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

was all right. This secret society and dark lantern style of affair was, he acknowledged, beyond him. And so it came about that Barrett resolved to do the only thing he could think of, and go to the Head about it. But before he had come to this decision, the Head had received another visit from Mr. Roberts, as a result of which the table where Sir Alfred Venner had placed Plunkett’s pipe and other accessories so dramatically during a previous interview, now bore another burden⁠—the missing cups.

Mr. Roberts had gone to the Dingle in person, and, by adroit use of the divinity which hedges a detective, had persuaded a keeper to lead him to the tree where, as Mr. Stokes had said, the cups had been deposited.

The Head’s first act, on getting the cups, was to send for Welch, to whom by right of conquest they belonged. Welch arrived shortly before Barrett. The Head was just handing him his prizes when the latter came into the room. It speaks well for Barrett’s presence of mind that he had grasped the situation and decided on his line of action before Welch went, and the Head turned his attention to him.

“Well, Barrett?” said the Head.

“If you please, sir,” said Barrett, blandly, “may I have leave to go to Stapleton?”

“Certainly, Barrett. Why do you wish to go?”

This was something of a poser, but Barrett’s brain worked quickly.

“I wanted to send a telegram, sir.”

“Very well. But”⁠—with suspicion⁠—“why did you not ask Mr. Philpott? Your Housemaster can give you leave to go to Stapleton.”

“I couldn’t find him, sir.” This was true, for he had not looked.

“Ah. Very well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And Barrett went off to tell Reade that in some mysterious manner the cups had come back on their own account.

When Jim had congratulated himself that everything had ended happily, at any rate as far as he himself was concerned, he had forgotten for the moment that at present he had only one pound to his credit instead of the two which he needed. Charteris, however, had not. The special number of The Glow Worm was due on the following day, and Jim’s accident left a considerable amount of “copy” to be accounted for. He questioned Tony on the subject.

“Look here, Tony, have you time to do any more stuff for The Glow Worm?”

“My dear chap,” said Tony, “I’ve not half done my own bits. Ask Welch.”

“I asked him just now. He can’t. Besides, he only writes at about the rate of one word a minute, and we must get it all in by tonight at bedtime. I’m going to sit up as it is to jellygraph it. What’s up?”

Tony’s face had assumed an expression of dismay.

“Why,” he said, “Great Scott, I never thought of it before. If we jellygraph it, our handwriting’ll be recognised, and that will give the whole show away.”

Charteris took a seat, and faced this difficulty in all its aspects. The idea had never occurred to him before. And yet it should have been obvious.

“I’ll have to copy the whole thing out in copperplate,” he said desperately at last. “My aunt, what a job.”

“I’ll help,” said Tony. “Welch will, too, I should think, if you ask him. How many jelly machine things can you raise?”

“I’ve got three. One for each of us. Wait a bit, I’ll go and ask Welch.”

Welch, having first ascertained that the matter really was a pressing one, agreed without hesitation. He had objections to spoiling his sleep without reason, but in moments of emergency he put comfort behind him.

“Good,” said Charteris, when this had been settled, “be here as soon as you can after eleven. I tell you what, we’ll do the thing in style, and brew. It oughtn’t to take more than an hour or so. It’ll be rather a rag than otherwise.”

“And how about Jim’s stuff?” asked Welch.

“I shall have to do that, as you can’t. I’ve done my own bits. I think I’d better start now.” He did, and with success. When he went to bed at half-past ten, The Glow Worm was ready in manuscript. Only the copying and printing remained to be done.

Charteris was out of bed and in the study just as eleven struck. Tony and Welch, arriving half an hour later, found him hard at work copying out an article of topical interest in a fair, round hand, quite unrecognisable as his own.

It was an impressive scene. The gas had been cut off, as it always was when the House went to bed, and they worked by the light of candles. Occasionally Welch, breathing heavily in his efforts to make his handwriting look like that of a member of a board school (second standard), blew one or more of the candles out, and the others grunted fiercely. That was all they could do, for, for evident reasons, a vow of silence had been imposed. Charteris was the first to finish. He leant back in his chair, and the chair, which at a reasonable hour of the day would have endured any treatment, collapsed now with a noise like a pistol shot.

“Now you’ve done it,” said Tony, breaking all rules by speaking considerably above a whisper.

Welch went to the door, and listened. The house was still. They settled down once more to work. Charteris lit the spirit lamp, and began to prepare the meal. The others toiled painfully on at their round hand. They finished almost simultaneously.

“Not another stroke do I do,” said Tony, “till I’ve had something to drink. Is that water boiling yet?”

It was at exactly a quarter past two that the work was finished.

“Never again,” said Charteris, looking with pride at the piles of Glow Worms stacked on the table; “this jelly business makes one beastly sticky. I think we’ll keep to print in future.”

And they did. Out of the twenty or more numbers of The Glow Worm published during Charteris’ stay at School, that was the only one that did not come from the press. Readers