Biggles Goes To School

by W E Johns

  Mrs. Grant shook her head, apparently unable to speak.

  “I’ll go and see if I can find the ring,” promised Biggles.

  Mrs. Grant smiled wanly. “ I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do about it,” she said sadly.

  “You never know,” said Biggles mysteriously. “We won’t worry you any more now. Come on, Smith. Good afternoon, Mrs. Grant.”

  Biggles could hardly get through the gate quickly enough. Outside he grabbed Smith by the arm. “You remember that jackdaw we saw in the tree when we were hiding from Hervey?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was ‘The Garth’.”

  “I know it was.”

  “The jackdaw might have had the ring.”

  “It looked like a bit of silver paper to me.”

  “I’m sure it sparkled. There was a kind of flash. Silver paper doesn’t sparkle. You said you’d heard about jackdaws taking things. In India the kites take eggs and things. Come on, I’m going to have a look in that hole!”

  “In your best clothes?” queried Smith, looking concerned. “You’ll get in an awful mess.”

  “We can’t be bothered with clothes when a friend is in trouble,” asserted Biggles. “The tree should be easy enough to climb.”

  “It may be easy, but that branch looked pretty rotten to me,” said Smith dubiously.

  “Then we’ll break it off,” declared Biggles. “Let’s hurry.”

  Walking briskly to the lane they crawled through the laurel hedge, using the same place as before. Nothing had changed. “I’ll go up the tree. You keep cave,” ordered Biggles, regarding the tree critically, for now that he was confronted by cold fact certain difficulties became more apparent, as they so often do. To reach the hollow branch would be easy enough, he saw, for there were other branches that came nearly to the ground. But the limb—or rather, stump—with which he was concerned, stretched out from the trunk for a matter of five or six feet; and the hole was in the end. The branch, being hollow, was dead, and probably would not support his weight. The difficulty, therefore, was how to get far enough along the branch in order that a hand could be inserted into the hollow end. Indeed, had it not been for another branch, this difficulty would have been insuperable; but it so happened that a second branch, a thinner one, projected at the same angle from the trunk about three feet above it. It would, thought Biggles, be possible to make this branch support his weight while he investigated the lower one. Up the tree he went to put the matter to test.

  In a minute or two he was sitting astride the hollow branch, holding on to the live branch just over his head; and in this position he began to move forward a few inches at a time, taking his weight on his arms and then lowering himself gently. As nothing happened he gained confidence, and was about two feet from his objective when there came a warning hiss of “Cave! “ from Smith. It was followed instantly by a shout.

  Biggles sat still. Looking down he saw Smith in a sheepish attitude that told him the worst. This made Biggles angry, for he felt that Smith should have kept a sharper look-out; and he was about to tell him so when a well-dressed, military-looking man, accompanied by two terriers, appeared below.

  The man looked at Smith, then at Biggles on his perch. “What are you boys doing?” he asked in a not unfriendly voice.

  “I’m trying to get to a jackdaw’s nest, sir,” answered Biggles.

  “You mind you don’t fall,” said the gentleman.

  The warning came too late. There was a crack like a pistol shot as the branch on which Biggles sat snapped off short, leaving him hanging by his hands from the branch above him.

  The gentleman perceived his danger. “Hang on!” he shouted, and then rushed back towards the house crying: “ Blake! Blake! Bring the thatching ladder!”

  Biggles needed no advice about hanging on. He had every intention of doing so. The question was, how long could he hang on? Already his arms, supporting the full weight of his body, felt as if they might leave their sockets at any moment. The ground looked a ghastly distance away. Smith, looking like a dwarf, his face as white as paper, stared up goggle-eyed.

  Smith did all he could. “Hang on, Bigglesworth, hang on!” he croaked. “Remember the School!”

  What the School had to do with the situation Biggles could not see. He hung on, but he knew it was only now a matter of seconds before he fell, for his strength was failing fast. Even though he could see two men running with a long ladder he thought they would be too late to save him. Clenching his teeth he hung on with the frenzy of despair. The men seemed a long time getting the ladder up.

  It was touch and go. The ladder was only just long enough to reach the branch, and for that reason it was far from steady. Biggles put out a hand and seized a rung. With a supreme effort he twisted his body over to get a foothold. In this he failed, so knowing he was going anyway he made a despairing clutch at the ladder. He got his arms and legs round it, and that was as much as he could do. His ebbing strength then failed entirely and he slid down the ladder like a plummet. The gentleman leapt forward to catch him, and did in fact break his fall.

  “Oh, well caught, sir!” cried Smith shrilly.

  Biggles sat still where he had landed, his face in his hands, trembling from shock, or relief, or both.

  “Have you hurt yourself?” asked the gentleman.

  Very slowly Biggles picked himself up, testing each limb in turn. “I don’t think so, sir,” he managed to get out.

  “You might have broken your neck,” said the man.

  Biggles was well aware of it.

  Blake, apparently a gardener, spoke. “Wot was you up to, anyway?” he growled. “Ought ter know better, climbin’ trees on a Sunday afternoon. Wot won’t you young demons get up to next, I’d like ter know.”

  “I was looking for a diamond ring,” explained Biggles lamely. He turned to the gentleman. “Are you Major Travers, sir?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, I was looking for the ring your wife lost.”

  “Up a tree?” Major Travers seemed amused.

  “Yes,” stated Biggles. “You see, one day I saw a jackdaw fly into this tree and it seemed to have something in its beak.” Biggles picked up the fallen branch, stood it on end, and banged it on the ground.

  A lot of things fell out, mostly twigs and crumbs of rotten wood. But there were other things as well—a piece of wire, some silver paper, string, and a safety pin. Biggles picked up the stuff and let it trickle through his fingers. There was a sudden flash. Biggles grabbed at it, opened his hand, and let out a cry of triumph as he held out the object for Major Travers to see. “Is that the ring your wife lost, sir?” he inquired.

  For a moment or two Major Travers seemed unable to speak. He could only stare. At last he said, very quietly: “Yes, that’s it.” He reached out and took it.

  “They’ll let Vera go, now, I hope?” said Biggles.

  Major Travers was still looking slightly stunned. “Why yes—yes—of course,” he stammered. “Poor girl. How awful. She was telling the truth after all. Dear—dear. Whatever can I say to her? I must get in touch with the police at once. I must tell my wife about this. How would you boys like to come to the house and have some tea?”

  “We should like to very much, sir,” answered Biggles. “But if you don’t mind I think we ought to go straight away to Mrs. Grant and tell her that Vera will be all right.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Grant?”

  “Vera’s married sister. She’s a friend of ours and she’s worried nearly to death.”

  “Very well. You can go and tell her that I shall do all in my power to make amends for this unfortunate mistake. But a minute is neither here nor there. Wait, I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Major Travers hurried off. Blake, shaking his head, shouldered the ladder and followed him.

  Biggles and Smith sifted the nest thoroughly while they were waiting, but to their disappointment they found no more jewellery.

  Major Travers returned, carrying a large
box with a floral decoration. “There you are,” he said. “There’s a box of chocolates for you from my wife, and there’s a couple of shillings apiece from me.”

  “Oh thank you, sir,” said the boys in unison.

  “You must come and have tea with us another day.”

  “We’d love to, sir.”

  “Good-bye, then. I must let the police know about this at once.”

  “Good-bye, sir.”

  The boys went out into the lane and lost no time in opening the box. Smith whistled when he saw the contents. “Fair do’s. Half each.” he demanded.

  “All right,” agreed Biggles. “Really, I ought to have more than you. After all, I went up the tree.”

  “I kept cave,” claimed Smith.

  “Jolly badly, too,” asserted Biggles. “But we won’t argue about it.”

  They hurried towards the cottage, eating chocolates. Indeed, Smith ate so many that at last Biggles was forced to protest. “You’ve had your half already,” he said.

  “If we run into Hervey, and he sees that box, he’ll scoff the lot,” observed Smith.

  They reached the cottage to find the door closed, but a knock brought out Mrs. Grant, who still looked as if she had been crying.

  “ Dry up, Mrs. Grant,” said Biggles cheerfully. “Everything’s all right. We found the ring. Major Travers is in touch with the police and he says he’ll do everything he can for Vera. Here, have a chocolate.”

  Mrs. Grant looked astonished, as well she might.

  “Oh, isn’t that wonderful!” she cried. “Come in and tell me about it.”

  Biggles obliged.

  “And now,” said Mr. Grant, laughing through her tears when he had finished, “what do you say to some tea? I baked a cake yesterday.”

  “Jolly good idea,” agreed Biggles.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE TREASURE TRAIL

  A LUDICROUS interlude, for which Biggles and Smith were held by certain disgruntled persons to be responsible, was one that became known—and remains known to this day—as the Hertbury Treasure Hunt. Whoever may have been to blame it caused Biggles a good deal of worry, although there were those with a sense of humour who got a good laugh out of it.

  It all began with a shower of rain. Biggles and Smith, out for a run, were caught without coats, so they took cover under a tarpaulin-rigged shelter at the invitation of its sole occupant, an old roadman named Farrow. The refuge was a rough affair, but as the old man said, it was good enough to brew a dish of tea in, and keep his tools.

  For some time, while the rain pelted down, the conversation covered a wide range of subjects, from the weather to the art of cracking flint stones for road mending. Then Smith happened to remark: “I suppose you sometimes find things when you are digging out the gutters beside the road?”

  The old man said he had found a great many things in his time, from old keys to gig-lamps, and from dead cats to old coins. Indeed, that very morning he had unearthed a coin not yet identified. It was an old one, and that was all he knew about it. He showed it to them.

  “It’s silver, anyway,” declared Smith, removing the dirt that still adhered to the coin by the simple process of spitting on it and rubbing it on his sleeve.

  “Oh aye, it’s silver,” agreed the old man. “A florin o’ some sort I reckon.”

  “Who’s head is that on it?” asked Smith.

  “Couldn’t say.”

  “Where exactly did you find this?” asked Smith carelessly, although Biggles could see he was really trying to suppress excitement.

  “Way back up the road beside the old abbey.”

  “You mean those ruins in the field, near the road, close by Grummit’s farm?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I see,” said Smith thoughtfully.

  The rain had now stopped, so Biggles suggested they might be getting back to school.

  This was agreed, so thanking the old man for the use of his shelter they went on their way.

  For a time Smith was strangely silent, but he then divulged the fascinating thoughts that were exercising his mind. “You know,” he said, “it wouldn’t surprise me if there was a treasure buried in those old ruins.”

  Biggles said it wouldn’t surprise him, either.

  “It’s just the sort of place,” averred Smith.

  Biggles agreed that it was.

  “It would be just the sort of place I should choose myself to hide a treasure—if I had one,” continued Smith.

  “You haven’t one,” Biggles pointed out.

  “ I said if I had,” retorted Smith irritably. “People are always finding treasures,” he added.

  “Are they?”

  “Of course they are. You can read about it in the papers almost every day. They say there are buried treasures everywhere if only they could be found.”

  “Who says?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I wish we could find one,” remarked Biggles.

  “That’s what I mean,” asserted Smith. “Why shouldn’t we?”

  “Where are you going to start looking?”

  “The ruins of the old abbey, of course. It’s an ideal place. There’s bound to be at least one treasure there if we could strike the right spot. You saw that florin, or whatever it was. Why should there be only one? I’ll bet there’s a box full—possibly several boxes.”

  Biggles seemed doubtful. “Even if there were, how should we know where to start looking?” he questioned. “We’ve nothing to go on.”

  “We could soon work out where a man going to bury a treasure would be most likely to put it,” argued Smith.

  Biggles expressed his doubts about this somewhat casual method. “We haven’t a chart,” he pointed out. “If there’s a treasure there’s usually a chart.”

  “We could jolly soon make one,” declared Smith, not to be put off.

  “How?”

  “In one of the old books in the library there’s a loose page at the beginning. It’s vellum or something. We could draw one on that, marking the position of the treasure with a red cross. That’s how it’s usually done.”

  “But we don’t know where the treasure is buried,” Biggles pointed out.

  “What does it matter?” cried Smith. “If we don’t find it in one place we should have to start digging somewhere else.”

  “We might have to do an awful lot of digging,” returned Biggles.

  “If we didn’t find it we should be no worse off than we are now,” stated Smith.

  Biggles admitted the force of this argument.

  “You never know,” said Smith vaguely.

  “No, you never know,” agreed Biggles.

  “Just imagine it,” went on Smith, as his imagination got into its stride. “Think of how the chaps at school would feel if we walked in with a chest of gold.”

  “The coin was silver,” reminded Biggles.

  “Where there’s silver there’s gold,” persisted Smith. “The two things go together. That’s why people always talk about gold and silver.”

  Smith’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Biggles weakened. “What about tools?” was his final difficulty. “We can’t dig with our hands.”

  “What are the roadman’s tools for?” inquired Smith sarcastically. “They’re practically on the spot. We could borrow them when he’s finished work and put them back afterwards. He’s a decent sort —not the sort to make a fuss about it.”

  “All right,” assented Biggles. “When do we start?”

  “As soon as possible, before news of the treasure leaks out,” answered Smith. “And remember, we’re not letting anyone into the secret.”

  “What secret?”

  “The treasure, you poor chump!” cried Smith. He shrugged. “Of course, if you’re going to do nothing but raise objections I’ll find it myself—then you’ll look silly.”

  “Who’s going to make the chart?”

  “We’ll make it together. We’ll put water in the ink to make it look old.
We’ll put the red cross fifteen feet east of that old tree that stands in the ruins.”

  “Why fifteen feet?”

  “Because that’s a distance a man would naturally choose to bury a treasure!”

  “Why east?”

  “That direction is as good as any other, isn’t it? After all, it’s bound to be one or the other. If east turns out to be wrong we can always try west, can’t we?”

  “I suppose so,” Biggles was forced to admit.

  And so it came about that after school the following day, the treasure seekers, complete with chart, and the borrowed tools over their shoulders, arrived at the objective. There was some argument as to which direction was east, but eventually the matter was agreed.

  With great care Smith measured fifteen feet and drove in the point of his pick. “This is it,” he said, confidently. “Now for the pieces of eight!”

  “I thought it was a florin,” observed Biggles.

  “Pieces of eight sounds better,” averred Smith as he went to work. “You shovel the dirt away while I loosen it with the pick,” he requested. “Of course, we’ll go halves, but really I ought to have the biggest share because I thought of the idea.”

  “Let’s find the treasure first,” suggested Biggles practically.

  The work had not gone on for very long when Mr. Grummit, the farmer, arrived on the scene. In his breeches and leggings he might have been John Bull himself. “What do you boys think you’re doing?” he inquired curtly.

  Biggles looked at Smith. Smith looked at Biggles. “Shall we tell him?” he whispered.

  “We’d better,” answered Biggles.

  Smith turned to the farmer. “We’re looking for the treasure,” he stated.

  Mr. Grummit frowned. “What treasure?”

  “The treasure that’s buried here. Didn’t you know about it?”

  “I certainly did not. First I’ve heard about it.”

  “We haven’t told anyone else,” explained Smith.

  The farmer advanced. He pointed to the hole. “What makes you think the treasure’s there?”

  “It says so on the chart,” answered Smith.