first day of the holidays. There was certain to be some way out of the difficulty. But for the present, silence.

He answered his companion’s questions freely, however. Of the actual burglary he knew no more than any other member of the School, considerably less, indeed, than Jim Thomson, of Merevale’s, at present staggering under the weight of a secret even more gigantic than Barrett’s own. In return for his information he extracted sundry reminiscences. The scar on the detective’s cheekbone, barely visible now, was the mark of a bullet, which a certain burglar, named, singularly enough, Roberts, had fired at him from a distance of five yards. The gentleman in question, who, the detective hastened to inform Barrett, was no relation of his, though owning the same name, happened to be a poor marksman and only scored a bad outer, assuming the detective’s face to have been the bull. He also turned up his cuff to show a larger scar. This was another testimonial from the burglar world. A Kensington practitioner had had the bad taste to bite off a piece of that part of the detective. In short, Barrett enlarged his knowledge of the seamy side of things considerably in the mile of road which had to be traversed before St Austin’s appeared in sight. The two parted at the big gates, Barrett going in the direction of Philpott’s, the detective wheeling his machine towards the porter’s lodge.

Barrett’s condition when he turned in at Philpott’s door was critical. He was so inflated with news that any attempt to keep it in might have serious results. Certainly he could not sleep that night in such a bomb-like state.

It was thus that he broke in upon Reade. Reade had passed an absurdly useless afternoon. He had not stirred from the study. For all that it would have mattered to him, it might have been raining hard the whole afternoon, instead of being, as it had been, the finest afternoon of the whole term. In a word, and not to put too fine a point on the matter, he had been frousting, and consequently was feeling dull and sleepy, and generally under-vitalized and futile. Barrett entered the study with a rush, and was carried away by excitement to such an extent that he addressed Reade as if the deadly feud between them not only did not exist, but never had existed.

‘I say, Reade. Heave that beastly book away. My aunt, I have had an afternoon of it.’

‘Oh?’ said Reade, politely, ‘where did you go?’

‘After eggs in the Dingle.’

Reade was fairly startled out of his dignified reserve. For the first time since they had had their little difference, he addressed Barrett in a sensible manner.

‘You idiot!’ he said.

‘Don’t see it. The Dingle’s just the place to spend a happy day. Like Rosherville. Jove, it’s worth going there. You should see the birds. Place is black with ‘em.’

‘How about keepers? See any?’

‘Did I not! Three of them chased me like good ‘uns all over the place.’

‘You got away all right, though.’

‘Only just. I say, do you know what happened? You know that rotter Plunkett. Used to be a day boy. Head of Ward’s now. Wears specs.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, just as I was almost out of the wood, I jumped a bush and landed right on top of him. The man was asleep or something. Fancy choosing the Dingle of all places to sleep in, where you can’t go a couple of yards without running into a keeper! He hadn’t even the sense to run. I yelled to him to look out, and then I hooked it myself. And then the nearest keeper, who’d just come down a buster over a rabbit-hole, sailed in and had him. I couldn’t do anything, of course.’

‘Jove, there’ll be a fair-sized row about this. The Old Man’s on to trespassing like tar. I say, think Plunkett’ll say anything about you being there too?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. For one thing I don’t think he recognized me. Probably doesn’t know me by sight, and he was fast asleep, too. No, I fancy I’m all right.’

‘Well, it was a jolly narrow shave. Anything else happen?’

‘Anything else! Just a bit. That’s to say, no, nothing much else. No.’