The Pothunters - P. G. Wodehouse (free ebook novel .txt) 📗

on its stately way to the Babe’s father’s house, and the last Tony and Charteris saw of Jim, he was the centre of attraction, and appeared to be enjoying himself very much.

Charteris envied him, and did not mind saying so.

“Why can’t I smash my ankle?” he demanded indignantly of Tony.

He was nearing section five, subsection three, of his discourse, when they reached Merevale’s gates. It was after eleven, but they felt that the news they were bringing entitled them to be a little late. Charteris brought his arguments to a premature end, and Tony rang the bell. Merevale himself opened the door to them.

XVIII In Which the Affairs of Various Persons Are Wound Up

“Well,” he said, “you’re rather late. Any luck?”

“We’ve found him, sir,” said Tony.

“Really? That’s a good thing. Where was he?”

“He’d fallen down a sort of quarry place near where MacArthur lives. MacArthur took him home with him to tea, and sent him back by a shortcut, forgetting all about the quarry, and Thomson fell in and couldn’t get out again.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Only twisted his ankle, sir.”

“Then where is he now?”

“They carried him back to the house.”

“MacArthur’s house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, well, I suppose he will be all right then. Graham, just go across and report to the Headmaster, will you? You’ll find him in his study.”

The Head was immensely relieved to hear Tony’s narrative. After much internal debate he had at last come to the conclusion that Jim must have run away, and he had been wondering how he should inform his father of the fact.

“You are certain that he is not badly hurt, Graham?” he said, when Tony had finished his story.

“Yes, sir. It’s only his ankle.”

“Very good. Good night, Graham.”

The Head retired to bed that night filled with a virtuous resolve to seek Jim out on the following day, and speak a word in season to him on the subject of crime in general and betting in particular. This plan he proceeded to carry out as soon as afternoon school was over. When, however, he had arrived at the Babe’s house, he found that there was one small thing which he had left out of his calculations. He had counted on seeing the invalid alone. On entering the sickroom he found there Mrs. MacArthur, looking as if she intended to remain where she sat for several hours⁠—which, indeed, actually was her intention⁠—and Miss MacArthur, whose face and attitude expressed the same, only, if anything, more so. The fact was that the Babe, a very monument of resource on occasions, had, as he told Jim, “given them the tip not to let the Old Man get at him, unless he absolutely chucked them out, you know.” When he had seen the Headmaster approaching, he had gone hurriedly to Jim’s room to mention the fact, with excellent results.

The Head took a seat by the bed, and asked, with a touch of nervousness, after the injured ankle. This induced Mrs. MacArthur to embark on a disquisition concerning the ease with which ankles are twisted, from which she drifted easily into a discussion of rugby football, its merits and demerits. The Head, after several vain attempts to jerk the conversation into other grooves, gave it up, and listened for some ten minutes to a series of anecdotes about various friends and acquaintances of Mrs. MacArthur’s who had either twisted their own ankles or known people who had twisted theirs. The Head began to forget what exactly he had come to say that afternoon. Jim lay and grinned covertly through it all. When the Head did speak, his first words roused him effectually.

“I suppose, Mrs. MacArthur, your son has told you that we have had a burglary at the School?”

“Hang it,” thought Jim, “this isn’t playing the game at all. Why talk shop, especially that particular brand of shop, here?” He wondered if the Head intended to describe the burglary, and then spring to his feet with a dramatic wave of the hand towards him, and say, “There, Mrs. MacArthur, is the criminal! There lies the viper on whom you have lavished your hospitality, the snaky and systematic serpent you have been induced by underhand means to pity. Look upon him, and loathe him. He stole the cups!”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Mrs. MacArthur, “I have heard a great deal about it. I suppose you have never found out who it was that did it?”

Jim lay back resignedly. After all, he had not done it, and if the Head liked to say he had, well, let him. He didn’t care.

“Yes, Mrs. MacArthur, we have managed to discover him.”

“And who was it?” asked Mrs. MacArthur, much interested.

“Now for it,” said Jim to himself.

“We found that it was a man living in the village, who had been doing some work on the School grounds. He had evidently noticed the value of the cups, and determined to try his hand at appropriating them. He is well known as a poacher in the village, it seems. I think that for the future he will confine himself to that⁠—ah⁠—industry, for he is hardly likely ever to⁠—ah⁠—shine as a professional housebreaker. No.”

“Oh, well, that must be a relief to you, I am sure, Mr. Perceval. These poachers are a terrible nuisance. They do frighten the birds so.”

She spoke as if it were an unamiable eccentricity on the part of the poachers, which they might be argued out of, if the matter were put before them in a reasonable manner. The Head agreed with her and rose to go. Jim watched him out of the room and then breathed a deep, satisfying breath of relief. His troubles were at an end.

In the meantime Barrett, who, having no inkling as to the rate at which affairs had been progressing since his visit to the Dingle, still imagined that the secret of the hollow tree belonged exclusively to Reade, himself, and one other, was much exercised in his mind about it. Reade candidly confessed himself baffled by the problem. Give him something moderately straightforward, and he