Anthony Buckeridge

Thats

JENNINGSOUVRAGE NON TRADUIT EN FRANAISVERSION ORIGINALE

MACMILLAN

CHILDRENBOKS1994Anthony Buckeridge

Thats

JENNINGS

"Trust Jennings and Darbishire to make a dogs dinner of it," grumbled Venables.

Nothing's going right for Jennings First of all there's/his brilliant plan to soften up poor Mr Wilkins by giving him a pot plant and a get-well card. How could Jennings have known that the lily was a bunch of rhubarb or that the card was rather insulting?

But that's nothing like the trouble Jennings and Darbishire get into when they start searching for buried treasure . ..

The twenty-fourth book in the classic Jennings series - some of the funniest school stories ever written.

ContentsChapter1. Softening Up Old Wilkie

72 . Plant in a Pot

153 . Badger-Snatcher?

274 . Close Secret

365 . Bird of Ill-Omen

456 . Change in the Weather

587 . Plan of Campaign

688 . The Runner

749 . Hide-and-Seek

8210 . The Hole in the Ground

9211 . Old Boys' Reunion

10312 . Curtain Down

114For the Leeds section of The Old Boys' Book ClubAUTHOR'S NOTEEach of the Jennings books is a story complete in itself. Apart from the first title, Jennings Goes to School, the books can be read in any order.Anthony BuckeridgeChapter 1Softening Up Old Wilkie

It was seldom, if ever, that Mr Wilkins of Linbury Court School arrived late for his maths lesson with Form Three on Wednesday mornings.Indeed, he usually arrived early and would spend the time of waiting in fidgeting with his lesson notes and toe-tapping with impatience as the class sauntered in from the playground, hoping to delay the start of the lesson with unlikely excuses about lost pencil sharpeners, missing text books and ballpoint pens that had vanished from no known cause.Mr Wilkins was used to this and would seek to impose order on his chattering flock by booming out orders and threats at the top of his powerful voice."Come along, come along, come along!" he would bellow in the tones of a drill sergeant instructing a squad of awkward recruits. "We've got work to do this lesson and I'm not going to waste time waiting for silly littleboys who've forgotten to bring their geometry sets." And when silence prevailed he would reduce the volume of his loud-hailer of a voice and say in gentler tones: "Right! Now, perhaps, we can get on with the lesson."But on this Wednesday morning the usual pattern was altered and Mr Wilkins was absent when the class trooped in after break. That being so, the hubbub lasted longer than usual, but eventually the boys quietened down and sat awaiting the master's arrival."What's gone wrong?" queried Venables, an untidy eleven-year-old with untucked shirt and trailing shoelaces. "Old Wilkie running behind schedule? Never been known before!"Temple, a sturdy, broad-shouldered boy, did his best to imitate the crackling sound of a station loud-speaker, and squawked: "Attention, please! Here is a special announcement. We apologise to customers for the late arrival of Mr L. P. Wilkins due in Classroom Three at eleven-oh-five GMT. He has either run off the rails or got lost in the fog.""Let's hope he stays lost," said the excitable, fair-haired Atkinson. "With any luck we'll get a free period. It couldn't have happened at a better time. He was going to give us another maths test this lesson, don't forget."Shudders of mock horror spread round the room at this chilling reminder. For the last maths test had been a searching examination of the previous month's work: the results were disastrous and Mr Wilkins had threatened woeful punishments and everlasting detention to those who failed to make the grade next time. But was Mr Wilkins coming into class this morning, or wasn't he? It was a matter of some importance.At that moment the door was flung wide and Jennings, a lively eleven-year-old with a wide-awake look in his eyes, shot into the room as though ejected from a catapult."Hey, listen, you lot! Stop-press news-flash!" he cried excitedly. "Old Wilkie's not coming. He's ill. He's gone to bed."The news-flash was received with a mixture of hope, joy and disbelief. They had heard Jennings' special news-bulletins so many times in the past that they were wary of accepting them without question."How do you know?" demanded Venables. "I bet you just made it up.""No, I didn't. I heard it from Matron when I went up to the dispensary for my cough medicine. He's in bed and he's sent a message via me to Form Three to say we've got to go on revising for another test as soon as he comes back.""What's the matter with him?" asked Rumbelow."I don't know. Could be anything. Measles, Black Death, ingrowing chilblains - you name it, he's probably got it.""Ah, but how long is he going to stay ill?" pondered Martin-Jones. "If he's coming back, say, next week we shan't be much better off.""Never mind next week. We've got a free period this morning, so we might as well enjoy it." Temple's light-hearted advice was generally approved and, heedless of Mr Wilkins' instructions to carry on revising their work, Form Three settled down to enjoy this unexpected break in the time-table.Martin-Jones and Rumbelow played noughts and crosses on the back cover of an exercise book: Venablesand Temple selected their All-World football team to play against Mars in the early years of the twenty-first century. Bromwich drew pictures of the bed-ridden Mr Wilkins on his writing-pad, depicting a large bottle of medicine on the bedside table and a pair of crutches beside the bed for when the invalid felt well enough to put a foot to the floor. Boys who could think of nothing better to do spent-the time flicking pellets of chewed-up paper from elastic bands at anyone within firing-range.Seated at the back of the room was Darbishire, fair-haired and bespectacled, a loyal follower of Jennings but as different in character from his friend as chalk from cheese. Whereas Jennings was impulsive, Darbishire was cautious; where Jennings was always willing to take the lead, Darbishire was never one to thrust himself forward. There were, indeed, many times when Darbishire's diffident nature shrank in alarm from Jennings' ill-fated plans to enliven the monotony of boarding-school routine.Darbishire had a lively imagination and spent many of his waking hours in a fantasy world in which he pictured himself as the hero of improbable exploits from which, in the real world, he would have scurried away like a startled rabbit.Now, he was sitting quietly in his desk trying to dodge the pellets of chewed-up paper flying about his ears and wondering whether in imagination he would prefer to be competing in a trans-Atlantic yacht race or conducting an opera at Glyndebourne. He decided on the yacht race.Just then, Jennings sidled into the seat beside him."Hey, Darbi, it's really lucky that Matron gave me that message from Old Wilkie," he said. "We shouldn't have known he was still going to give us the test, otherwise."He glanced round the room, noting the carefree demeanour of the noughts-and-crossers, the scribblers, the football team selectors and the flickers of chewed-up pellets. "It's all very well for these blokes to spend the lesson fooling about, but they won't half be up a gum-tree when Old Wilkie comes back."Darbishire nodded in agreement. Abandoning his dream world, he handed over the tiller to a fellow-yachtsman and came down to earth. "You've got a point there, Jen," he said. "Considering he's giving us all this time for revision, he'll expect us to get about ninety per cent in this new test when he comes back." He sighed and shook his head. "Nobody on earth could possibly get ninety per cent in Old Wilkie's maths tests. Not even old Einstein.""Old who!" Jennings queried."Einstein. He was a famous mathematician and he invented something called the Theory of thingummy-what's-it.""Called what?"Darbishire gave a stir to his sluggish memory. "It was a thing called the Theory of Relativity."Jennings was out of his depth. "Relativity? You mean aunts and uncles and relatives like that?""No, not that sort of relativity - the other sort.""I didn't know there was another sort."Darbishire, too, was out of his depth, but he didn't want to admit it. He removed a stray paper pellet that had come to rest behind his ear and said: "Well, I just happened to be flicking through the encyclopaedia in the library the other day and there was this article about relativity. I didn't read it because I couldn't understand it, but it said it was terribly important and that old Einsteinhad solved the problem and the answer was E = me2."Jennings looked even blanker than before. "But what on earth does it mean?"Darbishire shrugged. "Oh, I don't know what it means. It's just the answer to the problem.""What problem?""Einstein's Theory of thingummy-what's-it. I bet there's not many people who know that."Jennings snorted. "You're crazy! What's all this got to do with Old Wilkie's maths test?""It's obvious," Darbishire replied solemnly. "Suppose, say, for instance, Old Wilkie said: 'What is the answer to old Einstein's theory?', you'd just put E = me2 and you'd get a hundred per cent, top marks."This was getting them nowhere, Jennings decided. A far better way of keeping on good terms with Mr Wilkins would be to offer him their sympathy on the state of his health."We could send him a get-well card signed by everybody in the form saying how much we miss him and we hope he gets better soon.""That's stretching it a bit," Darbishire pointed out. "The longer he stays ill, the better.""Yes, but we couldn't put that on a greetings card, whatever we think," Jennings argued. "But if we gave him a bunch of flowers or a pot plant or something as well, it'd put us in his good books when he comes back."Darbishire sniffed. "I shouldn't think Old Wilkie has got any good books, if you ask me."Jennings stood up and thumped the desk to attract attention."Hey, shut up and listen, you cloth-eared lot, hebegan. "Darbi and I have worked out a plan to soften up Old Sir. We're going to send him a get-well card and a plant in a pot. All contributions to be handed to the Hon Sec, C. E. J. Darbishire, by tomorrow."The announcement was received with mixed feelings.Atkinson said, "It'd need more than a flower-pot to soften up Old Wilkie - even if you biffed him over the head with it!""Yes, but it won't cost much," Venables pointed out. "We could all sign it and write messages on it, like, say, for instance, 'Thinking of you, lying in bed. Don't get up too soon!' ""Or how about, 'Have been revising for the test in all our spare time,' " suggested Martin-Jones, who had grown tired of noughts and crosses and was now drawing an elephant descending from an aircraft by parachute."I know what I'll put," said Darbishire. "I'll just write, E = me2. That'll show him I've been doing a lot of research and haven't been wasting my time."Jennings' plan was approved. It was agreed that, unlike most of Jennings' ideas, even if no good came of it, at least it could do no harm.With a minimum subscription of 20 pence per head (and nobody volunteered to pay more than the minimum) the sum of 3.40 from the seventeen boys of Form Three was pledged to the Mr Wilkins Get-Well-Card-plus-Pot-Plant Fund. Administrator, J. C. T. Jennings, Treasurer, C. E. J. Darbishire."I'll get permission from Mr Carter to go down to the village on Saturday," Jennings announced in Dormitory Four that evening. "I know they sell greetings cards, so they're bound to sell flower-pots to go with them.""I'd better come with you," said Darbishire. "After all, I'm in charge of the money - if everybody's paid up by then. If not, we'll have to borrow some from Mr Carter or one of the other masters.""Why not ask Old Wilkie?" Atkinson suggested. "He ought to be willing to fork out, seeing it's all being done for his benefit."There were groans of derision at this fatuous suggestion, and Venables said, "You're crazy! You can't expect Old Sir to fork out for his own get-well fund.""Maybe not," Atkinson conceded. "I was only thinking that we can't wait for late payers. If he comes back into school before we've given him his flower-pot, the whole scheme will be a wash-out."But all was well. The subscriptions had all tinkled into the treasurer's empty toffee tin by Saturday morning, and an inquiry to Matron revealed that the invalid had not yet regained his usual health and vigour. He hoped to be back on Monday morning.Chapter 2

Plant in a PotIt would be stretching the facts to describe the Linbury General Stores and Post Office as an up-to-date supermarket. True, it has a hand-operated bacon-slicer and a lukewarm freezer cabinet, but it lacks the electronic bar-code computers to be found in the shopping-mall in the market town of Dunhambury, some five miles to the west.Despite this, Linbury General Stores provides its rural customers with many items that might well be difficult to find in the well-heeled supermarkets of Dunhambury. One can buy paraffin by the pint, home-knitted bedsocks, corn-plasters, rat-traps, and a foul-smelling substance for treating liver-fluke in sheep. In addition, of course, it caters for the normal daily needs of its customers: there is a rack of highly coloured greetings cards just inside the door and a selection of pot plants displayed on a shelf at the back of the shop.It was these two last items that Jennings and Darbishirehad in mind when they arrived at the Stores on Saturday afternoon."We haven't got time to hang about; we've got to be back by tea-time," Jennings said as they made their way inside. "You stay here and choose a card and I'll go and have a look at the flower-pot department.""Yes, all right, only" Darbishire sounded worried. He had an important decision to make and was anxious to make the best possible choice."Only what! Jennings queried impatiently."Well, how shall I know which card to choose?"Jennings shrugged. "It doesn't matter much. It's only for Old Sir. Get any one you like."So saying, Jennings hurried off to the other end of the shop, leaving Darbishire uncertain where to start.There was a bewildering variety of cards on the racks, many of them unsuitable for the purpose they had in mind. He would have to inspect each one carefully if he was to make the right choice. It was nonsense for Jennings to say it didn't matter which. Of course it mattered! Mr Wilkins was entitled to a card expressing Form Three's fervent wish for his speedy recovery.Darbishire was soon spoilt for choice. There were cards showing Labrador dogs being patted by freckle-faced boys with fishing-rods (Good luck, Son!). There were cards with wedding bells (All the best for your future happiness/). Anniversary cards (Happy 80th Birthday, Grandad!), Get well cards (Thinking of you, always!). And then there were the comic cards where the joke started on the front cover and the punch-line appeared overleaf.Darbishire couldn't resist the jokey cards and spentsome time studying each one and gurgling with laughter at the so-called jokes.Meanwhile, Jennings was furrowing his brows over the selection of pot plants on display. Having no knowledge of horticulture, he, too, was spoilt for choice. Apart from the fact that some of the blooms were pink and some were white, all the plants looked very much the same to him.He was still frowning in thought when, from behind him, he heard a high-pitched, female voice complaining about the price of dog biscuits. Jennings knew that voice ... Miss Thorpe of Oaktree Cottage had a habit of speaking in the tones of an excitable parrot asking for a nut."Good afternoon, Miss Thorpe," he said politely."Hullo-ullo-ullo," trilled Miss Thorpe in reply, replacing the dog biscuits on the shelf and beaming a smile at Jennings. "What are you doing in the village? Why aren't you in school at this time in the afternoon?""It's Saturday," Jennings explained. "We're allowed out after lunch.""Yes, of course. Silly of me. I should have known."Miss Thorpe was a brisk, bird-like little lady who played a leading part in the social life of the community, organising car-boot sales and bullying the District Council into providing bottle banks and litter baskets for the village. Jennings and Darbishire knew her well, having been involved (sometimes with disastrous results) in several of her local activities."I've got to buy a plant and I don't know which one to have," Jennings explained. "I wonder if you'd help me."The request was unusual. "I didn't know you were keen on gardening," she replied."Oh, it's not for me," the boy hastened to assure her. "It's for Mr Wilkins, one of our masters. He's not very well and we want something to soften him up when he's better.""Soften him up?""Well, something to put him in a good mood. You see, we had a maths test and we all got low marks and he blew his top.""He blew what!"He got angry, and he's going to give us another one. So we thought if we give him a nice present when he comes into class he couldn't very well blast off his launching-pad, could he?"Miss Thorpe was shocked. To her way of thinking a gift of flowers to one who has been ill should be a gesture of kindly sympathy and not an insurance policy against possible wrath to come.However, she ran her eye over the plants on display, and said, "I shouldn't waste your money on any of these. Far too expensive.""But we've got to give him something'' Jennings persisted. "We all agreed. And Darbishire's choosing a greetings card to go with it."Miss Thorpe cocked her head on one side like a blue-tit inspecting a peanut. Then she said, "I've got the very thing in my garden - Connecticut King." Jennings looked blank. "Who?""It's a beautiful flower when it's in bloom. It's a lily: we planted a whole row and they're just about ready to be potted. You're welcome to have one for Mr - er - Mr Wilkins. I'm sure he'd be delighted.""Thanks very much," Jennings said. "Only we've gotto be back in school by five o'clock, so could we come and get it now, please?""No time like the present," she twittered. "I can't come with you, I'm afraid. I'm due at a meeting in the village hall in two minutes. But you can help yourself. Connecticut King lily - don't forget. You'll find them in the bed on the left-hand side of my barn. You can't miss them.""Yes, but" Jennings began, but Miss Thorpe, having already paid for her purchases, was now hurrying out of the shop with never a backward glance.Jennings was familiar with Oaktree Cottage with its little barn at the end of the garden. No doubt he could find the flower-bed on the left, but how could he identify the lily? (What was it called? Already he had forgotten its botanical name.) He must catch up with Miss Thorpe and ask for more detailed information.With this in mind he hurried back down the shop, only to find his way barred by Darbishire at the greetings-card display."I say, Jen, there's a frightfully funny joke on this one," Darbishire began, but Jennings cut him short."Can't stop! I've got to catch her up before she goes into her meeting.""Eh! Who? What? Which meeting?" queried Darbishire, who was not abreast of recent developments."Never mind all that. Just buy your card and follow me.""But I haven't decided which one to buy yet," Darbishire demurred. "I don't think the jokey ones would be any good for Old Sir," he went on, replacing the cards in his hand and picking up another batch, at random, "but there's one or two others I saw that might be""Oh, for goodness' sake!" Jennings broke in impatiently. "It doesn't matter which one - it's only for Old Wilkie. Just take any old card and follow me or we'll never catch up with her." So saying, Jennings rushed out of the shop in pursuit of his quarry, now hurrying towards the village hall.Darbishire, uncertain what to do, was left holding a handful of assorted cards. Flustered, and slightly bewildered, he crammed all but one of the cards back on to the rack and hurried off to make his purchase without so much as a glance at the card in his hand, which he thrust at the young lady at the check-out. As she took his money, she slipped the card into an envelope and handed it back.Darbishire muttered his thanks, pocketed his purchase and, forgetting to pick up his change, hurried from the shop to look for Jennings.At first there was no sign of him anywhere. Darbishire's bewilderment grew. Where had Jennings gone? Who was this person he was trying to catch? But then, a few moments later, his friend came into sight, trotting back from the direction of the village hall."It's no good. There's a meeting going on and they wouldn't let me in," he reported.Darbishire's fog of bewilderment grew denser. "What's happening? Who wouldn't let you in where?""The village hall. I was trying to catch up with Miss Thorpe.""What did you want her for? I thought you were going to buy a pot plant for""It's all changed," Jennings broke in. "She told me not to buy one because she's got some better ones in her garden and we can help ourselves, free of charge.""Oh, I see." Satisfied at last, Darbishire fell into step beside Jennings and they made their way to Oaktree Cottage on the outskirts of the village.Jennings stopped worrying about his ability to identify Miss Thorpe's Connecticut King lily. After all, it was only for Old Sir who probably didn't know much about lilies, anyway. Surely, any old lily would do!The boys reached Oaktree Cottage in a matter of minutes. Letting themselves in through the garden gate, they made their way to the flower-beds bedside the barn.Here the problem started!Row upon row of newly bedded plants met their eyes. All had leaves, some had buds but none were in flower. So which ones were the lilies? To Jennings' inexperienced eye they all looked alike and there was nothing to choose between them."We'll just have to guess and hope for the best," he said after an inspection of the flower-beds had yielded no inspiration. "Perhaps it's this row. They look like lilies don't they?""Yes, bound to be," said Darbishire who was anxious not to waste time, in case they should be late back for tea. "I reckon you should have bought one at the shop and hang the expense. At least you'd know if you'd got the right sort."Jennings ignored the criticism. He knelt and loosened the earth with his fingers around the root of what might well have been a Connecticut King lily and gingerly lifted the plant clear of the soil.Darbishire said with a sniff of disapproval, "You're crazy! You haven't even got a pot to put it in, so how are you going to get it home with all that mud and stuff round the roots?""I'll find something," Jennings muttered and set off round the garden in search of a suitable receptacle. But there were no flower-pots anywhere about, so he extended his search, ending up by the dustbin beside the back door.He lifted the dustbin lid. Inside, amongst an unsavoury collection of tea leaves, fish bones, egg shells and dog-food containers he found a cracked, unwashed glass jar. It would need washing, he thought, and he would have to scrape the label off, but the pot would suit his purpose for the time being.In triumph, he carried the receptacle back to the flower bed, filled it with earth and stuck the plant firmly into the soil."There you are, Darbi. How about that?" he said.Darbishire shrugged. "It's not what I'd choose to put anyone in a good mood, but it'll have to do for now. I dare say we'll find a better pot when we get back." He glanced at his watch and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Hey, it's nearly quarter to five. We should be back at school by now. Start running, for goodness' sake, or we'll be late for tea."Venables was waiting for Jennings and Darbishire when they arrived back at school shortly before the tea-bell."Slight change of plan. We'll have to fast-forward Old Sir's flower-pot," he greeted them as the two boys, breathless from running, panted into the common-room."Why, what's happened?""Old Wilkie's got better. He's come downstairs and gone into the staff-room. I saw him."This was a serious setback. From the information they had gleaned from Matron, they had assumed that Mr Wilkins would be coming back into school on Mondaymorning, bursting with rude health and all set to subject Form Three to a mind-boggling maths test.They had pictured the scene in their mind's eye: the entry of the hasty-tempered form master into the classroom, scowling with disapproval. As he was about to announce the dreaded maths test, his eye would alight upon a fragrant bloom blossoming in a pot upon his desk. Beside the plant would be a tasteful greetings card signed by his pupils welcoming him back and wishing him a happy return to his duties.At this point (still in their mind's eye) Mr Wilkins' stern expression would undergo a change. Sniffing the fragrant bloom and scanning the messages of goodwill, he would realise that he had misjudged these boys. They were not the lazy layabouts he had assumed them to be, but eager scholars seeking only to show their devotion to a much-loved form master. At once his furrowed brows would lose their frown and a smile of understanding would flicker at the corners of his mouth."I shall cancel the maths test," he would say in kindly tones. The softening-up of Old Wilkie would be complete.That had been the optimistic scenario of their imagination. But this new development had thrown a spanner into the well-oiled works of the planners."We can't wait till Monday to give it to him," Jennings argued. "It's got to be today, as soon as we see him, or the whole scheme will be a washout. You can't suddenly say 'Welcome back' when he's been back all over the weekend."Just then, Atkinson poked his head round the door with an up-dated news-bulletin."Old Wilkie's on tea duty," he announced. "Mr Cartersaid he's coming in to take tea today because he missed his duty when he was ill."By now, the bell for tea had gone. If Mr Wilkins was to be given his presentation plant in the dining-hall, there wasn't a moment to lose."We'll take it into tea with us and let him have it right away," Jennings decided."But what about his get-well card?" squawked Darbishire, waving the envelope aloft like a distress signal. "We've got to have it signed by everybody with little cheerful messages.""No time for that now." Jennings snatched the envelope from Darbishire, borrowed a ballpoint pen from Venables and wrote on the front: To Mr Wilkins with best wishes from everybody in Form Three.The rest of the school had already made their way into the dining-hall and were awaiting the arrival of the master on duty. In haste the presentation party hurried in behind them.A worrying doubt crossed Darbishire's mind as he stood by his place at the Form Three table. He had been holding a whole fistful of greetings cards when Jennings had cut short his leisurely choice. So which one had he actually bought? For the life of him he couldn't remember.A moment later Mr Wilkins arrived to supervise the meal. When grace had been said and the boys were seated, Jennings rose and made his way to the top table. Placing his offerings of plant and envelope before the master, he said, "These are for you, sir," and made his way back to the Third Form table.Mr Wilkins, though a kind-hearted man in many ways, could never understand the way in which boys' mindsappeared to work. The things boys said and the things boys did seemed wildly idiotic to his way of thinking. He was, moreover, suspicious of their motives and was always on the lookout for boys trying to take advantage of him or make him the butt of some practical joke. Mr Wilkins did not like practical jokes. Anything in the nature of a leg-pull aroused his instant wrath.He inspected the gift that Jennings had placed before him and his brows narrowed in suspicion. In an unwashed pot with a soiled and sticky label marked O-So-Tastee Peanut Butter was a rhubarb plant. Mr Wilkins abominated peanut butter and couldn't abide rhubarb, even when cooked. He was baffled. What did it mean?There was an envelope beside the pot: it was inscribed, To Mr Wilkins with best wishes from everybody in Form Three. Warily he opened the envelope and took out a crudely coloured picture of a white-whiskered octogenarian. The message read, Happy 80th Birthday, Grandad!So it was a leg-pull! And a most impertinent leg-pull, at that! Very well, then! He would show them that he was not the sort of man to be trifled with. This was a practical joke that would back-fire in the faces of the perpetrators.Mr Wilkins thrust the offerings aside and said nothing, during the meal or afterwards.But on Monday when he arrived in the classroom with the offensive card in his hand, his mood was not friendly.He said, "I had intended to - er - celebrate my return into school by postponing the maths test until later in the term and devoting this lesson to reading you a most interesting and gripping account of a polar expedition by a famous explorer. However, it appears that you consider my efforts to improve your minds are worth no more thana stick of rhubarb in an evil-smelling pot of peanut butter, to say nothing of this most insulting card with a derogatory reference to my age. That being so, I shall cancel the polar expedition and we shall have the maths test instead. Venables, give out the question papers."So much for the plan to soften up Old Wilkie! Jennings sighed in sorrow as he ran his eye over the brain-baffling maths questions. It wasn't his fault: how could he have been expected to know the difference between a Connecticut King lily and a sprout of early rhubarb?At the desk beside him, Darbishire frowned in despair at the mind-boggling problems. Even old Einstein would have had a job to get the right answers to this lot, he thought. E = me2 wasn't going to be much help at a time like this!Chapter 3Badger-Snatcher?Everyone agreed that the plan to cheer up Mr Wilkins' return to school had been a disaster. And everyone agreed whose fault it was."Nobody except a shrimp-wilted clodpoll like Jennings would have thought up such a bat-witted scheme," Venables grumbled as the class dispersed at the end of the maths test. "Trust Jennings and Darbishire to make a dog's dinner of it.""You said it was a good idea when I suggested it," Jennings defended himself. "Anyway, it's not my fault if Miss Thorpe doesn't label her plants properly. How was I to know it was rhubarb?""Pity she didn't put custard on it," said Martin-Jones. "That might have given you a clue.""Yes, and what about our contributions?" queried Bromwich. "Old Darbi seems to fancy himself as a big spender, chucking all that money away like that."Darbishire scowled and said, "I didn't chuck it away. I just forgot to pick up the change. I was flustered, you see, trying to catch up with Jennings and I didn't know I'd got the card with the old geezer on it."Rum below stooped and picked up the greetings card, torn in two and thrown into the waste-paper basket by Mr Wilkins at the end of the lesson in a gesture of disgust. "You can see Old Wilkie's point, though," he argued. "We know he's pretty ancient, but I doubt if he's an octo - er - octo - what's the word?""Octopus?" suggested Atkinson."Octogenarian," corrected Venables with a superior smile.The culprits' reputation remained at a low ebb, and days later, when the boys were allowed out by themselves, nobody sought out Jennings or Darbishire as companions for their compulsory Sunday afternoon walk.Apart from the lowest form in the school, who were accompanied by a master, all boys in groups of two or three or more were required each Sunday to follow the footpath across Arrowsmith's farm to the tracks leading up to the South Downs. Having ambled around amongst the gorse bushes for an hour or so they would then retrace their footsteps and report their safe return to school to the master on duty. In the opinion of the boys the compulsory walk was a somewhat boring form of exercise and something to be avoided, if possible.There was, indeed, a ruse for evading the official walk by taking an illegal short cut. The plan was to set off down the drive as far as the front gate. At this particular point the scheming walkers were shielded from the duty master's line of vision by a tree. So, by crouching down andturning sharp left they could follow the line of the wall from the front gate round past the playing field and slip in unobserved through the back gate at the furthest end of the school grounds. Here was a coppice of wood and marshland which was out of bounds on Sunday afternoons. They could then spend an hour exploring old, disused badger setts or counting frogs around the squelchy marsh beside the muddy pond. When these occupations palled, they could always fall back on the time-honoured custom of stuffing handfuls of grass down their companions' necks. It wasn't perhaps very exciting but it held the thrill of breaking school rules with a fair chance of not being caught.This plan, however, was never followed when Mr Carter was on duty. Mr Carter was a friendly, popular master who, unlike his colleague Mr Wilkins, had a deep understanding of the way in which youthful minds appeared to work. He was a man whom the boys could turn to with their troubles and could always be relied upon to listen to their problems with a sympathetic ear.There was just one snag about Mr Carter in the opinion of the boys whom he taught: he knew too much. However carefully a youthful lawbreaker sought to cover his tracks, Mr Carter always found out in the end."I don't much feel like going for the walk," Jennings said to Darbishire after Sunday lunch. "How would it be if we foxed round by the wall and looked for frogs down by the pond?""It depends who's on duty," Darbishire demurred. "We couldn't risk it if it's Mr Carter's turn.""It isn't. Mr Hinde's on this afternoon.""Oh, that's not so bad, then," Darbishire agreed. ForMr Hinde, the music teacher, was a tall, thin young man, so laid-back and dreamy in character that he was unlikely to notice if anyone was breaking the rules.So, their minds made up, Jennings and Darbishire followed the crowd of boys down the drive to the front gate, dawdling behind the others to allow the main stream of walkers to reach the footpath across Arrowsmith's farm.Then, with a quick glance behind them to make sure that Mr Hinde was not watching, they left the cover of the sheltering tree and began their stealthy journey, following the low wall along the lane to the back gate. This was a distance of about two hundred yards and anyone walking upright would be an easily spotted target for the duty master on the higher level of the playground. Indeed, the wall was only waist-high for most of its length and at one spot the stonework had collapsed and offered no shelter at all."Keep low and keep your head down," Jennings urged. "We'll be safe enough if Hinde stays put and doesn't go wandering around."They looked an ungainly pair of Sunday afternoon pleasure-seekers as they hobbled along in a squatting posture with knees bent, shoulders hunched, and heads sunk on their chests in their efforts to keep below the level of the wall.Quite soon they reached the spot where the wall had collapsed, leaving a ten-yard gap with no cover for any creature taller than a rabbit. Here they stopped, weighing up their chances."I'm going to make a dash for it," Jennings decided, after a glance at the playground showed that Mr Hinde was not looking in their direction. So saying, he crossedthe gap with a hop. skip and a jump and then crouched down where the wall could again offer him some protection. He looked back and waved to Darbishire to follow his example.But Darbishire was no athlete. Rather than attempt to cross the gap at a bound, he sank down and began crawling across the open space on hands and knees with his chin two inches from the ground. He was dragging his feet and halfway across one of his shoes came off: he didn't dare to kneel upright to replace it, but managed to reach it with his stockinged foot and drag it behind him in a series of little pushes and kicks.In this way he reached the safety of the wall on the other side of the gap, just as Miss Thorpe pedalled into view on her bicycle, heading for Oaktree Cottage.She was so unnerved by the sight of the crawling Darbishire that she wobbled unsteadily and had to dismount to save herself from falling."What on earth are you boys doing?" she demanded.Jennings gave her a disarming smile. "We're going for our Sunday afternoon walk.""What! On all fours?""Well, not as a rule, of course, but we wanted to explore behind the pond and it's out of bounds on Sundays.""Oh, well! It's none of my business, I suppose."She mounted her bicycle and rode away, shaking her head at the antics of the rising generation.From the gap in the wall to the back gate the going was easier. Darbishire put on his shoe and, still crouching but safe from observation, they reached the rear entrance to the school grounds. There was a car parked nearby, but they paid it no attention.For a while they amused themselves playing hide-and-seek in and out of the bushes. When they grew tired of this they followed a line of mole hills, hoping, unsuccessfully, to see a pile of earth heaving up above ground level."It's a puzzling thing about moles," Darbishire said after a while. "They make all these mounds and yet, however long you look, you never seem to see one of them coming up.""That's because you're watching," Jennings replied as he examined a freshly turned patch of earth. "The moles know you're there. They can hear you moving about so they stop digging. Let's keep absolutely still and see if anything happens."What happened had nothing to do with moles. Instead, they heard the crunching of undergrowth and the figure of a tall, elderly man passed across their line of vision some distance ahead. He had picked up a dead branch and was poking the ground around his feet as he walked. The man was so engrossed in his poking that he had neither seen nor heard the boys behind him.Jennings and Darbishire exchanged puzzled glances."Who's that?" Darbishire queried."No idea. He's nobody from school. I've never seen him before," Jennings replied. "Anyway, he's trespassing: the school grounds are private property.""So what? He's not doing any harm just wandering about.""Maybe not, but why is he poking about with that branch?""Looking for conkers? Planting acorns? Searching for buried treasure?" Darbishire hazarded.Jennings whispered, "Keep quiet and keep still."Together they knelt behind a thicket of brambles where they could watch the antics of the stranger unobserved. It was a good place to hide: the little wood at the far end of the playing-field had always been known as a harbour for many forms of wild-life.As well as the pond with its tadpoles, frogs and moorhens there were rabbit warrens, fox-holes and badger setts, some in constant use, others occupied from time to time and then deserted.For some years now there had been no sign of badger activity, though several large holes in the sandy soil showed where setts had been occupied in times past.As the boys watched, the elderly man could be seen thrusting his makeshift pole into a badger hole and then moving on to repeat the action at an adjoining sett.Suddenly, Jennings gripped Darbishire's arm and whispered, "I've got it! He's a badger-snatcher."Darbishire looked blank. "A what!""Ssh! Keep your voice down. He's examining the holes to see if there are any badgers down there.""Why?""To catch them, of course - for badger-baiting."A gasp of outrage and disbelief came from Darbishire. "He can't do that! It's illegal.""Yes, of course. And terribly cruel, but it goes on all the same. They catch badgers and set dogs on to fight them.""What are we going to do, then? How can we stop him?"Jennings frowned in silence for some moments as he grappled with the problem. Then, speaking in a whisper, he said, "Well, he's not going to catch any badgers just by poking a stick down the holes. If he thinks that, he's

crazy. There aren't any badgers round here, anyway, so I'd say he's just looking around. If he thought that the sett was still being used he could come back at night with dogs and nets and things."It was a relief to think that the threat to any badger's safety was not a matter of urgency. There was time to do something - but what?Their first idea was to hurry back to school and ask one of the masters to telephone the police. But on second thoughts they realised that, at this stage, there was little that the police could do."He'd deny it," Jennings pointed out. "He'd just say he was strolling about and nobody could prove he was prospecting for badgers.""They could give him a warning. That'd probably frighten him off," Darbishire argued. "After all, he's behaving suspiciously on private property."This was clearly the case. They would report their suspicions to the master on duty and urge him to take immediate action before the suspect had left the scene of the crime.With this in mind the boys rose and began their stealthy retreat towards the playing-field and the school buildings beyond. Keeping a wary eye on the suspect, some thirty yards away, they moved as silently as they could through the bushes.They had gone merely the length of a cricket pitch when Darbishire caught his foot in a bramble and fell to earth with a bump that must have been audible to the suspected badger-snatcher.The man looked round and caught sight of the boys as they vainly tried to conceal themselves behind a blackberry bush."Hi! Hullo there!" the man called, waving his branch to and fro like a metronome to attract their attention. "Stop a minute! I'd like a word with you, if I may."Chapter 4

Close Secret

The stranger's summons halted the boys in their tracks, and for a moment they stood still, uncertain what to do. Should they make a dash for it or answer the man's greeting? But there was no time to think out their next move, for now the man was making his way towards them and was already only a few yards from where the boys were standing.He was a large, well-built man in his sixties with grey hair and a bristly moustache. He was casually dressed in corduroy trousers and a rather shabby tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows.His voice had sounded friendly and he was smiling as he tramped through the rough grass to join them."Hullo!" he said again. "Nice to find someone about."Jennings' suspicions were partly allayed by the friendly tone, but the next moment they came flooding back. Thefriendly tone could be a confidence trick: the stranger would be bound to adopt an air of innocence, knowing that his furtive behaviour had been observed.Jennings looked him in the eye. "You're trespassing. This is private property."The man nodded affably. "That's right. Linbury Court School, and I suppose you wonder what I'm doing here.""We know what you're doing. You're a badger-snatcher."The man looked puzzled. "A whafl""A badger-snatcher. And we're going to report you to the police."The man's bewilderment increased. "Do you mind explaining?""We saw you poking a stick down badger setts. We thought you might be going to"Jennings broke off, his words drowned by a bellow of laughter."Me! Trapping badgers! In daylight?" The laughter broke out again and the boys stood staring at the man in doubtful uncertainty."Perhaps I'd better introduce myself," the man went on when his laughter had run its course. "My name's MacTaggart, first name Tim, but you can call me Mac -everybody does. Although when I was at school here my friends called me 'Jumbo' because they said my ears stuck out." He paused, aware that the boys were watching him closely. "Pure slander, of course: my ears didn't stick out - well, maybe they did, but I reckon I've grown into them since then."Jennings said, "You mean you're an Old Boy of Linbury Court?"

"That's right - about fifty years ago. 1 haven't been round this part of the country for years; but I happened to be driving past this afternoon on my way to Kent, and there was the old wooded patch at the end of the playing-field looking just as it always used to." He shook his head nostalgically. "It brought back an old memory that I haven't given a thought to for half a century. So I thought I'd go and have a look."This sounded believable and Darbishire 'said, "But what were you doing poking about with that stick?""I was looking for buried treasure."The boys exchanged glances. Obviously the man was joking. Noting their puzzled expressions, Tim MacTaggart said, "I'll tell you about it, if you've got ten minutes to spare."He sat down on a tree stump and brushed the sandy soil from his hands."It happened when I was about your age - ten or eleven," he began. "I shared a desk with a chap the same age as me - a fellow called Merridew."The name rang a bell in Darbishire's brain. "Not General Merridew?" he queried."Well, he wasn't a general then. Just an inky-fingered third-former. I haven't seen him since I left school, but I remember he was always saying he wanted to be a soldier. Not a bit like me. I'm a man of peace." Mac paused and scratched his nose thoughtfully. "How come you know old Merridew? Does he come back to visit his old school?""Oh yes, he's a very famous Old Linburian," Darbishire replied. "He comes back every year to give the prizes away, and he makes the same speech every time.""Sounds like old Merridew. Always talked a lot but it wasn't worth listening to, as a rule."Jennings giggled, remembering, an occurrence of a previous term. "We locked the General in the library once, by mistake," he said. "We thought he was someone else.""Why? Did he look like someone else?""Oh, no! But we were playing a chasing game with Venables and Temple and""Never mind about that now," Darbishire broke in impatiently. "I want to hear about the buried treasure.""Ah, yes! Well, old Merridew - or perhaps I should say young Merridew - wasn't a particular friend of mine, but as we were the same age and in the same form we got thrown together quite a bit. I remember we called him 'Mildew' - a pretty obvious nick-name, I suppose."Anyway, we'd been learning in class about some archaeologists who had unearthed the remains of some Saxon village about a thousand years old. They didn't find any treasure like coins or precious metals, but what really interested the archaeologists were the everyday objects like tools and weapons and cooking-pots which told them a lot about what life had been like for the people of the village."Mac paused and smiled as his mind travelled back to the classroom of fifty years before where he had sat arguing with young Merridew about whether the remains of a tenth-century cooking-pot was a more worthwhile discovery than a bag of gold."A few days later, Mildew and I decided to bury our own secret treasure chest," Mac went on. "Something for somebody to discover in a thousand years and find out what it had been like being at boarding-school in the twentieth century."We found a large tin box in the basement and started collecting a hoard of very ordinary things. Junk, mostly the bits and pieces we used every day which would tell their own story.""Didn't anyone else know what you were doing?" Jennings asked."No, we kept it a closely guarded secret, young Mildew and me. It took us some weeks to collect all our treasure. And then, one night after lights-out, we foxed out with the old tin box and buried it down a deserted badger hole."Mac's eyes sparkled with mischief as he recalled the scene in his mind. "The last thing I popped in just before we screwed the lid down was a currant bun that I'd saved from tea. Our school buns were always a bit stale, and I remember Merridew wondering whether it could possibly get any staler in the next thousand years.""A thousand years isn't up yet," said Jennings. "Only about fifty.""You're right," Mac agreed, "and maybe I'm breaking the secret pact in looking for our treasure: but, when you're a youngster of eleven, what's the difference between fifty years and a thousand? They both seem so far ahead that you hardly distinguish between them.""But where's the treasure?" Darbishire demanded.Mac shrugged. "I can't find it.""Why not? Don't you remember where you buried it?""No, not exactly. Not after all these years," Mac said, shaking his head. "It was all clear enough at the time. So many paces east of some oak tree and so many paces north from some other tree. We drew a plan, but that got lost a long time ago. Everything's grown up into a wilderness since then, and I've only a hazy idea where to look." He pulled a face and spread out his hands. "It's about somewhere round here, but don't ask me where."There was a short silence. Then Jennings said, "Were you going to open it, if you'd found it?""I don't know. Possibly. I hadn't really thought about it. Just wanted to know if the old box was still there. Curiosity, really."Mr MacTaggart got to his feet. "Well, I'll be on my way, then. Glad to have met you." He nodded to the boys and began making his way towards the lane where his car was parked. At the gate, he turned and called back, "If you can find the old trunk, good luck to you! You'll find out what it was like here fifty years ago. Probably not all that different from what it's like today."Mr MacTaggart's car was barely out of sight before Jennings and Darbishire took on the role of treasure-seekers."We're bound to find it if we go over all this jungly-patch, inch by inch," Jennings reasoned. "And then we'll write and tell him where we found it.""How can we write and tell him? We never asked where he lives."Jennings shrugged. "We'll manage somehow. Let's find the old tin box first. It may take us some time, what with all this undergrowth and overgrowth. Anyway, it's too late to start now."He glanced at his watch. It was later than he'd thought. Most of the other boys would already have got back to school, so there was no time to return by the way they had come. It would be better to risk carrying on across the playing-fields and hope that their late return would pass unnoticed.This they did; unaware that their stealthy approach was observed from the library window. However, Mr Hinde marked them off on his list without comment; after which they made their way down to the tuck-box room in the basement where there was a fair chance of being able to talk without being disturbed.Perched on a tuck-box, Jennings said, "I vote we form a secret club -just you and me. We won't let anyone know what we're doing until we've found the - er - the" He broke off and scratched his nose thoughtfully. "Well, you can't really call it a proper treasure chest, can you? Just someone's old football boots and Latin text books and things. Not like pieces of eight and precious jewels and stuff.""Ah, but it's real history, don't forget - a time-capsule and that's even better," Darbishire argued. "Besides, pieces of eight might not be so valuable as they used to be."Pieces of eight? He remembered the expression cropping up in Stevenson's Treasure Island, but he'd never bothered to think how much the old Spanish coin had been worth. In his mind's eye he saw himself asking the lady at the Linbury Stores check-out how many bars of chocolate he could buy for a piece of eight. Aloud, he said, "And even if they did accept them, how would you know if you were getting the right change?"Jennings was unable to follow his friend's mental gymnastics. "What are you talking about? Even if who did accept what?" he demanded."I was just wondering whether they'd take pieces of eight at the village stores when we went in to buy sweets.""But there won't be any pieces of eight, you crumbling clodpoll," Jennings retorted. "It's not that sort of treasure."

"No, I know, only - I couldn't help thinking" Darbishire broke off, trying to work out the value of a chest full of pirate gold measured against a time-capsule of outgrown football boots and out-of-date Latin books. But there was no point in pursuing this flight of fancy. Mr MacTaggart had buried the wrong sort of treasure. Even so, the discovery would be well worth-while and really exciting."Wake up and listen," Jennings said, scattering his friend's idle thoughts. "We're wasting time. First we've got to plan how to find the treasure - only secretly, of course. Then, hey presto, we announce ye famous discovery. We'll put it on show and have an exhibition of Linbury Court School in olden times.""Fifty years isn't all that olden," Darbishire demurred. "Not like a thousand.""But we can't wait a thousand, you clodpoll. We shan't be here by then. And neither will the treasure: it'll have rotted away - probably has done already, if it wasn't sealed down properly."- Really, old Darbi could be as thick as two planks when he was in his day-dreaming mood, Jennings reflected. He switched the discussion back to more practical details.The setting up of the secret club was their first objective. There would have to be a chairman (J. C. T. Jennings) and a secretary (C. E. J. Darbishire). The voting for these officials resulted in a tie (each candidate having voted for himself) but Jennings, having the more dominant personality, managed to swing the result in his own favour.The secretary sighed. "It's always the same; I always get the dogsbody sort of jobs," he lamented."Nonsense! The Hon Sec is terribly important," the

chairman consoled him. "Everything's got to be written down and recorded. Have you got your diary on you?"Darbishire produced the slim volume from his pocket."OK. That'll do until you've got a proper book to write down the discoveries and things. Just put 7. and D. start secret society for the discovery of- of" Jennings paused. "Better not say what it's for in writing in case the secret leaks out."The bell for tea was ringing as Darbishire made the entry in his diary and the two boys abandoned their meeting and headed for the dining-hall with its usual Sunday tea-time offering of oily pilchards, beetroot and desiccated lettuce.Venables, paying a quick visit to his tuck-box to fetch a pot of his mother's home-made jam, found Darbishire's diary on the window sill.Normally, he wouldn't have given it a second glance but, wondering to whom it belonged, he opened it and noticed the latest entry."H'm! Secret society, eh?" he said to himself as he made his way up to the dining-hall. "We'll soon see about that!"Chapter 5Bird of Ill-OmenIt was only Sundays that the far end of the grounds was out of bounds: and this was only because Mr Pemberton-Oakes, the headmaster, insisted on all boys exercising their legs (and possibly admiring the scenery) by going for a walk beyond the confines of the school precincts. At other times, permission to explore the coppice would always be granted by the duty master if some reason was put forward for the visit."I vote we get permish from Mr Carter to go down after prep one evening," Jennings suggested to Darbishire when tea was over. "That'll give us an hour before the dorm bell. And if he wants to know why, we can say we want to - er" He searched his mind for a plausible reason. "We can say we want to collect wild flowers and rare plants and stuff.""Huh! Rare plants!" Darbishire hooted in derision. "Hark who's talking! You don't even know a lily from a stick of rhubarb."Jennings ignored the criticism. "OK, then, how about bird-watching? We can say we want to start a secret society to study bird-life. That'll put everybody off the scent.""Sounds a bit feeble to me. How can you have secret birds?""No, you clodpoll, the birds aren't secret - they're just to disguise what we're really doing if people start asking questions.""Yes, but I still don't see""Oh, for goodness' sake, Darbi! .You're as beetle-headed as a cockroach! Just put in your diary" Jennings broke off as a look of alarm passed over Darbishire's features and he began feverishly searching through his pockets."Oh my goodness! Fossilised fish-hooks - it's not here.""What isn't?""My diary. I had it before tea. I must have left it in the tuck-box room.""Well, don't just stand there making speeches," Jennings ordered. "Go and get it before anybody finds it."But it was too late: the diary had gone and the dormitory bell was ringing before Darbishire gave up his search.The next morning Venables pranced up to Darbishire on the playground during break. "Have you lost anything?" he asked.Darbishire's hopes rose. "Yes, my diary. D'you know where it is?"By way of reply Venables produced the slim booklet from his pocket and dangled it before its owner."Coo, thanks. I've been looking everywhere." Darbishire held out his hand, but Venables backed away out of arm's reach and said, "What's the reward?"Darbishire considered. "I'll give you a bit of my fruit cake.""How big a bit?""Well, say, three inches long and half an inch thick."The finder was not satisfied. "You can forget your stale old fruit cake," he said. "If you want your diary back you can tell me what this secret society of yours is all about."Darbishire was outraged. "You read my diary? You'd no right to do that! Diaries are private and confidential.""You shouldn't have left it about, then. I had to look inside to see who it belonged to."So much was obvious! "OK, then. Thanks very much, but I want it back, please.""On one condition," said Venables, waving the little book in the air. "What does this secret society do?""I can't tell you. Only members are allowed to know.""Can I be a member, then? You won't get your diary back, otherwise."Darbishire knitted his brows in thought. As Jennings had suggested, they could make known their enthusiasm for bird-watching to hide their real objective of finding the time-capsule. Indeed, the more they spread this idea, the better it would serve their purpose. There would be no harm in accepting a member who had a somewhat mistaken idea about the aims of the club. No security risk there, surely!"Well, all right, then, but I'll have to tell Jennings, of course," Darbishire said as he pocketed his lost property. "I'll put you down as a member.""Yes, but what's this society for?""H'm. Let's see now," replied the secretary in a tone of importance. "Well, one of the things we do is secret bird-watching.""Secret bird-watching?" echoed the new member in surprise. "Why does it have to be secret?""Because if we let too many blokes come with us, they'd frighten all the birds away."This seemed to satisfy Venables. At the back of his mind he thought that there might perhaps be some ulterior motive. If so, he'd probably find out in time.Jennings was more than willing to accept Venables as a member when Darbishire explained the dilemma he had faced in getting his diary back. "No problem," he said as the two boys reviewed the situation after morning school. "So long as they think it's only about bird-watching, we can let anybody join who wants to. The more the merrier.""But we don't know much about bird-watching," Darbishire answered. "So how can we?""We'll soon find out," Jennings assured him. "There's a book about it in the library. So long as everybody thinks we're experts, we'll be all right."So, in order to conceal their real purpose, they went to some trouble in making known their sudden interest in this new-found hobby.Jennings borrowed an illustrated book about birds from the school library and carried it about with him wherever he went, thus acquiring something of a reputation as an ardent bird-watcher. He found the subject fascinating and became so engrossed by what he read that for some days he relegated his quest for the time-capsule to the back of his mind while, in imagination, he played at being a falconer training a bird of prey.He spent morning break on Wednesday as a would-be falconer luring an imaginary hawk by twirling a piece of string round and round with an old bedroom slipper tied on as a bait.Mr Carter came across him on the playground engaged in his flight of fancy."Why are you wearing a wicket-keeper's glove?" the master wanted to know.Jennings gave him a disarming smile. 'Tm pretending I'm a falconer, sir," he explained. "I hold my arm out like this and the kestrel, or whatever it is, comes and perches on it.""H'm! I'm afraid you'd have rather a job training a hawk to swoop down on an old bedroom slipper."Jennings considered this. "It might think it was a rabbit, sir: especially if it was a bit short-sighted."Mr Carter thought this unlikely. "Carry on pretending," he said. "Though I should point out that you're wearing the glove on the wrong hand."Jennings glanced down at his wrist. "Does it matter, sir?""Perhaps not. But falconers normally wear their gauntlet on the left hand so that their right hand is free to tend to the bird."Jennings shrugged. "I shouldn't think that matters. The hawk would just think I'm left-handed, wouldn't it, sir?"Mr Carter let the matter drop. Jennings' opinions on i short-sighted birds of prey and left-handed falconers were too fanciful to pursue.The master resumed his stroll round the playground, but after a few yards he became aware that Jennings was following at his heels. He turned. "What is it? You wantmy views on contact lenses for myopic peregrine falcons?"The boy grinned. "That'd be going a bit over the top, wouldn't it, sir! What I wanted to ask you was' He broke off, wondering how to put his request into words. He and Darbishire had not yet asked permission to spend their free time amongst the brambles and briars at the far end of the grounds. This would be a good moment to broach the matter."Well, sir, Darbishire and I are very keen on bird-watching and we want permission to go down to the coppice in our free time.""Bird-watching? Is that what you were doing on Sunday when you were supposed to be going for a walk?"Jennings was taken aback. So Mr Carter must have spotted them as they returned to the school buildings! And he wasn't even on duty at the time: it was amazing how Mr Carter always knew what was going on!"Well, yes and no, sir," he said uncertainly. "We -Darbishire and I - just thought it would be a good place for our bird-watching club.""And who was the elderly gentleman you were talking to?"So Mr Carter knew that, too!Jennings made a quick decision. If they were going to devote their free time to finding the tin box, it would be better to let Mr Carter into their secret than for him to find out by other means. He took a deep breath and went on."Well, sir, we've got a secret, but I wouldn't mind you knowing, so long as you don't spread it.""I should like to hear what it is, first."So Jennings told him of their meeting with Tim Mac-Taggart, the Old Linburian, and how he and Merridew had buried their treasure chest fifty years before. "And Darbi and I are going to try and find it," he went on. "But nobody else is allowed to know or it will spoil the surprise. That's why we're pretending it's a bird-watching club."Jennings stood twisting his falconry string round and round his wrist and looking up at the master with the eager look of a puppy begging for a biscuit.He need not have worried. Mr Carter was all in favour of allowing the conspirators to bask in their hour of glory as the discoverers of the treasure - if, indeed, they ever did find it!The treasure-seekers had planned to begin their search of the coppice after games on Thursday, but this had to be postponed owing to an encounter with Mr Wilkins earlier in the day.Jennings never did anything by halves. So, having decided to boost his reputation as an expert on bird-watching, he went to great lengths to foster the idea that all forms of feathered wild-life were, to him, a matter of great concern. In this, he was encouraged by Venables, still ignorant of the real purpose of the society of which he was now a member."We ought to put food out for them," Venables told his fellow-members when they were discussing their plans. "Not just down at the coppice, but spread it around everywhere to attract them."Darbishire pulled a face. "The last time we tried feeding the birds there was a ghastly hoo-hah," he observed.* *See Speaking of Jennings"Ah, that was because we put it all down on the path and the Head's visitors got stuck in it," Jennings reminded him. "If we'd had a proper bird-table we'd have been all right.""I know where there's a bird-table," Venables chimed in. "Rumbelow spent all last term's woodwork lessons making it and then he wasn't allowed to take it home at the end of term."The ten-year-old Rumbelow had been very upset by this decision, having devoted ten weeks to the construction of his bird-table. But Mr Pullen, who came over from Dunhambury once a week to teach woodwork, had been so critical of this ill-shaped piece of handiwork that he had consigned it to the rubbish heap."You're no craftsman," he had said to Rumbelow, eyeing the ill-fitting joints and the badly angled screws. "You don't know one end of a screw-driver from the other."However, the despised bird-table was discovered in a corner of the tool-shed and Rumbelow, when consulted, was delighted to think that his rejected piece of woodwork was, after all, to be put to good use.After breakfast on Thursday Darbishire collected a plateful of food scraps from the kitchen while Venables and Jennings carried the bird-table on to the playground and set it down in sight of the windows of Classroom Three.Joining them on the playground, Darbishire said, "Hope this is enough. I read somewhere that some birds have to eat one-third of their weight in food every day, or they'll starve."'Temple's like that." Jennings retorted. "You shouldjust see him belting into his food at breakfast. I bet he'd eat nearly a third of his weight if he got the chance."It was clear to see why the woodwork teacher had been so scornful of Rumbelow's craftsmanship. The bird-table was a spindly contraption, unevenly balanced on three legs of slightly different lengths. When it was put down, one of the legs dropped off and had to be wedged back into position with a forceful kick."It's a bit wobbly, but it'll have to do," Jennings said as Darbishire spread the food scraps on the table-top. "The birds won't mind so long as they've got something to eat."The bell rang for morning assembly, and by the time the boys reached their classroom twenty minutes later the birds' breakfast was being enjoyed by a flock of fledgling sparrows and a varied assortment of chaffinches, blue-tits and thrushes. Some of the sparrows were so tiny that it seemed likely that this was the first time that they had left the safety of their nests. Several were too young to fly on to the bird-table and stood around its base with their beaks open, waiting to be fed.From his desk by the window Jennings kept an eye on the comings and goings of the flock all through Mr Carter's English lesson. And when Mr Wilkins took over the class for the next lesson the master soon became exasperated by Jennings' lack of attention."Stop looking out of the window, boy!" Mr Wilkins ordered. Two minutes later he repeated the order, more sternly."Jennings! Wake up, boy! If you can't pay attention without staring into space you can go and sit on the other side of the room.""Oh, please, sir. I am paying attention. I'm quite all right sitting here, honestly, sir."The lesson continued, and for some minutes Jennings sat with one eye on Mr Wilkins and the other eye looking out of the window. The strain on his eye muscles was considerable.Moments later, disaster threatened. From the corner of his eye Jennings saw a magpie perched on the branch of a tree, just above the bird-table.Magpies were predators! Magpies would attack baby birds without a second thought. These helpless fledglings were at the mercy of the enemy who was, even now, preparing to dive down and carry off an innocent victim.He must do something: he must save them at all costs, for the magpie was now spreading its wings, about to swoop.Heedless of Mr Wilkins' warning, Jennings stood up, flung wide the window, clapped his hands and shouted, "Hey hey, hey!"The effect was immediate. All the birds flew away, . including the marauding magpie. At the same moment a gust of wind struck the bird-table, which collapsed into an untidy heap of woodwork.Mr Wilkins was furious. "Jennings!" he shouted. "What in the name of thunder d'you think you're doing?"Jennings turned back from the window. "Sorry, sir," he apologised. "But I saw a magpie.""Saw a magpie! I don't care if you saw ten thousand magpies. You'd no business to shout out of the window.""No, sir, only there were these baby sparrows in danger, just standing there going cheep-cheep and I thought""Going cheep-cheep\ I don't care if they were trumpeting like elephants. I'm not having you disturbing my class.""No, sir, only the magpie would have killed one of them, if I hadn't scared them away.""That's no excuse," Mr Wilkins retorted. "You upset my lesson with some ridiculous nonsense about magpies going cheep-cheep""No, sir, it was the sparrows going cheep-cheep - not the magpie, and I thought""Quiet, boy!" the master thundered. "Go and sit on the other side of the room where you can't see out of the window."The lesson had been going well until the interruption, but now Form Three's attention had gone and the class began a discussion in an undertone about what had been happening on the playground."It wasn't Jennings' fault," Darbishire protested in a voiceless whisper."Yes it was," muttered Temple, anxious to stir up the argument. "If he hadn't put that food out, it wouldn't have happened.""It was the magpie's fault," Venables retorted from behind the cover of his maths book. "You can't really blame Jennings."The subdued murmur grew louder as more boys voiced their opinions. Nobody was concentrating on the maths problem that the master had explained in such detail. The murmur rose to a chatter in all parts of the room and Mr Wilkins thumped the master's desk in exasperation."Silence!" he boomed at the top of his powerful voice. "Silence!"The noise died away, and Mr Wilkins stood glaring at his inattentive class. The lesson that he had prepared with such care was all but ruined.When all was quiet Mr Wilkins said, "I've never in allmy life met such disgraceful behaviour. That being so" -he paused for emphasis - "the whole class will be in detention this evening from the end of prep until bedtime."Form Three turned their heads in Jennings' direction and glowered at him. It was all his fault!Jennings sighed and looked down at his desk-top. It wasn't so much the detention that upset him as the fact that now he would have to postpone his first chance to start searching for the buried time-capsule.Still, he wasn't going to worry. It was early days yet!The topic of the marauding magpie cropped up again at the Form Three table during lunch. Jennings was still being held responsible for the impending detention and tried to defend himself by blaming the bird of ill-omen for his troubles."It brought me bad luck," he declared. "It's unlucky to see just one magpie by itself. They usually go about in pairs. They're supposed to.""That's right," Darbishire confirmed, coming to the aid of his friend. "People say that if you only see one magpie you have to hold your collar until you see an ambulance, or you'll have bad luck.""Which people say that?" demanded Bromwich.Darbishire shrugged. "I don't know. Lots of people, I shouldn't wonder. It's just something I heard."Martin-Jones said scornfully, "That's just a load of superstitious codswallop! Why should you expect them to fly about in pairs, just so that you can be lucky? And anyway," he went on, warming to his theme, "you mighthave to hold on to your collar for months if there weren't many ambulances about where you lived."More superstitious folk-lore added to the chatter across the table as other boys joined in the argument about the magpie's reputation."You have to spit three times if you only see one by itself," Atkinson said. "I tried it once, but it didn't seem to work."Rumbelow said, "Yes, and how about my bird-table collapsing like that! I bet it wouldn't have happened if there had been two of them together."Jennings kept very quiet for the rest of the meal. The more his classmates were willing to blame the magpie for their misfortunes, the better it suited him.Chapter 6

Change in the Weather

The first attempt to find Mr MacTaggart's time-capsule was unsuccessful. Jennings and Darbishire had planned to go down to the coppice after games on Saturday afternoon."We don't want anyone else barging in," Jennings told his friend as they came indoors after cricket. "Just us two, eh?""Well, all right, then." Darbishire tugged at a tangled knot in his shoe-laces. "Only, you've spent the whole week telling everybody it's all about bird-watching, so what does it matter if some of them want to come along?""Ah, but bird-watching's just our excuse, don't forget. It'd muck things up properly if anybody saw us scrabbling about in the bushes. You don't see many birds down badger-holes, do you?""I suppose not," Darbishire conceded. "Mind you, you don't see many rare birds down at the coppice, anyway. We're supposed to be looking for things like Red-Backed Shrikes and Great Crested Grebes - not just weedy sparrows and stuff."They made their way out through the side door, taking care to avoid any of their classmates who might be hoping to join them. The way across the playground was clear and they had reached the cricket scoring-box when a shout and running footsteps behind them revealed Venab-les hurrying to catch them up."I saw you beetling off," he greeted them. "Going bird-watching?""Well - er - yes and no," Jennings replied. "We're just going to - sort of - have a look round.""Goodo! I'll come too.""No, you can't. We don't want anyone else.""You can't stop me. I'm a member of the club. I can come if I like." From his pocket Venables produced a very small telescope. "I've brought this. Useful for short-range spotting."There was no valid answer to this, so Venables joined them and the trio made their way down to the woodland. Venables said, "OK. What do we do now?" Jennings said, "Well - er - we can sit down on this log and watch out for rare birds and things."They sat down on the tree stump and stayed silent for almost two minutes while Venables polished his telescope and focused it on nearby tree-tops. But if there were any rare birds about they failed to put in an appearance. All they saw was a batch of sparrows, one thrush and a moorhen making its way across to the pond.The silence was broken by Darbishire, who suddenly said, "Ssh! Ssh!" which seemed unnecessary as they were already sitting as quiet as mice."Why ssh?""I almost saw a woodpecker, just then.""Almost saw?" Venables was puzzled. "You can't almost see things. Either you saw a woodpecker or you didn't.""I mean I heard it. It went phut-phut-phut. I'm sure it was a woodpecker unless" Darbishire paused uncertainly. "No, perhaps it wasn't. I think it may have been a motor-bike going past in the lane."Venables sighed and raised his eyes to the heavens. "Don't you know the difference between a woodpecker and a motor-bike?""Perhaps it wasn't a motor-bike, then. It could have been a cow in the field over the hedge."By this time Venables was fast losing patience with the fellow-members of the club he had been so anxious to join,"Fine sort of society this is," he said scathingly. "First, there aren't any birds worth looking at, and now you say you can't tell the difference between a cow and a motor-bike.""Woodpecker," corrected Darbishire, who liked to get the details right.By now, Jennings was growing impatient with the way that things were shaping. Unless and until they could get rid of Venables there was no chance of making a systematic search on their own."We'd better split up," he said, rising from the tree stump. He pointed to the left. "You go that way, Venables, and Darbi and I will go in different directions, and we'll meet up later to report what we've seen."Thus it was that Venables spent the next half-hour staring at an empty thrush's nest and swatting the gnatsswarming around his forehead. Jennings and Darbishire, screened from their fellow-observer by bushes and brambles, searched the ground at their feet and peered down rabbit-holes and badger setts in other parts of the coppice.There was nothing to report when the master-on-duty's whistle summoned them indoors at bed-time."Just one of those days when there aren't many birds about," Jennings said with a shrug as they made their way back across the playing-field. "Darbi and I may have another shot in a few days, but you needn't come if you don't want to.""Oh, I'll come," Venables assured him. "You can't make me a member of your club and then get rid of me like that."A few days later Venables insisted on attending another so-called bird-watching venture with Jennings and Darbishire. Afterwards, he had a quiet word with Temple in the dormitory as they were going to bed."Hey, listen, there's something fishy going on in this society that Jennings has started," he said."Fishy?" Temple raised his eyebrows. "I thought it was birds they were'keen on - not angling.""No, I mean it's all very suspicious. I went down to the coppice with them this evening. I hid behind a bush and watched them through my telescope. And do you know what?"Temple confirmed that he didn't know what."Well, all this talk about bird-watching is just a lot of gobbledygook. They don't know anything about it. Darbi doesn't even know the difference between a woodpecker and a motor-bike.""Really? Well, I know he's a bit short-sighted. Perhaps he hadn't cleaned his glasses.""That's not the point." Venables looked round to make sure that his suspects were out of earshot. "The whole thing is a put-up job. Instead of looking for birds they went round peering down rabbit-holes and scuffling round the roots of the bushes."Temple frowned and said, "H'm! I see what you mean - distinctly fishy. We'd better keep an eye on them and see what they're up to."There followed a spell of wet weather which lasted - on and off - for nearly a fortnight. On several days cricket was abandoned owing to the soggy state of the playing-field, and the coppice was so wet underfoot that the boys were not allowed to go down to the far end of the grounds.The search for the time-capsule had, therefore, to be postponed and Jennings and Darbishire turned their attention to other matters. The most important of these was Form Three's contribution to the Drama Evening to be held at the end of the term.Unlike the annual school play, which was produced by Mr Carter and attended by parents and visitors, the unofficial Drama Evening was organised by the boys themselves."I'm all in favour of letting them show what they can do without adult help," the headmaster would say when making the arrangements for the summer term. "I agree that the standard of acting may lack polish, but that is neither here nor there. It's the effort and initiative that they put into it that matters."The headmaster was certainly right about the lack ofpolish. There would be a few promising performances, and these would be backed up by a cast of boys with limited acting ability who had been persuaded or badgered into taking part to make up the numbers required.Not that anybody minded! With no outsiders present the boys would be entertaining their own friends and classmates and could afford to act their parts as they felt inclined.Using a well-known poem or legend as the outline of their play, a group of volunteers from each class would act out the story in their own words. They would improvise the dialogue as they rehearsed and alter the plot to suit their own purposes.The five-strong drama group representing Form Three consisted of Venables, Temple, Atkinson, Jennings and Darbishire, and while the rain poured down on the playing-field they foregathered in the common-room to plan their production.They sat with furrowed brows and blank minds for some minutes. Then Temple said, "How would it be if we acted The Pied Piper of Hamelin, using dinosaurs instead of rats?""Sounds a bit feeble to me," Venables said."I don't see why not," Temple went on. "We could say that Hamelin had been invaded by a huge tribe of tyrannosauruses instead of rats. We could make the dinosaurs out of cardboard boxes and somebody could be the Pied Piper who'd come along and""Bags 1 be the Piper," Darbishire chimed in. "I could use my recorder. I've got up to Exercise Five, so I could play""Huh! I never heard such a bat-witted idea!" Venables was scathing in his condemnation. "I can just see a bunch of dinosaurs dancing along behind old Darbi playing 'God Save the Queen' or something weedy on his tinny old recorder."Darbishire was nettled by this harsh judgement of his playing. He had pictured himself leading the fascinated monsters off stage to the strains of 'Happy Birthday To You'."And anyway, it wouldn't work," Venables went on. "Dinosaurs died out sixty-five million years ago. There weren't any people about in those days, let alone pipers."And Atkinson said, "And I'll tell you another thing. Some of those dinosaurs were a hundred feet long, so you'd need an awful lot of cardboard boxes."The theme of the Pied Piper was dropped and there was silence for a while as they searched their minds for other ideas.Jennings' thoughts hovered around a book he had borrowed from Martin-Jones for bed-time reading. It was an improbable story packed with action, and concerned a group of boys who carried out amazing feats of bravery and daring. They rode ponies with the skill of Middle-West cowboys; they handled sailing dinghies in rough seas as capably as a life-boat crew; their holidays were spent in exploring secret passages, finding stolen jewels and unmasking enemy spies ahead of the police. Indeed, it appeared that the schemes of international crooks and gangsters had no chance of success once these intrepid youngsters got on their track.It was, of course, quite unbelievable - even Jennings admitted that. But it gave him the germ of an idea.Breaking the silence, he said, "I know what! We won't do a poem. We'll make up our own play about some blokes who are being chased by a gang of crooks and they hide in a secret passage and find some stolen plans." He stopped, aware of the disparaging looks and groans of derision from his fellow-actors.Venables said, "Sounds a bit feeble. Not what you'd call an original plot.""Well, neither is the Pied Piper original," Jennings argued. "It all depends on the way you do it." He paused for thought. "We could make up a story about a mad scientist who's invented something, such as - er, well, some invention, and these crooks steal the plans and there's a fight and the good guys win and - er - well, that's about all, really."It didn't sound very convincing and it wasn't very clear, but as none of them could think of anything else, they agreed to give the matter some thought.During the next few days the plot was sketched out, in outline though not in detail. Venables and Temple were cast as the villains, Atkinson and Jennings as the heroes and Darbishire as the mad scientist, distraught at the theft of his secret plans."Why does Darbi have to be crazy?" Atkinson demanded at their first rehearsal. "He is, of course, really - everyone knows that; but what's it got to do with the story?""It makes it more exciting," Jennings explained. "He goes about howling with maniacal laughter and wailing like a banshee. Although actually he isn't really mad at all - just pretending to put the crooks off the scent."Darbishire was pleased with his part and determinedto make the most of it. He practised his wild, maniacal laughter in out-of-school hours for the rest of the week.They held a few more rehearsals after evening prep. As there was no written dialogue the cast made up their lines as they went along, which meant that the plot kept changing direction. There were frequent long pauses when nobody could think of anything to say, but they made up for the lack of speech by improvising more violent action.On Friday, with the weather still too wet for cricket, the whole school was cooped up indoors during the games period. Venables and Temple practised their desperate fight with Jennings and Atkinson: make-shift revolvers barked, imaginary machine-guns spluttered. The noise was considerable.Mr Wilkins, marking books in the staff-room, was exasperated by the clamour outside in the corridor. He left his marking to investigate but, by now, most of the actors had left the scene and only Darbishire remained. Mr Wilkins came across him all by himself on the staircase, practising his personal sound-effects."Darbishire!" he called sharply.The wild, maniacal laughter stalled in mid-burst."Sir?""What are you making that horrible noise for?""I'm a mad scientist, sir," the actor explained. "Not really mad - just pretending, to fool the baddies."Mr Wilkins, who knew nothing of the dramatic masterpiece in rehearsal, was baffled. "But, you silly little boy, you can't go round the building shouting your head off like a lunatic. You must be out of your mind!""Yes, sir, I'm supposed to be out of my mind - that's what everybody thinks, but it comes out all right in the end."This made no sense to Mr Wilkins. "Well, whatever you're playing at, go and do it where I can't hear you. I've had enough of your nonsense for one afternoon.""Yes, sir."Darbishire made his way down the stairs, his mind still dwelling on the character he was portraying. Reaching the bottom stair, he had an idea which he thought might add a little polish to his performance. He turned and saw Mr Wilkins still standing at the stair-head. He would ask his advice."Sir! Please, sir," he called."What is it now, Darbishire?""Well, sir, would it be all right if I gnashed my teeth when I laugh? Or would that be going over the top?"Mr Wilkins gave up. For the hundredth time he asked himself why growing boys insisted on behaving in a way that was utterly without reason to a grown-up of his way of thinking. He sighed in baffled wonder. The things boys said...! The things boys did...!No doubt they'd grow up to be normal citizens in the course of time. But meanwhile ...!Shaking his head sadly, he went back to the staff-room to mark Form Three's maths books.Chapter 7Plan of CampaignThen the weather took a turn for the better. The playing-field dried out, cricket started up again and the coppice was no longer out of bounds.Clearly, it was time to have another look for the old tin box."We don't want Venables coming with us. We've got to give him the slip or we shan't have a chance of searching properly," Jennings told Darbishire after lunch on Tuesday. "How would it be if I went by myself while you kept him talking, or playing ping-pong or something until I got back. At least we'd know where he was."Darbishire shook his head. "Wouldn't work. I wouldn't be able to think of enough things to talk about, and he'd beat me at ping-pong in thirty seconds flat and then he'd be raring to go and join you."But Fate was on their side in the form of a detention meted out to Enables by Mr Wilkins during afternoonschool; for this meant that he would have to stay in after evening prep and copy out a badly written geography essay which the master had refused to accept."Bad luck!" Jennings consoled him at the end of the lesson. He did his best to sound sympathetic while restraining the satisfaction he felt at this fortunate turn of events. "Rotten Old Wilkie, keeping you in like that! You won't be able to come to the coppice with us after prep.""I'll come as soon as I've finished it. It may not take all that long.""Oh, don't hurry," Darbishire pleaded in alarm. "If you rush it, Old Sir will make you do it again."Safe in the knowledge that their fellow-member was confined to his classroom, Jennings and Darbishire hurried down to the coppice after prep to carry on their interrupted search.But, again, they had no luck and after some minutes of fruitless poking about, Jennings said, "D'you think old Mr Mac - what's-his-name? - was pulling our legs? D'you think he really buried that tin box, or was he just having us on?"They thought about this: and decided that Mr MacTag-gart's story was almost certainly true. For he had been searching the bushes before he knew that he was being watched. He would hardly have gone to such trouble unless he had really been looking for something. It wouldn't have made sense!Finally, Darbishire said, "I reckon we're wasting our time, scrabbling around like this. What we need is a metal-detector - a thing like a Geiger-counter." He picked up a stick to demonstrate. "You walk up and down like this, and if it goes over any metal it goes bleep-bleep."Jennings gave him a withering look. "I know all that, you crumbling ruin: everybody knows that. The point is we haven't got a metal-detector.""I know. I was just wishing we could get one, somewhere.""Huh! Fat chance! You might as well say let's get a bull-dozer or a mechanical digger. I can just imagine what the Head would say if he saw a massive great earth-moving machine trundling up the drive and" He broke off as a half-remembered thought stirred in his brain. "Hey, wait a moment, though! I know who's got one.""What - a bull-dozer?""No, you clodpoll. A metal-detector.""Who?""Bromwich's dad. Bromo was talking about it one day last term. He said he and his dad used to go metal-detecting in the holidays."They stayed silent for some moments as they considered whether this lead was worth investigating. Then Darbishire said, "Ah, but would he lend it? Would he even ask his dad? You know