The Pothunters Part 14
'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 trespa.s.sers. 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.
[10]
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 comment. The masters were, as at most schools, divided into the athletic and non-athletic, and it was for the former cla.s.s that the matter possessed most interest. If it had been that apple of the College Library's eye, the original MS. of St Austin's private diary, or even that lesser treasure, the black-letter Eucalyptides, that had disappeared, the elder portion of the staff would have had a great deal to say upon the subject. But, apart from the excitement caused by the strangeness of such an occurrence, the theft of a couple of Sports prizes had little interest for them.
On the border-line between these two castes came Mr Thompson, the Master of the Sixth Form, spelt with a _p_ and no relation to the genial James or the amiable Allen, with the former of whom, indeed, he was on very indifferent terms of friendship. Mr Thompson, though an excellent cla.s.sic, had no knowledge of the inwardness of the Human Boy.
He expected every member of his form not only to be earnest--which very few members of a Sixth Form are--but also to communicate his innermost thoughts to him. His aim was to be their confidant, the wise friend to whom they were to bring their troubles and come for advice. He was, in fact, poor man, the good young master. Now, it is generally the case at school that troubles are things to be worried through alone, and any attempt at interference is usually resented. Mr Thompson had asked Jim to tea, and, while in the very act of pa.s.sing him the m.u.f.fins, had embarked on a sort of unofficial sermon, winding up by inviting confidences. Jim had naturally been first flippant, and then rude, and relations had been strained ever since.