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Updated: June 14, 2025
The handle turned, and the light of a candle flashed into the room, to be extinguished instantly as the draught of the moving door caught it. Shoeblossom heard his visitor utter an exclamation of annoyance, and fumble in his pocket for matches. He recognised the voice. It was Mr Seymour's.
We'll get our thirty points without that. Perhaps you'd like to scratch?" "As a matter of fact," said Clowes confidentially, "I am going to score seven tries against you off my own bat. You'll be sorry you ever turned out when we've finished with you." Shoeblossom sat disconsolately on the table in the senior day-room. He was not happy in exile.
In brief, he was attending J. G. for chicken-pox. Shoeblossom came away, entering the High Street furtively, lest Authority should see him out of bounds, and returned to the school, where he went about his lawful occasions as if there were no such thing as chicken-pox in the world. But all the while the microbe was getting in some unostentatious but clever work.
There must be something he could do to show that he regarded the situation with approval. He looked round the study. Ha! Happy thought the frying-pan. That useful culinary instrument was lying in the fender, still bearing its cargo of fat, and beside it a sight to stir the blood and make the heart beat faster were the sausages, piled up on their plate. Shoeblossom stooped.
"What about him?" "Why, he tried to start a rival show. Wrote a prospectus and everything. But it didn't catch on a bit. The only chap who bought any of his lines was young Shoeblossom. He wanted a couple of hundred for Appleby. Appleby was on to them like bricks. Spotted Shoeblossom hadn't written them, and asked who had. He wouldn't say, so he got them doubled.
Milton told him the story of Shoeblossom, as Barry had told it to him. The only difference was that Trevor listened without any of the scepticism which Milton had displayed on hearing it. He was getting excited. It all fitted in so neatly. If ever there was circumstantial evidence against a man, here it was against Rand-Brown. Take the two cases. Milton had quarrelled with him.
The silence was broken by a hollow, sepulchral voice with a strong Cockney accent. "Did yer see any water come down then, sir?" said the voice. Shoeblossom collapsed into a chair, and began to sob feebly.
Its indignant hiss had scarcely died away when Mr Seymour appeared at the door. It had occurred to Mr Seymour that he had smelt something very much out of the ordinary in Shoeblossom's study, a smell uncommonly like that of hot tin. And a suspicion dawned on him that Shoeblossom had been in there with a dark lantern. He had come to the dormitory to confirm his suspicions.
"Well, you see, the night it was ragged I was sitting in my study with a dark lantern " "What!" Shoeblossom proceeded to relate the moving narrative of his night-walking adventure. He dwelt movingly on his state of mind when standing behind the door, waiting for Mr Seymour to come in and find him. He related with appropriate force the hair-raising episode of the weird white figure.
The League ought to have a word to say about the business. It'll be a facer for them." "Do you remember," asked Trevor, "saying that you thought it must be Rand-Brown who wrote those letters?" "Yes. Well?" "Well, Milton had an idea that it was Rand-Brown who ragged his study." "What made him think that?" Trevor related the Shoeblossom incident. Clowes became quite excited.
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