The Pothunters

by P. G. Wodehouse

  [7]

  BARRETT EXPLORES

  Barrett stood at the window of his study with his hands in his pockets,looking thoughtfully at the football field. Now and then he whistled.That was to show that he was very much at his ease. He whistled apopular melody of the day three times as slowly as its talentedcomposer had originally intended it to be whistled, and in a strangeminor key. Some people, when offended, invariably whistle in thismanner, and these are just the people with whom, if you happen to sharea study with them, it is rash to have differences of opinion. Reade,who was deep in a book--though not so deep as he would have liked thecasual observer to fancy him to be--would have given much to stopBarrett's musical experiments. To ask him to stop in so many words was,of course, impossible. Offended dignity must draw the line somewhere.That is one of the curious results of a polite education. When twogentlemen of Hoxton or the Borough have a misunderstanding, theyaddress one another with even more freedom than is their usual custom.When one member of a public school falls out with another member, hispoliteness in dealing with him becomes so Chesterfieldian, that onecannot help being afraid that he will sustain a strain from which hewill never recover.

  After a time the tension became too much for Barrett. He picked up hiscap and left the room. Reade continued to be absorbed in his book.

  It was a splendid day outside, warm for April, and with just thatfreshness in the air which gets into the blood and makes Spring thebest time of the whole year. Barrett had not the aesthetic soul to anyappreciable extent, but he did know a fine day when he saw one, andeven he realized that a day like this was not to be wasted in potteringabout the School grounds watching the 'under thirteen' hundred yards(trial heats) and the 'under fourteen' broad jump, or doing occasionalexercises in the gymnasium. It was a day for going far afield and notreturning till lock-up. He had an object, too. Everything seemed toshout 'eggs' at him, to remind him that he was an enthusiast on thesubject and had a collection to which he ought to seize this excellentopportunity of adding. The only question was, where to go. Thesurrounding country was a Paradise for the naturalist who had no absurdscruples on the subject of trespassing. To the west, in the directionof Stapleton, the woods and hedges were thick with nests. But then, sothey were to the east along the Badgwick road. He wavered, but arecollection that there was water in the Badgwick direction, and thathe might with luck beard a water-wagtail in its lair, decided him. Whatis life without a water-wagtail's egg? A mere mockery. He turned east.

  'Hullo, Barrett, where are you off to?' Grey, of Prater's House,intercepted him as he was passing.

  'Going to see if I can get some eggs. Are you coming?'

  Grey hesitated. He was a keen naturalist, too.

  'No, I don't think I will, thanks. Got an uncle coming down to see me.'

  'Well, cut off before he comes.'

  'No, he'd be too sick. Besides,' he added, ingenuously, 'there's apossible tip. Don't want to miss that. I'm simply stony. Always am atend of term.'

  'Oh,' said Barrett, realizing that further argument would be thrownaway. 'Well, so long, then.'

  'So long. Hope you have luck.'

  'Thanks. I say.'

  'Well?'

  'Roll-call, you know. If you don't see me anywhere about, you mightanswer my name.'

  'All right. And if you find anything decent, you might remember me. Youknow pretty well what I've got already.'

  'Right, I will.'

  'Magpie's what I want particularly. Where are you going, by the way?'

  'Thought of having a shot at old Venner's woods. I'm after awater-wagtail myself. Ought to be one or two in the Dingle.'

  'Heaps, probably. But I should advise you to look out, you know.Venner's awfully down on trespassing.'

  'Yes, the bounder. But I don't think he'll get me. One gets the knackof keeping fairly quiet with practice.'

  'He's got thousands of keepers.'

  'Millions.'

  'Dogs, too.'

  'Dash his beastly dogs. I like dogs. Why are you such a croaker today,Grey?'

  'Well, you know he's had two chaps sacked for going in his woods to mycertain knowledge, Morton-Smith and Ainsworth. That's only since I'vebeen at the Coll., too. Probably lots more before that.'

  'Ainsworth was booked smoking there. That's why he was sacked. AndVenner caught Morton-Smith himself simply staggering under deadrabbits. They sack any chap for poaching.'

  'Well, I don't see how you're going to show you've not been poaching.Besides, it's miles out of bounds.'

  'Grey,' said Barrett, severely, 'I'm surprised at you. Go away and meetyour beastly uncle. Fancy talking about bounds at your time of life.'

  'Well, don't forget me when you're hauling in the eggs.'

  'Right you are. So long.'

  Barrett proceeded on his way, his last difficulty safely removed. Hecould rely on Grey not to bungle that matter of roll-call. Grey hadbeen there before.

  A long white ribbon of dusty road separated St Austin's from the lodgegates of Badgwick Hall, the country seat of Sir Alfred Venner, M.P.,also of 49A Lancaster Gate, London. Barrett walked rapidly for overhalf-an-hour before he came in sight of the great iron gates, flankedon the one side by a trim little lodge and green meadows, and on theother by woods of a darker green. Having got so far, he went on up thehill till at last he arrived at his destination. A small hedge, asloping strip of green, and then the famous Dingle. I am loath toinflict any scenic rhapsodies on the reader, but really the Dingledeserves a line or two. It was the most beautiful spot in a countrynoted for its fine scenery. Dense woods were its chief feature. And bydense I mean well-supplied not only with trees (excellent things inthemselves, but for the most part useless to the nest hunter), but alsowith a fascinating tangle of undergrowth, where every bush seemed toharbour eggs. All carefully preserved, too. That was the chief charm ofthe place. Since the sad episodes of Morton-Smith and Ainsworth, theSchool for the most part had looked askance at the Dingle. Once aselect party from Dacre's House, headed by Babington, who always gothimself into hot water when possible, had ventured into the forbiddenland, and had returned hurriedly later in the afternoon with every signof exhaustion, hinting breathlessly at keepers, dogs, and a pursuitthat had lasted fifty minutes without a check. Since then no one hadbeen daring enough to brave the terrors so carefully prepared for themby Milord Sir Venner and his minions, and the proud owner of the Dinglewalked his woods in solitary state. Occasionally he would personallyconduct some favoured guest thither and show him the wonders of theplace. But this was not a frequent occurrence. On still-less frequentoccasions, there were large shooting parties in the Dingle. But, as arule, the word was 'Keepers only. No others need apply'.

  A futile iron railing, some three feet in height, shut in the Dingle.Barrett jumped this lightly, and entered forthwith into Paradise. Theplace was full of nests. As Barrett took a step forward there was asudden whirring of wings, and a bird rose from a bush close beside him.He went to inspect, and found a nest with seven eggs in it. Only athrush, of course. As no one ever wants thrushes' eggs the world isover-stocked with them. Still, it gave promise of good things to come.Barrett pushed on through the bushes and the promise was fulfilled. Hecame upon another nest. Five eggs this time, of a variety he was unablewith his moderate knowledge to classify. At any rate, he had not gotthem in his collection. Nor, to the best of his belief, had Grey. Hetook one for each of them.

  Now this was all very well, thought Barrett, but what he had come forwas the ovular deposit of the water-wagtail. Through the trees he couldsee the silver gleam of the brook at the foot of the hill. The woodssloped down to the very edge. Then came the brook, widening out hereinto the size of a small river. Then woods again all up the side of theopposite hill. Barrett hurried down the slope.

  He had put on flannels for this emergency. He was prepared to wade, toswim if necessary. He hoped that it would not be necessary, for inApril water is generally inclined to be chilly. Of keepers he had uptill now seen no sign. Once he had heard th
e distant bark of a dog. Itseemed to come from far across the stream and he had not troubled aboutit.

  In the midst of the bushes on the bank stood a tree. It was not tallcompared to the other trees of the Dingle, but standing alone as it didamongst the undergrowth it attracted the eye at once. Barrett, lookingat it, saw something which made him forget water-wagtails for themoment. In a fork in one of the upper branches was a nest, an enormousnest, roughly constructed of sticks. It was a very jerry-builtresidence, evidently run up for the season by some prudent bird whoknew by experience that no nest could last through the winter, and sohad declined to waste his time in useless decorative work. But whatbird was it? No doubt there are experts to whom a wood-pigeon's nest issomething apart and distinct from the nest of the magpie, but to yourunsophisticated amateur a nest that is large may be anything--rook's,magpie's, pigeon's, or great auk's. To such an one the only true testlies in the eggs. _Solvitur ambulando_. Barrett laid the pill-boxes,containing the precious specimens he had found in the nest at the topof the hill, at the foot of the tree, and began to climb.

  It was to be a day of surprises for him. When he had got half way up hefound himself on a kind of ledge, which appeared to be a kind ofjunction at which the tree branched off into two parts. To the left wasthe nest, high up in its fork. To the right was another shoot. Herealized at once, with keen disappointment, that it would be useless togo further. The branches were obviously not strong enough to bear hisweight. He looked down, preparatory to commencing the descent, and tohis astonishment found himself looking into a black cavern. In hiseagerness to reach the nest he had not noticed before that the tree washollow.

  This made up for a great many things. His disappointment became lesskeen. Few things are more interesting than a hollow tree.

  'Wonder how deep it goes down,' he said to himself. He broke off apiece of wood and dropped it down the hollow. It seemed to reach theground uncommonly soon. He tried another piece. The sound of its fallcame up to him almost simultaneously. Evidently the hole was not deep.He placed his hands on the edge, and let himself gently down into thedarkness. His feet touched something solid almost immediately. As faras he could judge, the depth of the cavity was not more than five feet.Standing up at his full height he could just rest his chin on the edge.

  He seemed to be standing on some sort of a floor, roughly made, but tooregular to be the work of nature. Evidently someone had been herebefore. He bent down to make certain. There was more room to move aboutin than he suspected. A man sitting down would find it notuncomfortable.

  He brushed his hand along the floor. Certainly it seemed to beconstructed of boards. Then his hand hit something small and hard. Hegroped about until his fingers closed on it. It was--what was it? Hecould hardly make out for the moment. Suddenly, as he moved it,something inside it rattled. Now he knew what it was. It was the verything he most needed, a box of matches.

  The first match he struck promptly and naturally went out. No firstmatch ever stays alight for more than three-fifths of a second. Thesecond was more successful. The sudden light dazzled him for a moment.When his eyes had grown accustomed to it, the match went out. He lit athird, and this time he saw all round the little chamber. 'GreatScott,' he said, 'the place is a regular poultry shop.' All round thesides were hung pheasants and partridges in various stages of maturity.Here and there the fur of a rabbit or a hare showed up amongst thefeathers. Barrett hit on the solution of the problem directly. He hadbeen shown a similar collection once in a tree on his father's land.The place was the headquarters of some poacher. Barrett was full ofadmiration for the ingenuity of the man in finding so safe ahiding-place.

  He continued his search. In one angle of the tree was a piece ofsacking. Barrett lifted it. He caught a glimpse of something bright,but before he could confirm the vague suspicion that flashed upon him,his match burnt down and lay smouldering on the floor. His handtrembled with excitement as he started to light another. It broke offin his hand. At last he succeeded. The light flashed up, and therebeside the piece of sacking which had covered them were two cups. Herecognized them instantly.

  'Jove,' he gasped. 'The Sports pots! Now, how on earth--'

  At this moment something happened which took his attention away fromhis discovery with painful suddenness. From beneath him came themuffled whine of a dog. He listened, holding his breath. No, he was notmistaken. The dog whined again, and broke into an excited bark.Somebody at the foot of the tree began to speak.