The Pothunters P. G. Wodehouse (best classic books of all time txt) 📖

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-vitalised 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 recognised 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.”

“Now then,” said Reade, briskly. “None of your beastly mysteries. Out with it.”

“Look here, swear you’ll keep it dark?”

“Of course I will.”

“On your word of honour?”

“If you think⁠—” began Reade in an offended voice.

“No, it’s all right. Don’t get shirty. The thing is, though, it’s so frightfully important to keep it dark.”

“Well? Buck up.”

“Well, you needn’t believe me, of course, but I’ve found the pots.”

Reade gasped.

“What!” he cried. “The pot for the quarter?”

“And the one for the hundred yards. Both of them. It’s a fact.”

“But where? How? What have you done with them?”

Barrett unfolded his tale concisely.

“You see,” he concluded, “what a hole I’m in. I can’t tell the Old Man anything about it, or I get booked for cutting roll-call, and going out of bounds. And then, while I’m waiting and wondering what to do, and all that, the thief, whoever he is, will most likely go off with the pots. What do you think I ought to do?”

Reade perpended.

“Well,” he said, “all you can do is to lie low and trust to luck, as far as I can see. Besides, there’s one consolation. This Plunkett business’ll make every keeper in the Dingle twice as keen after trespassers. So the pot man won’t get a chance of getting the things away.”

“Yes, there’s something in that,” admitted Barrett.

“It’s all you can do,” said Reade.

“Yes. Unless I wrote an anonymous letter to the Old Man explaining things. How would that do?”

“Do for you, probably. Anonymous letters always get traced to the person who wrote them. Or pretty nearly always. No, you simply lie low.”

“Right,” said Barrett, “I will.”

The process of concealing one’s superior knowledge is very irritating. So irritating, indeed, that very few people do it. Barrett, however, was obliged to by necessity. He had a good chance of displaying his abilities in that direction when he met Grey the next morning.

“Hullo,” said Grey, “have a good time yesterday?”

“Not bad. I’ve got an egg for you.”

“Good man. What sort?”

“Hanged if I know. I know you haven’t got it, though.”

“Thanks awfully. See anything of the million keepers?”

“Heard them oftener than I saw them.”

“They didn’t book you?”

“Rather fancy one of them saw me, but I got away all right.”

“Find the place pretty lively?”

“Pretty fair.”

“Stay there long?”

“Not very.”

“No. Thought you wouldn’t. What do you say to a small ice? There’s time before school.”

“Thanks. Are you flush?”

“Flush isn’t the word for it. I’m a plutocrat.”

“Uncle came out fairly strong then?”

“Rather. To the tune of one sovereign, cash. He’s a jolly good sort, my uncle.”

“So it seems,” said Barrett.

The meeting then adjourned to the School shop, Barrett enjoying his ice all the more for the thought that his secret still was a secret. A thing which it would in all probability have ceased to be, had he been rash enough to confide it to K. St. H. Grey, who, whatever his other merits, was very far from being the safest sort of confidant. His usual practice was to speak first, and to think, if at all, afterwards.

X Mr. Thompson Investigates

The Pavilion burglary was discussed in other places besides Charteris’ study. In the Masters’ common room the matter came in for its full share of