Tom Brown's Body

filthy little beast?'

'Please, Timms, he slipped on his Prigga and hit his head,' volunteered a pale child whose bed was next that of Ingpen.

'Lord!' said Timms, more mildly this time, however. 'You'd better sit down, you little fathead. What on earth do you want to slip on mats for?'

'I don't know, Timms,' replied Ingpen; and astonished and alarmed his interlocutor by sitting on the bed, falling sideways, and, apparently, going to sleep. Matron, fortunately, arrived at this moment, scanned the mess on the floor with noteworthy lack of interest, pointed it out to the maid who had followed her up with sand, sawdust, disinfectant, and such other appurtenances as the situation demanded, and then hurried all the children out of the room with their clothing under their arms. She commanded Timms to lift up Ingpen and bring him into the Senior Day Room, which, at that hour of the morning, was empty.

There they walked him up and down a bit, and the School doctor, for whom Mrs Poundbury, summoned at matron's request, had immediately telephoned, examined the bump on Ingpen's head. The doctor did not think the concussion was serious, but advised that Ingpen should be kept quiet and caused to 'go steady' for a bit.

'A bit?' said Mrs Poundbury. 'What does that mean, doctor? He's in one of the School plays this afternoon! He'll go crazy if he isn't allowed to go on!'

The doctor was a sensible man. He did not think that the child was seriously hurt. He studied Ingpen.

'A big part?' he enquired.

'Oh, yes, sir, please, sir, no, sir!' gasped Ingpen, who believed that the play could not possibly be put on without him.

'Well, you keep very quiet until this afternoon, then, or I'll take you out of the whole show,' said the doctor.

Ingpen was enormously relieved. His mother, father, and sister were all invited to the play, and his Uncle Henry and his Cousin Marion were on the premises already. It would have broken his heart to fail them. On the other hand – he studied the luminous hands of his watch in the darkened room when everybody had gone and he was left tucked up under a rug on Mrs Poundbury's drawing-room sofa – at least five hours, and perhaps more, must elapse before he could rejoin his fellow-men; hours and hours and hours when he would have nothing to do, no one to talk to, no lessons, no anything.

It has been remarked upon more than once by those who are knowledgeable and experienced in such matters, that young children genuinely enjoy school work. It is only in early adolescence that the irksome, irritating, and unnecessary nature of the tasks allotted by our mentors and preceptors becomes obvious. At nine and a half, young Ingpen enjoyed his lessons. He honestly and ingenuously believed that it would be much more dull without than with them. Odd as it might seem to the rest of Spey, the preparatory-school section even mildly liked the staff who taught them, and offended these less from set intention than from sheer puppy exuberance or as the result of legitimate experiment.

At the end of twenty minutes' peace and boredom, Ingpen was almost desperate. He was meditating a quiet sneak out on the excuse, if he were encountered, of needing to visit the privy, when a maid carrying a breakfast tray followed Mrs Poundbury into the room.

'Well, Bill,' she said – following her casual habit of addressing all boys under twelve by this cognomen – 'how goes it?'

'Oh, I'm quite all right,' declared Ingpen. 'Please mayn't I go over to School?'

'Better not. Have some breakfast with me. Would you like me to send for Marion? She came over with your uncle to his woodwork class to show the boys how to upholster the chairs they're making.'

'No, thanks. Just talk to me, please.'

Thus passed a pleasant half hour, but then Mrs Pound-bury had to go away. She consented, however, as there was no sunshine, to leave the curtains partly open so that Ingpen could see the garden.

'You must keep very quiet, or the doctor won't let you go on in the play,' she said. 'Does your head ache much?'

'It doesn't ache at all,' said Ingpen, not quite truthfully. But he did not renew his entreaty to be allowed to go over to School.

Another half hour went very slowly by . . . and then another half hour. It would be a long time yet, reflected Ingpen miserably, even to mid-morning break. He loved mid-morning break, with its shrill hooliganism, its glass of milk and its biscuits. Then a dreadful thought came to his mind. Perhaps he was not to have a mid-morning break! Perhaps they would forget all about him! He grew restless and felt suddenly very hungry. There was nothing to do; there was nothing to eat; there was nothing to learn; there was – Ah!

He put back the rug and swung his feet to the ground. His head still hurt, but it was nothing more than a tight, bruised sort of feeling. He stood up, began to feel better, walked over to the bookcase and scanned the backs of the books. You could learn something, even from titles, he decided. He would not touch anything, of course, but surely Mrs Poundbury would not mind a man looking at her books?

Most of the titles were beneath notice; novels of a type which he did not like at that age, and never did like afterwards. These filled one and a half shelves; some of Mr Poundbury's more scholarly reading filled two and a half; then – and Ingpen caught his breath – then came a whole shelf of detective stories. Ingpen read title after title . . . then he stretched out a small, still babyishly plump hand.

The note fell on the floor unheeded at the moment by the child. He carried the book to his sofa and tucked it under the rug. Then, with the depravity common to his years, he returned to the bookcase and artistically adjusted the position of the rest of the books on the shelf so that no gap was immediately to be noticed. Then he spotted the note, and realized at once that it must have dropped out of the book which he had borrowed.

He did not open the folded paper. It did not interest him, for one thing. He merely took it over to the sofa and used it as a bookmark. This was necessary, for twice, whilst he was gobbling the story, somebody came in and he was obliged to push the book under the rug until he was alone again.

Lunch was at one. He had it where he was. From twenty minutes to two until two o'clock the preparatory schoolboys were obliged to sit quietly in their Day Room, under strict supervision, and read, before they went on with the lessons which intervened between this free time and their football, gymnastics, or boxing.

Ingpen read harder than anybody. Mrs Poundbury, coming to fetch him to be costumed and made up for the play, found him red-eyed, flushed, and not at all rested and refreshed. So worried did she feel – for she was a tenderhearted woman where the smallest boys were concerned – that she sent a maid for Mrs Bradley to ask whether she would be kind enough to give an eye to the patient.

Mrs Bradley turned up within ten minutes. She looked at the patient, touched the bruise on his head with gentle, exploratory, yellow fingers, and then, before the child could divine her intentions, she had whipped the rug back with her free hand and disclosed the incriminating book.

'Oo!' said the jackdaw, nonplussed. 'I'm sorry! I ought to have asked, but there wasn't quite anyone to ask, and really I haven't hurt it! I've been most frightfully careful, really I have!'

But neither the old nor the young woman was taking the slightest notice of him, for the bookmark had fallen to the floor.

'Good heavens! There it is!' said Mrs Poundbury, hastily snatching it up.

'You had better give that to me or to Detective-Inspector Gavin,' said Mrs Bradley at once. She turned to the round-eyed child on the sofa. 'And now, young man, I think perhaps a drink of milk and soda, and your promise to lie here, quite still, whilst I myself go on reading this most delightful story aloud, would be the best way of ensuring that you play your part this afternoon. How long can you give him, Mrs Poundbury?'

'Oh, as long as you like – that is, if I make him up last. We don't begin the plays until four, and the School has tea in the first interval. He doesn't come on until the third play – do you, Bill? – oh, dear, must I really give the note to Scotland Yard?' She found difficulty in pulling herself together, it was clear.

Mrs Bradley grimaced and nodded.

'Unless you'd prefer to give it to me,' she repeated, 'you must show it to the police.'

'Oh, no!' said Mrs Poundbury hastily. 'No, I couldn't do that!'

Mrs Bradley gave a faint cackle, reminiscent of the far-off calling of rooks. 'Don't be foolish,' she said. 'You don't want to get into trouble.' She then picked up the detective story and settled herself beside the child.