Biggles Goes To School

by W E Johns

  “Nobody, sir.”

  “Are you asking me to believe that you were alone?”

  “I was by myself, sir.”

  “Do you usually go out alone?”

  “No, sir. I usually go out with another boy, but yesterday he was not well and stayed in.”

  “So you insist that you were alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you go to Foxley Wood?”

  “To get some chestnuts, sir.”

  “You knew you were trespassing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did you see in Foxley Wood besides chestnuts?”

  “I saw a stoat, sir, and a hawk’s nest.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I saw two pheasants.”

  “You saw—two pheasants?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In what circumstances did you see these pheasants?”

  “I flushed one, a hen, just before I got to the wood, sir. Afterwards, when I was in the wood, I heard a cock cackle, and saw another one running.”

  “Did you—er—er—touch any of these pheasants?”

  “I touched one, sir.”

  “Oh. So you touched one? Why?”

  “Because it was in a snare, sir. I released it.”

  The Head glanced at the seated man, then turned back to Biggles. “You let it go?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re quite sure you let it go?”

  “Quite sure, sir.”

  “You didn’t kill it?”

  “No, sir. I had no reason to. I didn’t want it. All I wanted was chestnuts. If I wanted pheasants my uncle has plenty on his place. He has invited me to shoot in the holidays.”

  The Head cleared his throat. “Then you didn’t set the snare?”

  “No, sir. I’ve never set a snare in my life, sir.”

  The Head paused for a moment. When he spoke again he did so slowly and deliberately.

  “Had you any reason to think there was another person in the wood beside yourself?”

  “Not at first, sir; but later on, yes.”

  “What led you to think there was someone else, there?”

  “I heard a cock pheasant cackle an alarm. I hoped it was a fox that had put it up, but when I saw another one running I knew then that someone else was in the wood.”

  “Did you see this person?”

  Biggles was silent.

  “I asked you a question, Bigglesworth. Speak up, boy!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You saw someone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you recognise him?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Mr. Barnes the gamekeeper, sir.”

  “What was Mr. Barnes doing?”

  “He came running down the glade. I heard him coming and hid in a bush. The pheasant had just run into the snare. Mr. Barnes didn’t stop, so as soon as he’d gone past I ran out and let the pheasant go.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Seeing Mr. Barnes coming back I went to the bush and sat still, sir.”

  “So you remained on the spot?”

  “Yes, sir. I waited for a long time after Mr. Barnes had gone.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Counting the pheasants, sir.”

  “Counting the pheasants!”

  “Yes, sir. There were forty-seven cocks, I remember. I heard them go up to roost.”

  “Was that of interest to you?”

  “Not particularly, sir, but I had nothing else to do. I was really waiting for Mr. Barnes to go because I didn’t want to be caught. When I thought he had gone I came back to school.”

  “With some chestnuts?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Said the man in tweeds, quietly: “If he saw Barnes he must have seen the others. Barnes was chasing them when he passed the bird in the snare.”

  The Head drew a deep breath, and considered Biggles through half-closed eyes. “Did you see anyone else besides Mr. Barnes in Foxley Wood yesterday?”

  Biggles was silent.

  “I’m waiting for an answer,” said the Head sternly.

  “Yes, sir,” blurted Biggles.

  “Were they boys of this school?”

  Biggles knew he was trapped, and gave himself up for lost. He turned stricken eyes to the Head’s face, but they found no sympathy there. “Yes, sir,” he answered, in a low voice.

  “Ah,” said the Head. “You must realise, Bigglesworth, that this is a serious matter, and you would be well advised to tell the truth.”

  “I’m telling the truth, sir,” muttered Biggles.

  “Did you recognise these boys?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Two, sir.”

  “What are their names?”

  Biggles moistened his lips. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t tell you that.”

  “You refuse to say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were they friends of yours?”

  “No, sir.”

  The Head faced the room. “Two more boys in this room were in Foxley Wood yesterday. They will stand up.”

  No one moved.

  The Head’s voice took on a harder tone. “If the two boys will not own up I shall have no alternative than to punish the entire school. Now, who were they?”

  Silence.

  “Very well,” said the Head grimly. “The Wednesday half-holiday is cancelled until further notice.”

  A whisper, like a fitful breeze, swept through the hall.

  The Head turned to Biggles, but before he could speak the other man on the rostrum put in: “May I have a word with this boy, Colonel Chase?”

  “Certainly, Sir Colin.”

  This was the first proof Biggles had that the tweed-clad man was Sir Colin Markland, the owner of Foxley Wood, although he had of course suspected it.

  “Might I speak to him alone?” asked Sir Colin. “I’d rather the other boys didn’t hear what I have to say.”

  “By all means.” The Head turned to the hall and said curtly: “School will dismiss.”

  “Tell me, my boy,” said Sir Colin quietly when the boys had gone, although the Head remained. “You seem to know something about game preservation. May I take it that you have never been guilty of poaching?”

  “I’ve never poached anything in my life, sir,” said Biggles firmly. “After all, I’ve never had any reason to.”

  “As a sportsman you would naturally dislike poachers?”

  “I loathe them, sir,” returned Biggles earnestly.

  “You knew that poaching was going on in my wood yesterday?”

  “Only after I was in it, sir. Had I known before I wouldn’t have gone near the place!”

  Sir Colin smiled at Biggles’ vehemence. “You actually saw the poaching going on?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “Why didn’t you go to Mr. Barnes when you saw him, and report what you had seen?”

  “Because I was afraid, sir, if he saw me, he wouldn’t give me a chance to explain anything. I was scared. Besides, I didn’t like the idea of bringing disgrace on the school.”

  “Well, that’s understandable,” conceded Sir Colin. “I believe your story,” he went on, “because it confirms all that I have been told by Barnes. It explains the mystery of how the pheasant got out of the snare. That puzzled us. Now, you know these poachers, so this is what I suggest. You see, I should be very sorry to see the whole school punished for the misdeeds of two misguided boys. I’m not going to ask you to sneak. But I will ask you to go to these fellows and warn them that if you ever see them on my ground again you will divulge their names. That’s fair enough, and, I think, it should put an end to this unpleasant business of poaching.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that,” promised Biggles.

  “Could we accept their word, do you think,
if they promised not to poach again?”

  “I don’t know about that, sir; but I could soon tell if the poaching was still going on by occasionally counting the birds as they go up to roost.”

  “You made it forty-seven yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A month ago I put down a hundred cock pheasant poults in that wood, so somebody has been busy.”

  Biggles stared. “I can’t think that two boys could kill more than fifty pheasants, sir!” he exclaimed, aghast.

  “Well, it rather looks like it, doesn’t it?—although there’s always a chance of a few birds wandering away. It’s a bit hard on me, don’t you agree, to pay a lot of money for birds and then have them all poached?”

  “I call it scandalous,” agreed Biggles emphatically. His brain was working fast, trying to work out how much money the poachers must have made by their nefarious transactions.

  Sir Colin got up. “There’s just one other thing I’d like you to do,” he said. “As a matter of proper behaviour I think you ought to go to Mr. Barnes and apologise to him for trespassing in his best covert.”

  This suggestion made small appeal to Biggles but he had perforce to consent.

  “This afternoon would be a good time,” said Sir Colin. “You’ll find him at his cottage.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “All right. That’s all I have to say.”

  Biggles turned to the Head. “Do you want me any more, sir?”

  “No, you may go.”

  Biggles turned about and walked away, shaken by his interrogation, but conscious that the thing had not turned out as badly as at one time appeared inevitable. As he entered the quad he saw Hervey and Brickwell making frantic signals to him from behind the fives court. Walking over to them, he saw they were both in a state of nervous agitation, which was not to be wondered at.

  “Did you sneak?” demanded Hervey in a hoarse whisper.

  Biggles’ lips curled. “What do you take me for?”

  Hervey drew a deep breath of relief.

  “What did they say after we’d gone out?” asked Brickwell.

  “That’s my business,” returned Biggles evenly. “But I have something to say to both of you. If ever again I hear of you being in Foxley Wood, or poaching anywhere else, I shall go straight to the Head and report it.”

  Hervey clenched his fist and raised it threateningly. “You’ll what?” he cried furiously.

  “You heard what I said,” Biggles told him calmly. “You’ve got off pretty well, but if you’re going to take that attitude I’ll go straight back to the Head and tell him all I know.”

  “How much do you know?” asked Brickwell, with more than a shade of anxiety in his voice.

  “You’d be surprised,” replied Biggles contemptuously, and turning on his heel walked away.

  He wondered how they would feel if he told them how much he did know.

  He still had his penance to perform, and he was not looking forward to it. This was the making of his personal apology to Mr. Barnes. The sensation induced by the thought was rather like that of going to a dentist; but since the thing had to be faced, he’d better get it over, he decided. Wherefore, as soon as dinner was over he set off for the keeper’s cottage.

  Turning the whole matter over in his mind, he saw clearly the unenviable position into which his escapade had landed him. He was the possessor of a secret which a lot of people would like to share. He, and he alone, knew who had been poaching the squire’s pheasants. From the Head, or Sir Colin, he knew he had nothing to fear; but if Hervey and Brickwell had hated him before, what would be their feelings now, aware, as they were, that he had only to open his mouth to bring about their expulsion from school, if nothing worse. It was all a nasty business, he soliloquised, as he strode along. And all for nothing. He could not even enjoy the chestnuts for which he had paid, and was still paying, a heavy price. The nuts were like sawdust in his mouth.

  His nerves tightened as he reached the cottage and saw the gamekeeper standing at his door. He opened the little wicket gate, closed it behind him, and marched, feeling very small, up the garden path.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes,” he greeted in a rather shaky voice.

  “Good afternoon, young man,” returned the keeper, standing legs apart, thumbs in the armpits of his waistcoat, and on his face an expression of chilly disfavour.

  Biggles came to a stop and braced himself. “I have come, Mr. Barnes, to apologise to you for trespassing in Foxley Wood yesterday afternoon, thereby causing you a good deal of trouble. I promise not to enter the wood again without permission from you.”

  The gamekeeper did not answer for a full minute, and Biggles found the suspense more difficult to bear than the instant reproach he expected. Then the keeper replied: “So that’s what you’ve come to tell me, is it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Barnes.”

  “I see.” Mr. Barnes thought heavily. “And what do you reckon I ought to do about it?”

  “I hope you’ll accept my apology, although that is a matter for you to decide,” said Biggles simply.

  Then, to his astonishment, the keeper actually smiled. “Come over here and let’s have a talk about it,” he said, with a change of tone, and led the way to a rustic bench under the front window. Biggles sat. Mr. Barnes sat, and loaded a silver-mounted pipe with slow deliberation. “I was expecting you,” he admitted. “Sir Colin called on his way home.”

  “Oh, he did?” Biggles had not expected that.

  “He did. And he tells me you know who’s been poachin’ my birds.”

  “I do,” admitted Biggles. “I wish I didn’t,” he added, with some warmth.

  “And you ain’t going ter split on ‘em?”

  “I can’t, Mr. Barnes. That would be sneaking. You see, if I did I wouldn’t be able to show my face at the school again. Sneaking is unpardonable.”

  “Even though it’s a matter of poaching?”

  “Yes. If it were anyone else but boys at the school it would be different, of course.”

  “That’s what I understood from Sir Colin. Rum behaviour, I calls it. Still, if it’s the rule, it’s the rule. Sir Colin tells me you counted forty-seven birds up?”

  “That’s what I made it.”

  “Don’t you reckon that’s pretty tough on me? I started the nestin’ season with a nice lot of birds in that covert. Then Sir Colin lets me ‘ave a hundred more ter make a nice show. Three days ago, when I last counted ‘em, I was down ter fifty-one. Now you tell me there’s only forty-seven. At this rate, by the time the gentlemen come fer the shootin’ there won’t be a feather on the place. They’ll expect me ter show ‘em some birds. What are they goin’ ter say when all I can show ‘em is a few hens? They’ll think I’m a pretty poor sort of keeper, won’t they?”

  “Yes, indeed they will,” admitted Biggles frankly. “You know, Mr. Barnes, there’s something queer about that. I can’t believe two boys could clear a covert of birds at that rate.”

  “Seems funny, I’ll own. But if there’s anyone else at it ‘e’s been too smart for me. I’m single-handed ‘ere and I have ter sleep sometime. I’ve watched the road leadin’ from the town for hours and hours, but I might as well ‘ave been in bed.”

  Biggles frowned. “I wonder if I could help you?” he suggested, on the spur of the moment.

  The keeper took his pipe from his mouth and gave Biggles a long look. “You? How do you reckon you could help?”

  “Well, in India I was reckoned to be pretty good at tracking,” explained Biggles. “I might see something. In any case, I had an idea as I walked here of counting your birds up again—not by going into the wood, of course. You see, I’ve told the chaps who did the poaching that if I saw them in the wood again I’d report them. By counting the birds I could check if the poaching has stopped.”

  “H’m. Maybe there’s something in that,” conceded Mr. Barnes.

  Biggles pressed his point. “Even now I can tell you that you’ve got a sparro
w hawk and at least one stoat in the wood. They’re not nice things to have about.”

  “Oh, I have, have I?”

  “Yes, Mr. Barnes.”

  “Tell me where?”

  Biggles obliged with the information.

  “You know how to keep your eyes open, I see,” observed the keeper.

  “I’ve been living with my uncle, who has a good shoot,” explained Biggles. “I went out a lot with the keepers. They gave me tips on how to spot things because they could see I was interested.”

  “In that case you ought to ‘ave known better than to go into my wood,” remarked Mr. Barnes, with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “I was careful not to disturb the birds,” said Biggles quickly. “I was as quiet as a mouse. After all, I was within a few yards of you when you were swearing, and you didn’t see me.”

  The keeper smiled. “Oh, you were?” He tapped his pipe on his heel. “All right. Now let’s make a bargain, you and me. We’ll call you my under-keeper, shall we say? You can help me keep an eye on things. If you see anything suspicious, let me know. That means you can go anywhere on my ground you like, provided you don’t make too much noise. You catch these poachers for me and we’ll call it quits about this ‘ere trespassing.”

  Biggles was amazed and overjoyed. He had expected that the conversation would take a very different line. “I say, that’s awfully decent of you, Mr. Barnes,” he blurted. “I’ll do my best, you may be sure.”

  “Then let’s call it settled.” The keeper clapped Biggles on the shoulder. “Wot would yer say to a nice cup o’ tea and a bit of cake?”

  “I’d love it,” declared Biggles, wondering if he was hearing aright.

  “Then let’s go and see wot Mrs. Barnes can find.”

  They went in.

  An hour later Biggles walked back to school treading on air, as the saying is. Mr. Barnes, he decided, was a very much maligned man. At that moment he would have done anything for him. He felt that he had made a friend, and at a time when he needed one.

  He little guessed how short-lived the friendship was to be.

  CHAPTER 11

  DARK DOINGS

  BIGGLES still had doubts and misgivings about Hervey and Brickwell, whom there was reason to suppose had been augmenting their pocket money for some time in a way which no one had suspected. That they would miss this secret source of wealth were it suddenly cut off, was certain; and whatever they might say to the contrary they would not readily forego it. They had by their attitude at the general assembly revealed that they were unscrupulous, in that they were prepared to let the whole school suffer for their misdeeds. That the punishment, the loss of the half-holiday, had been cancelled later by the Head, was due to no effort on their part. It had, Biggles knew, been brought about by the intervention of Sir Colin.