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

more was not alluring. In the meantime there was his more immediate duty to be performed, the apology to Thomson. But that reminded him. The apology must only be of a certain kind. It must not be grovelling. And this for a very excellent reason. After the apology must come an official lecture on the subject of betting. He had rather lost sight of that offence in the excitement of the greater crime of which Thomson had been accused, and very nearly convicted. Now the full heinousness of it came back to him. Betting! Scandalous!

“Come in,” he cried, as a knock at the door roused him from his thoughts. He turned. But instead of Thomson, there appeared Parker. Parker carried a note. It was from Mr. Merevale.

The Head opened it.

“What!” he cried, as he read it. “Impossible.” Parker made no comment. He stood in the doorway, trying to look as like a piece of furniture as possible⁠—which is the duty of a good butler.

“Impossible!” said the Head again.

What Mr. Merevale had said in his note was this, that Thomson was not in the House, and had not been in the House since lunchtime. He ought to have returned at six o’clock. It was now half-past eight, and still there were no signs of him. Mr. Merevale expressed a written opinion that this was a remarkable thing, and the Head agreed with him unreservedly.

XVI The Disappearance of J. Thomson

Certainly the Head was surprised.

He read the note again. No. There was no mistake. “Thomson is not in the House.” There could be no two meanings about that.

“Go across to Mr. Merevale’s,” he said at last, “and ask him if he would mind seeing me here for a moment.”

The butler bowed his head gently, but with more than a touch of pained astonishment. He thought the Headmaster might show more respect for persons. A butler is not an errand boy.

“Sir?” he said, giving the Head a last chance, as it were, of realising the situation.

“Ask Mr. Merevale to step over here for a moment.”

The poor man bowed once more. The phantom of a half-smoked cigar floated reproachfully before his eyes. He had lit it a quarter of an hour ago in fond anticipation of a quiet evening. Unless a miracle had occurred, it must be out by this time. And he knew as well as anybody else that a relighted cigar is never at its best. But he went, and in a few minutes Mr. Merevale entered the room.

“Sit down, Mr. Merevale,” said the Head. “Am I to understand from your note that Thomson is actually not in the House?”

Mr. Merevale thought that if he had managed to understand anything else from the note he must possess a mind of no common order, but he did not say so.

“No,” he said. “Thomson has not been in the House since lunchtime, as far as I know. It is a curious thing.”

“It is exceedingly serious. Exceedingly so. For many reasons. Have you any idea where he was seen last?”

“Harrison in my House says he saw him at about three o’clock.”

“Ah!”

“According to Harrison, he was walking in the direction of Stapleton.”

“Ah. Well, it is satisfactory to know even as little as that.”

“Just so. But Mace⁠—he is in my House, too⁠—declares that he saw Thomson at about the same time cycling in the direction of Badgwick. Both accounts can scarcely be correct.”

“But⁠—dear me, are you certain, Mr. Merevale?”

Merevale nodded to imply that he was. The Head drummed irritably with his fingers on the arm of his chair. This mystery, coming as it did after the series of worries through which he had been passing for the last few days, annoyed him as much as it is to be supposed the last straw annoyed the proverbial camel.

“As a matter of fact,” said Merevale, “I know that Thomson started to run in the long race this afternoon. I met him going to the starting place, and advised him to go and change again. He was not looking at all fit for such a long run. It seems to me that Welch might know where he is. Thomson and he got well ahead of the others after the start, so that if, as I expect, Thomson dropped out early in the race, Welch could probably tell us where it happened. That would give us some clue to his whereabouts, at any rate.”

“Have you questioned Welch?”

“Not yet. Welch came back very tired, quite tired out, in fact and went straight to bed. I hardly liked to wake him except as a last resource. Perhaps I had better do so now?”

“I think you should most certainly. Something serious must have happened to Thomson to keep him out of his House as late as this. Unless⁠—”

He stopped. Merevale looked up enquiringly. The Head, after a moment’s deliberation, proceeded to explain.

“I have made a very unfortunate mistake with regard to Thomson, Mr. Merevale. A variety of reasons led me to think that he had had something to do with this theft of the Sports prizes.”

“Thomson!” broke in Merevale incredulously.

“There was a considerable weight of evidence against him, which I have since found to be perfectly untrustworthy, but which at the time seemed to me almost conclusive.”

“But surely,” put in Merevale again, “surely Thomson would be the last boy to do such a thing. Why should he? What would he gain by it?”

“Precisely. I can understand that perfectly in the light of certain information which I have just received from the inspector. But at the time, as I say, I believed him guilty. I even went so far as to send for him and question him upon the subject. Now it has occurred to me, Mr. Merevale⁠—you understand that I put it forward merely as a conjecture⁠—it occurs to me⁠—”

“That Thomson has run away,” said Merevale bluntly.

The Head, slightly discomposed by this Sherlock Holmes-like reading of his thoughts, pulled himself together, and said, “Ah⁠—just so. I think it very possible.”

“I do not agree with you,” said Merevale. “I know Thomson