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Here you are then. You can tear out the first few pages, the ones I've written on. Ready? Carry on, Evans. When?" "When what?" "When did you put it in your pocket?" "Yesterday afternoon." "What time?" "About five." "Same pair of bags you're wearing now?" "No, my cricket bags. I was playing at the nets when my uncle came." "Ah! Cricket bags? Put it down, Pillingshot. That's a clue. Work on it.
If you think I'm going to squander " "I think you ought to let me off fagging for the rest of the term." Scott reflected. "There's something in that. All right." "Thanks." "Don't mention it. You haven't found the quid yet." "I know where it is." "Where?" "Ah!" "Fool," said Scott. After breakfast next day Scott was seated in his study when Pillingshot entered. "Here you are," said Pillingshot.
Pillingshot reluctantly entered the statement under Berkeley's indignant gaze. "Now then, carry on." "You know, it's all rot," protested Pillingshot. "I never said Berkeley had anything to do with it." "Never mind. Ask him what his movements were on the night of the what was yesterday? on the night of the sixteenth of July." Pillingshot put the question nervously.
"This is flower-bed mud from the house front-garden." "Well? What about it?" "Sh h h!" said Pillingshot, and glided out of the room. "Well?" asked Scott next day. "Clues pouring in all right?" "Rather." "What? Got another?" Pillingshot walked silently to the door and flung it open. He looked up and down the passage.
Berkeley, interrupted in a game of Halma, came unwillingly. "Now then, Pillingshot, put your questions," said Scott. "This is a black business, Berkeley. Young Evans has lost a sovereign " "If you think I've taken his beastly quid !" said Berkeley warmly. "Make a note that, on being questioned, the man Berkeley exhibited suspicious emotion. Go on. Jam it down."
There was no doubt about Trent being in. Inspection revealed the fact that the prefect was working and evidently ill-attuned to conversation. He wore a haggard look and his eye, as it caught that of the collector of statements, was dangerous. "Well?" said Trent, scowling murderously. Pillingshot's legs felt perfectly boneless. "Well?" said Trent. Pillingshot yammered. "Well?"
"Nothing like sticking to it." Pillingshot shuffled, then rose to a point of order. "I've been reading those Sherlock Holmes stories," he said, "and Sherlock Holmes always got a fee if he brought a thing off. I think I ought to, too." "Mercenary young brute." "It has been a beastly sweat." "Done you good. Supplied you with a serious interest in life.
Pillingshot sighed resignedly, and produced an envelope. From this he poured some dried mud. "Here, steady on with my table-cloth," said Scott. "What's this?" "Mud." "What about it?" "Where do you think it came from?" "How should I know? Road, I suppose." Pillingshot smiled faintly. "Eighteen different kinds of mud about here," he said patronisingly.
"Dunstable," said Mr. Day. "Yes, sir." "On second thoughts, it would be better if, instead of the Greek numerals ten times, you wrote me the first ode of the first book of Horace. The numerals would be a little long, perhaps." Life at St. Austin's was rendered somewhat hollow and burdensome for Pillingshot by the fact that he fagged for Scott. Not that Scott was the Beetle-Browed Bully in any way.
Far from it. He showed a kindly interest in Pillingshot's welfare, and sometimes even did his Latin verses for him. But the noblest natures have flaws, and Scott's was no exception. He was by way of being a humorist, and Pillingshot, with his rather serious outlook on life, was puzzled and inconvenienced by this.
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