misbehaved himself in form, Mr. Langridge would set him lines in
blissful ignorance of the fact that he would not be there next day to
show them up. At the beginning of the following term, moreover, he
would not be in Mr. Langridge's form, for he was certain of his move
up.
He acted accordingly.
He spent the earlier part of Wednesday morning in breaches of the
peace. Mr. Langridge, instead of pulling him up, put him on to
translate; Dunstable went on to translate. As he had not prepared the
lesson and was not an adept at construing unseen, his performance was
poor.
After a minute and a half, the form-master wearied.
"Have you looked at this, Dunstable?" he asked.
There was a time-honoured answer to this question.
"Yes, sir," he said.
Public-school ethics do not demand that you should reply truthfully to
the spirit of a question. The letter of it is all that requires
attention. Dunstable had _looked_ at the lesson. He was looking
at it then. Masters should practise exactness of speech. A certain
form at Harrow were in the habit of walking across a copy of a Latin
author before morning-school. They could then say with truth that they
"had been over it." This is not an isolated case.
"Go on," said Mr. Langridge.
Dunstable smiled as he did so.
Mr. Langridge was annoyed.
"What are you laughing at? What do you mean by it? Stand up. You will
write out the lesson in Latin and English, and show it up to me by
four this afternoon. I know what you are thinking. You imagine that
because this is the end of the term you can do as you please, but you
will find yourself mistaken. Mind - by four o'clock."
At four o'clock Dunstable was enjoying an excellent tea in Green
Street, Park Lane, and telling his mother that he had had a most
enjoyable term, marred by no unpleasantness whatever. His holidays
were sweetened by the thought of Mr. Langridge's baffled wrath on
discovering the true inwardness of the recent episode.
* * * * *
When he returned to Locksley at the beginning of the winter term, he
was at once made aware that that episode was not to be considered
closed. On the first evening, Mr. Day, his housemaster, sent for him.
"Well, Dunstable," he said, "where is that imposition?"
Dunstable affected ignorance.
"Please, sir, you set me no imposition."
"No, Dunstable, no." Mr. Day peered at him gravely through his
spectacles. "_I_ set you no imposition; but Mr. Langridge did."
Dunstable imitated that eminent tactician, Br'er Rabbit. He "lay low
and said nuffin."
"Surely," continued Mr. Day, in tones of mild reproach, "you did not
think that you could take Mr. Langridge in?"
Dunstable rather thought he _had_ taken Mr. Langridge in; but he
made no reply.
"Well," said Mr. Day. "I must set you some punishment. I shall give
the butler instructions to hand you a note from me at three o'clock
to-morrow." (The next day was a half-holiday.) "In that note you will
find indicated what I wish you to write out."
Why this comic-opera secret-society business, Dunstable wondered. Then
it dawned upon him. Mr. Day wished to break up his half-holiday
thoroughly.
That afternoon Dunstable retired in disgust to his study to brood over
his wrongs; to him entered Charles, his friend, one C. J. Linton, to
wit, of Seymour's, a very hearty sportsman.
"Good," said Linton. "Didn't think I should find you in. Thought you
might have gone off somewhere as it's such a ripping day. Tell you
what we'll do. Scull a mile or two up the river and have tea
somewhere."
"I should like to awfully," said Dunstable, "but I'm afraid I can't."
And he explained Mr. Day's ingenious scheme for preventing him from
straying that afternoon.
"Rot, isn't it," he said.
"Beastly. Wouldn't have thought old Day had it in him. But I'll tell
you what," he said. "Do the impot now, and then you'll be able to
start at three sharp, and we shall get in a good time on the river.
Day always sets the same thing. I've known scores of chaps get impots
from him, and they all had to do the Greek numerals. He's mad on the
Greek numerals. Never does anything else. You'll be as safe as
anything if you do them. Buck up, I'll help."
They accordingly sat down there and then. By three o'clock an imposing
array of sheets of foolscap covered with badly-written Greek lay on
the study table.
"That ought to be enough," said Linton, laying down his pen. "He can't
set you more than we've done, I should think."
"Rummy how alike our writing looks," said Dunstable, collecting the
sheets and examining them. "You can hardly tell which is which even
when you know. Well, there goes three. My watch is slow, as it always
is. I'll go and get that note."
Two minutes later he returned, full of abusive references to Mr. Day.
The crafty pedagogue appeared to have foreseen Dunstable's attempt to
circumvent him by doing the Greek numerals on the chance of his
setting them. The imposition he had set in his note was ten pages of
irregular verbs, and they were to be shown up in his study before five
o'clock. Linton's programme for the afternoon was out of the question
now. But he loyally gave up any other plans which he might have formed
in order to help Dunstable with his irregular verbs. Dunstable was too
disgusted with fate to be properly grateful.
"And the worst of it is," he said, as they adjourned for tea at
half-past four, having deposited the verbs on Mr. Day's table, "that
all those numerals will be wasted now."
"I should keep them, though," said Linton. "They may come in useful.
You never know."
* * * * *
Towards the end of the second week of term Fate, by way of
compensation, allowed Dunstable a distinct stroke of luck. Mr. Forman,
the master of his new form, set him a hundred lines of Virgil, and
told him to show them up next day. To Dunstable's delight, the next
day passed without mention of them; and when the day after that went
by, and still nothing was said, he came to the conclusion that Mr.
Forman had forgotten all about them.
Which was indeed the case. Mr. Forman was engaged in editing a new
edition of the "Bacchae," and was apt to be absent-minded in
consequence. So Dunstable, with a glad smile, hove the lines into a
cupboard in his study to keep company with the Greek numerals which he
had done for Mr. Day, and went out to play fives with Linton.
Linton, curiously enough, had also had a stroke of luck in a rather
similar way. He told Dunstable about it as they strolled back to the
houses after their game.
"Bit of luck this afternoon," he said. "You remember Appleby setting
me a hundred-and-fifty the day before yesterday? Well, I showed
them up to-day, and he looked through them and chucked them into the
waste-paper basket under his desk. I thought at the time I hadn't seen
him muck them up at all with his pencil, which is his usual game, so
after he had gone at the end of school I nipped to the basket and
fished them out. They were as good as new, so I saved them up in case
I get any more."
Dunstable hastened to tell of his own good fortune. Linton was
impressed by the coincidence.
"I tell you what," he said, "we score either way. Because if we never
get any more lines - - "
Dunstable laughed.
"Yes, I know," Linton went on, "we're bound to. But even supposing we
don't, what we've got in stock needn't be wasted."
"I don't see that," said Dunstable. "Going to have 'em bound in cloth
and published? Or were you thinking of framing them?"
"Why, don't you see? Sell them, of course. There are dozens of chaps
in the school who would be glad of a few hundred lines cheap."
"It wouldn't work. They'd be spotted."
"Rot. It's been done before, and nobody said anything. A chap in
Seymour's who left last Easter sold all his stock lines by auction on
the last day of term. They were Virgil mostly and Greek numerals. They
sold like hot cakes. There were about five hundred of them altogether.
And I happen to know that every word of them has been given up and
passed all right."
"Well, I shall keep mine," said Dunstable. "I am sure to want all the
lines in stock that I can get. I used to think Langridge was fairly
bad in the way of impots, but Forman takes the biscuit easily. It
seems to be a sort of hobby of his. You can't stop him."
But it was not until the middle of preparation that the great idea
flashed upon Dunstable's mind.
It was the simplicity of the thing that took his breath away. That and
its possibilities. This was the idea. Why not start a Lines Trust in
the school? An agency for supplying lines at moderate rates to all who
desired them? There did not seem to be a single flaw in the scheme. He
and Linton between them could turn out enough material in a week to
give the Trust a good working capital. And as for the risk of
detection when customers came to show up the goods supplied to them,
that was very slight. As has been pointed out before, there was
practically one handwriting common to the whole school when it came to
writing lines. It resembled the movements of a fly that had fallen
into an ink-pot, and subsequently taken a little brisk exercise on a
sheet of foolscap by way of restoring the circulation. Then, again,
the attitude of the master to whom the lines were shown was not likely
to be critical. So that everything seemed in favour of Dunstable's
scheme.
Linton, to whom he confided it, was inclined to scoff at first, but
when he had had the beauties of the idea explained to him at length,
became an enthusiastic supporter of the scheme.
"But," he objected, "it'll take up all our time. Is it worth it? We
can't spend every afternoon sweating away at impots for other people."
"It's all right," said Dunstable, "I've thought of that. We shall need
to pitch in pretty hard for about a week or ten days. That will give
us a good big stock, and after that if we turn out a hundred each
every day it will be all right. A hundred's not much fag if you spread
them over a day."
Linton admitted that this was sound, and the Locksley Lines Supplying
Trust, Ltd., set to work in earnest.
It must not be supposed that the Agency left a great deal to chance.
The writing of lines in advance may seem a very speculative business;
but both Dunstable and Linton had had a wide experience of Locksley
masters, and the methods of the same when roused, and they were thus
enabled to reduce the element of chance to a minimum. They knew, for
example, that Mr. Day's favourite imposition was the Greek numerals,
and that in nine cases out of ten that would be what the youth who had
dealings with him would need to ask for from the Lines Trust. Mr.
Appleby, on the other hand, invariably set Virgil. The oldest
inhabitant had never known him to depart from this custom. For the
French masters extracts from the works of Victor Hugo would probably
pass muster.
A week from the date of the above conversation, everyone in the
school, with the exception of the prefects and the sixth form, found
in his desk on arriving at his form-room a printed slip of paper.
(Spiking, the stationer in the High Street, had printed it.) It was
nothing less than the prospectus of the new Trust. It set forth in
glowing terms the advantages offered by the agency. Dunstable had
written it - he had a certain amount of skill with his pen - and Linton
had suggested subtle and captivating additions. The whole presented
rather a striking appearance.
The document was headed with the name of the Trust in large letters.
Under this came a number of "scare headlines" such as:
SEE WHAT YOU SAVE!
NO MORE WORRY!
PEACE, PERFECT PEACE!
WHY DO LINES WHEN WE DO THEM
FOR YOU?
Then came the real prospectus:
The Locksley Lines Supplying Trust, Ltd. has been instituted to
meet the growing demand for lines and other impositions. While
there are masters at our public schools there will always be lines.
At Locksley the crop of masters has always flourished - and still
flourishes - very rankly, and the demand for lines has greatly taxed
the powers of those to whom has been assigned the task of supplying
them.
It is for the purpose of affording relief to these that the Lines
Trust has been formed. It is proposed that all orders for lines
shall be supplied out of our vast stock. Our charges are moderate,
and vary between threepence and sixpence per hundred lines. The
higher charge is made for Greek impositions, which, for obvious
reasons, entail a greater degree of labour on our large and
efficient staff of writers.
All orders, which will be promptly executed, should be forwarded to
Mr. P. A. Dunstable, 6 College Grounds, Locksley, or to Mr. C. J.
Linton, 10 College Grounds, Locksley. _Payment must be inclosed
with order, or the latter will not be executed._ Under no
conditions will notes of hand or cheques be accepted as legal
tender. There is no trust about us except the name.
Come in your thousands. We have lines for all. If the Trust's
stock of lines were to be placed end to end it would reach part
of the way to London. "You pay the threepence. We do the rest."
Then a blank space, after which came a few "unsolicited testimonials":
"Lower Fifth" writes: "I was set two hundred lines of Virgil on
Saturday last at one o'clock. Having laid in a supply from your
agency I was enabled to show them up at five minutes past one.
The master who gave me the commission was unable to restrain his
admiration at the rapidity and neatness of my work. You may make
what use of this you please."
"Dexter's House" writes: "Please send me one hundred (100) lines
from _Aeneid, Book Two_. Mr. Dexter was so delighted with the last
I showed him that he has asked me to do some more."
"Enthusiast" writes: "Thank you for your Greek numerals. Day took
them without blinking. So beautifully were they executed that I can
hardly believe even now that I did not write them myself."
* * * * *
There could be no doubt about the popularity of the Trust. It caught
on instantly.
Nothing else was discussed in the form-rooms at the quarter to eleven
interval, and in the houses after lunch it was the sole topic of
conversation. Dunstable and Linton were bombarded with questions and
witticisms of the near personal sort. To the latter they replied with
directness, to the former evasively.
"What's it all _about?_" someone would ask, fluttering the
leaflet before Dunstable's unmoved face.
"You should read it carefully," Dunstable would reply. "It's all
there."
"But what are you playing at?"
"We tried to make it clear to the meanest intelligence. Sorry you
can't understand it."
While at the same time Linton, in his form-room, would be explaining
to excited inquirers that he was sorry, but it was impossible to reply
to their query as to who was running the Trust. He was not at liberty
to reveal business secrets. Suffice it that there the lines were,
waiting to be bought, and he was there to sell them. So that if
anybody cared to lay in a stock, large or small, according to taste,
would he kindly walk up and deposit the necessary coin?
But here the public showed an unaccountable disinclination to deal. It
was gratifying to have acquaintances coming up and saying admiringly:
"You are an ass, you know," as if they were paying the highest of
compliments - as, indeed, they probably imagined that they were. All
this was magnificent, but it was not business. Dunstable and Linton
felt that the whole attitude of the public towards the new enterprise
was wrong. Locksley seemed to regard the Trust as a huge joke, and its
prospectus as a literary _jeu d'esprit_.
In fact, it looked very much as if - from a purely commercial point of
view - the great Lines Supplying Trust was going to be what is known in
theatrical circles as a frost.
For two whole days the public refused to bite, and Dunstable and
Linton, turning over the stacks of lines in their studies, thought
gloomily that this world is no place for original enterprise.
Then things began to move.
It was quite an accident that started them. Jackson, of Dexter's, was
teaing with Linton, and, as was his habit, was giving him a condensed
history of his life since he last saw him. In the course of this he
touched on a small encounter with M. Gaudinois which had occurred that
afternoon.
"So I got two pages of 'Quatre-Vingt Treize' to write," he concluded,
"for doing practically nothing."
All Jackson's impositions, according to him, were given him for doing
practically nothing. Now and then he got them for doing literally
nothing - when he ought to have been doing form-work.
"Done 'em?" asked Linton.
"Not yet; no," replied Jackson. "More tea, please."
"What you want to do, then," said Linton, "is to apply to the Locksley
Lines Supplying Trust. That's what you must do."
"You needn't rot a chap on a painful subject," protested Jackson.
"I wasn't rotting," said Linton. "Why don't you apply to the Lines
Trust?"
"Then do you mean to say that there really is such a thing?" Jackson
said incredulously. "Why I thought it was all a rag."
"I know you did. It's the rotten sort of thing you would think. Rag,
by Jove! Look at this. Now do you understand that this is a genuine
concern?"
He got up and went to the cupboard which filled the space between the
stove and the bookshelf. From this resting-place he extracted a great
pile of manuscript and dumped it down on the table with a bang which
caused a good deal of Jackson's tea to spring from its native cup on
to its owner's trousers.
"When you've finished," protested Jackson, mopping himself with a
handkerchief that had seen better days.
"Sorry. But look at these. What did you say your impot was? Oh, I
remember. Here you are. Two pages of 'Quatre-Vingt Treize.' I don't
know which two pages, but I suppose any will do."
Jackson was amazed.
"Great Scott! what a wad of stuff! When did you do it all?"
"Oh, at odd times. Dunstable's got just as much over at Day's. So you
see the Trust is a jolly big show. Here are your two pages. That looks
just like your scrawl, doesn't it? These would be fourpence in the
ordinary way, but you can have 'em for nothing this time."
"Oh, I say," said Jackson gratefully, "that's awfully good of you."
After that the Locksley Lines Supplying Trust, Ltd. went ahead with
a rush. The brilliant success which attended its first specimen - M.
Gaudinois took Jackson's imposition without a murmur - promoted
confidence in the public, and they rushed to buy. Orders poured in
from all the houses, and by the middle of the term the organisers of
the scheme were able to divide a substantial sum.
"How are you getting on round your way?" asked Linton of Dunstable at
the end of the sixth week of term.
"Ripping. Selling like hot cakes."
"So are mine," said Linton. "I've almost come to the end of my stock.
I ought to have written some more, but I've been a bit slack lately."
"Yes, buck up. We must keep a lot in hand."
"I say, did you hear that about Merrett in our house?" asked Linton.
"What about him?"
"Why, he tried to start a rival show. Wrote a prospectus and
everything. But it didn't catch on a bit. The only chap who bought any
of his lines was young Shoeblossom. He wanted a couple of hundred for
Appleby. Appleby was on to them like bricks. Spotted Shoeblossom
hadn't written them, and asked who had. He wouldn't say, so he got
them doubled. Everyone in the house is jolly sick with Merrett. They
think he ought to have owned up."
"Did that smash up Merrett's show? Is he going to turn out any more?"
"Rather not. Who'd buy 'em?"
It would have been better for the Lines Supplying Trust if Merrett had
not received this crushing blow and had been allowed to carry on a
rival business on legitimate lines. Locksley was conservative in its
habits, and would probably have continued to support the old firm.
As it was, the baffled Merrett, a youth of vindictive nature, brooded
over his defeat, and presently hit upon a scheme whereby things might
be levelled up.
One afternoon, shortly before lock-up, Dunstable was surprised by the
advent of Linton to his study in a bruised and dishevelled condition.
One of his expressive eyes was closed and blackened. He also wore what
is known in ring circles as a thick ear.
"What on earth's up?" inquired Dunstable, amazed at these phenomena.
"Have you been scrapping?"
"Yes - Merrett - I won. What are you up to - writing lines? You may as
well save yourself the trouble. They won't be any good." Dunstable
stared.
"The Trust's bust," said Linton.
He never wasted words in moments of emotion.
"What!"
"'Bust' was what I said. That beast Merrett gave the show away."
"What did he do? Surely he didn't tell a master?"
"Well, he did the next thing to it. He hauled out that prospectus, and
started reading it in form. I watched him do it. He kept it under the
desk and made a foul row, laughing over it. Appleby couldn't help
spotting him. Of course, he told him to bring him what he was reading.
Up went Merrett with the prospectus."
"Was Appleby sick?"
"I don't believe he was, really. At least, he laughed when he read the
thing. But he hauled me up after school and gave me a long jaw, and
made me take all the lines I'd got to his house. He burnt them. I had
it out with Merrett just now. He swears he didn't mean to get the
thing spotted, but I knew he did."
"Where did you scrag him!"
"In the dormitory. He chucked it after the third round."
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," shouted Dunstable.
Buxton appeared, a member of Appleby's house.
"Oh, Dunstable, Appleby wants to see you."
"All right," said Dunstable wearily.
Mr. Appleby was in facetious mood. He chaffed Dunstable genially about
his prospectus, and admitted that it had amused him. Dunstable smiled
without enjoyment. It was a good thing, perhaps, that Mr. Appleby saw
the humorous rather than the lawless side of the Trust; but all the
quips in the world could not save that institution from ruin.
Presently Mr. Appleby's manner changed. "I am a funny dog, I know," he
seemed to say; "but duty is duty, and must be done."
"How many lines have you at your house, Dunstable?" he asked.
"About eight hundred, sir."
"Then you had better write me eight hundred lines, and show them up to
me in this room at - shall we say at ten minutes to five? It is now a
quarter to, so that you will have plenty of time."
Dunstable went, and returned five minutes later, bearing an armful of
manuscript.
"I don't think I shall need to count them," said Mr. Appleby. "Kindly
take them in batches of ten sheets, and tear them in half, Dunstable."
"Yes, sir."
The last sheet fluttered in two sections into the surfeited
waste-paper basket.
"It's an awful waste, sir," said Dunstable regretfully.
Mr. Appleby beamed.
"We must, however," he said, "always endeavour to look on the bright
side, Dunstable. The writing of these eight hundred lines will have
given you a fine grip of the rhythm of Virgil, the splendid prose of
Victor Hugo, and the unstudied majesty of the Greek Numerals. Good-night,
Dunstable."
"Good-night, sir," said the President of the Locksley Lines Supplying
Trust, Ltd.
THE AUTOGRAPH HUNTERS
Dunstable had his reasons for wishing to obtain Mr. Montagu Watson's
autograph, but admiration for that gentleman's novels was not one of
them.
It was nothing to him that critics considered Mr. Watson one of the
most remarkable figures in English literature since Scott. If you had
told him of this, he would merely have wondered in his coarse,
material way how much Mr. Watson gave the critics for saying so. To
the reviewer of the _Weekly Booklover_ the great man's latest
effort, "The Soul of Anthony Carrington" (Popgood and Grooly: 6s.)
seemed "a work that speaks eloquently in every line of a genius that
time cannot wither nor custom stale." To Dunstable, who got it out of
the school library, where it had been placed at the request of a
literary prefect, and read the first eleven pages, it seemed rot, and
he said as much to the librarian on returning it.
Yet he was very anxious to get the novelist's autograph. The fact was
that Mr. Day, his house-master, a man whose private life was in other
ways unstained by vicious habits, collected autographs. Also Mr. Day
had behaved in a square manner towards Dunstable on several occasions
in the past, and Dunstable, always ready to punish bad behaviour in a
master, was equally anxious to reward and foster any good trait which
he might exhibit.
On the occasion of the announcement that Mr. Watson had taken the big
white house near Chesterton, a couple of miles from the school, Mr.
Day had expressed in Dunstable's hearing a wish that he could add that
celebrity's signature to his collection. Dunstable had instantly
determined to play the part of a benevolent Providence. He would get
the autograph and present it to the house-master, as who should say,
"see what comes of being good." It would be pleasant to observe the
innocent joy of the recipient, his child-like triumph, and his
amazement at the donor's ingenuity in securing the treasure. A
touching scene - well worth the trouble involved in the quest.
And there would be trouble. For Mr. Montagu Watson was notoriously a
foe to the autograph-hunter. His curt, type-written replies (signed by
a secretary) had damped the ardour of scores of brave men and - more or
less - fair women. A genuine Montagu Watson was a prize in the
autograph market.
Dunstable was a man of action. When Mark, the boot-boy at Day's,
carried his burden of letters to the post that evening, there nestled
among them one addressed to M. Watson, Esq., The White House,
Chesterton. Looking at it casually, few of his friends would have
recognised Dunstable's handwriting. For it had seemed good to that man
of guile to adopt for the occasion the role of a backward youth of
twelve years old. He thought tender years might touch Mr. Watson's
heart.
This was the letter:
_Dear Sir_, - I am only a littel boy, but I think your
books ripping. I often wonder how you think of it all. Will you
please send me your ortograf? I like your books very much. I have
named my white rabit Montagu after you. I punched Jones II in
the eye to-day becos he didn't like your books. I have spent the
only penny I have on the stampe for this letter which I might have
spent on tuck. I want to be like Maltby in "The Soul of Anthony
Carrington" when I grow up.
_Your sincere reader_,
P. A. Dunstable.
It was a little unfortunate, perhaps, that he selected Maltby as his
ideal character. That gentleman was considered by critics a masterly
portrait of the cynical _roue_. But it was the only name he
remembered.
"Hot stuff!" said Dunstable to himself, as he closed the envelope.
"Little beast!" said Mr. Watson to himself as he opened it. It arrived
by the morning post, and he never felt really himself till after
breakfast.
"Here, Morrison," he said to his secretary, later in the morning:
"just answer this, will you? The usual thing - thanks and most deeply
grateful, y'know."
Next day the following was included in Dunstable's correspondence:
Mr. Montagu Watson presents his compliments to Mr. P. A. Dunstable,
and begs to thank him for all the kind things he says about his
work in his letter of the 18th inst., for which he is deeply grateful.
"Foiled!" said Dunstable, and went off to Seymour's to see his friend
Linton.
"Got any notepaper?" he asked.
"Heaps," said Linton. "Why? Want some?"
"Then get out a piece. I want to dictate a letter."
Linton stared.
"What's up? Hurt your hand?"
Dunstable explained.
"Day collects autographs, you know, and he wants Montagu Watson's
badly. Pining away, and all that sort of thing. Won't smile until he
gets it. I had a shot at it yesterday, and got this."
Linton inspected the document.
"So I can't send up another myself, you see."
"Why worry?"
"Oh, I'd like to put Day one up. He's not been bad this term. Come
on."
"All right. Let her rip."
Dunstable let her rip.
_Dear Sir_, - I cannot refrain from writing to tell you what
an inestimable comfort your novels have been to me during years
of sore tribulation and distress - -
"Look here," interrupted Linton with decision at this point. "If you
think I'm going to shove my name at the end of this rot, you're making
the mistake of a lifetime."
"Of course not. You're a widow who has lost two sons in South Africa.
We'll think of a good name afterwards. Ready?
"Ever since my darling Charles Herbert and Percy Lionel were
taken from me in that dreadful war, I have turned for consolation
to the pages of 'The Soul of Anthony Carrington' and - - "
"What, another?" asked Linton.
"There's one called 'Pancakes.'"
"Sure? Sounds rummy."
"That's all right. You have to get a queer title nowadays if you want
to sell a book."
"Go on, then. Jam it down."
" - and 'Pancakes.' I hate to bother you, but if you could send me
your autograph I should be more grateful than words can say. Yours
admiringly."
"What's a good name? How would Dorothy Maynard do?"
"You want something more aristocratic. What price Hilda Foulke-Ponsonby?"
Dunstable made no objection, and Linton signed the letter with a
flourish.
They installed Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby at Spiking's in the High Street.
It was not a very likely address for a lady whose blood was presumably
of the bluest, but they could think of none except that obliging
stationer who would take in letters for them.
There was a letter for Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby next day. Whatever his
other defects as a correspondent, Mr. Watson was at least prompt with
his responses.
Mr. Montagu Watson presented his compliments, and was deeply grateful
for all the kind things Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby had said about his work
in her letter of the 19th inst. He was, however, afraid that he
scarcely deserved them. Her opportunities of deriving consolation from
"The Soul of Anthony Carrington" had been limited by the fact that
that book had only been published ten days before: while, as for
"Pancakes," to which she had referred in such flattering terms, he
feared that another author must have the credit of any refreshment her
bereaved spirit might have extracted from that volume, for he had
written no work of such a name. His own "Pan Wakes" would, he hoped,
administer an equal quantity of balm.
Mr. Secretary Morrison had slept badly on the night before he wrote
this letter, and had expended some venom upon its composition.
"Sold again!" said Dunstable.
"You'd better chuck it now. It's no good," said Linton.
"I'll have another shot. Then I'll try and think of something else."
Two days later Mr. Morrison replied to Mr. Edgar Habbesham-Morley, of
3a, Green Street, Park Lane, to the effect that Mr. Montagu Watson was
deeply grateful for all the kind things, etc. - -
3a, Green Street was Dunstable's home address.
At this juncture the Watson-Dunstable correspondence ceases, and the
relations become more personal.
On the afternoon of the twenty-third of the month, Mr. Watson, taking
a meditative stroll through the wood which formed part of his
property, was infuriated by the sight of a boy.
He was not a man who was fond of boys even in their proper place, and
the sight of one in the middle of his wood, prancing lightly about
among the nesting pheasants, stirred his never too placid mind to its
depths.
He shouted.
The apparition paused.
"Here! Hi! you boy!"
"Sir?" said the stripling, with a winning smile, lifting his cap with
the air of a D'Orsay.
"What business have you in my wood?"
"Not business," corrected the visitor, "pleasure."
"Come here!" shrilled the novelist.
The stranger receded coyly.
Mr. Watson advanced at the double.
His quarry dodged behind a tree.
For five minutes the great man devoted his powerful mind solely to the
task of catching his visitor.
The latter, however, proved as elusive as the point of a half-formed
epigram, and at the end of the five minutes he was no longer within
sight.
Mr. Watson went off and addressed his keeper in terms which made that
worthy envious for a week.
"It's eddication," he said subsequently to a friend at the "Cowslip
Inn." "You and me couldn't talk like that. It wants eddication."
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 house-master. 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 head-master 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 house-master 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?"
"Too old," said Pillingshot with satisfaction.
"Senior, then?"
"Too young."
"I believe by sitting up all night and swotting - - "
"Here, I say!" said Pillingshot, alarmed.
"You've got no enterprise," said Scott sadly. "What are those?
Muffins? Well, well, I suppose I had better try and peck a bit."
He ate four in rapid succession, and resumed his scrutiny of
Pillingshot's countenance.
"The great thing," he said, "is to find out your special line. Till
then we are working in the dark. Perhaps it's music? Singing? Sing me
a bar or two."
Pillingshot wriggled uncomfortably.
"Left your music at home?" said Scott. "Never mind, then. Perhaps it's
all for the best. What are those? Still muffins? Hand me another.
After all, one must keep one's strength up. You can have one if you
like."
Pillingshot's face brightened. He became more affable. He chatted.
"There's rather a row on downstairs," he said. "In the junior day-room."
"There always is," said Scott. "If it grows too loud, I shall get in
amongst them with a swagger-stick. I attribute half my success at
bringing off late-cuts to the practice I have had in the junior
day-room. It keeps the wrist supple."
"I don't mean that sort of row. It's about Evans."
"What about Evans?"
"He's lost a sovereign."
"Silly young ass."
Pillingshot furtively helped himself to another muffin.
"He thinks some one's taken it," he said.
"What! Stolen it?"
Pillingshot nodded.
"What makes him think that?"
"He doesn't see how else it could have gone."
"Oh, I don't - By Jove!"
Scott sat up with some excitement.
"I've got it," he said. "I knew we should hit on it sooner or later.
Here's a field for your genius. You shall be a detective. Pillingshot,
I hand this case over to you. I employ you."
Pillingshot gaped.
"I feel certain that's your line. I've often noticed you walking over
to school, looking exactly like a blood-hound. Get to work. As a start
you'd better fetch Evans up here and question him."
"But, look here - - "
"Buck up, man, buck up. Don't you know that every moment is precious?"
Evans, a small, stout youth, was not disposed to be reticent. The gist
of his rambling statement was as follows. Rich uncle. Impecunious
nephew. Visit of former to latter. Handsome tip, one sovereign.
Impecunious nephew pouches sovereign, and it vanishes.
"And I call it beastly rot," concluded Evans volubly. "And if I could
find the cad who's pinched it, I'd jolly well - - "
"Less of it," said Scott. "Now, then, Pillingshot, I'll begin this
thing, just to start you off. What makes you think the quid has been
stolen, Evans?"
"Because I jolly well know it has."