Biggles Goes To School

by W E Johns

  As neither Barnes nor Dunnage were regarded with affection by anyone at the school, no sides were taken in the feud, it being felt that whatever the two men did to each other would be to the advantage of the community.

  With this view Biggles was not entirely in agreement, for having spent a good deal of time with his uncle’s keepers he realised that theirs was a thankless task. They were in a position of authority, yet had no uniform, like the police, to protect them. If they did their job well, and they were no use otherwise, they were regarded as officious and disliked on that account.

  Biggles had often seen Mr. Barnes about, and held the secret opinion that his chief fault was that he was a very good gamekeeper. Once the old man had nodded to him in passing, and Biggles suspected that his nature was probably not so black as it had been painted.

  However that might be, Biggles resolved to take a chance in the wood where, according to report, the best and biggest chestnuts grew. It so happened, however, that on the Saturday afternoon for which the project had been planned, Smith had gone sick with a toothache, which left Biggles with the choice of abandoning the raid or going alone. He decided that he would go alone. It might even be all to the good, he told himself, for his hunting trips in India had taught him that two people invariably make more noise than one, one reason being, of course, that two people talk.

  So at two-thirty, without divulging his objective to a soul, blissfully unaware of the deep and dangerous waters for which he was heading, he set off. He had no reason to suspect anything worse than to be chased by an irate gamekeeper. That was the limit of his apprehensions.

  It was a pleasant day for the time of the year. The sun shone without much heat in a pale blue sky unmarked by a cloud. The trees had lost most of their leaves, but enough remained to give colour to a landscape that was mostly flat and consisted of rolling fields of stubble with an occasional splash of green-topped turnips. At the corner of one field, by a group of cornstacks, smoke rose from a threshing machine. The voices of the men working there sounded curiously loud in the still air. In another field a man was following his plough, drawn slowly by a pair of grey horses and followed by a wheeling crowd of rooks. It was a typical autumnal scene, and the English countryside at its best.

  The sun was already well down in the west when, at a little after three o’clock Biggles came within sight of his objective. It was on the left-hand side of the road, at a distance of some three hundred yards, the intervening area being occupied by a field of stubble. In the hedge that ran parallel with the road there presently appeared a gate, and from this another hedge ran back at right angles to the wood.

  Biggles stopped at the gate and subjected the landscape to a long and careful scrutiny. He had kept his eyes open for Mr. Barnes all the way from the town, but had not seen him. The wood, a sombre-looking rectangle of timber covering, perhaps, six acres, looked—now that he was actually faced by it—darkly forbidding, even sinister. Against a background of shadows the trunks of the outer trees stood erect like warning fingers.

  There were no chestnut trees in sight, but these, Biggles had been informed, were roughly in the middle. Very carefully he turned his cap, with its tell-tale badge, inside-out.

  As he climbed the gate his heart began to knock, for he knew that he was now on forbidden ground. After a last swift glance around, bending low he began to run along the hedge to escape as quickly as possible from a position in which he knew he was exposed. Safety, now, lay in the thick cover of the wood. He had nearly reached it when a hen pheasant burst with a whirr of wings from a tuft of grass under his feet. The shock made him flinch with a gasp of dismay, and after a short pause to recover himself it was almost in a panic that he covered the last few yards to the wood. Reaching it, he crouched against the foot of a tree, panting, looking about furtively, eyes and ears alert for danger, and ready to bolt at the first sign of it. All was as silent as a tomb. The only movement was an occasional dead leaf making a slow descent earthward to thicken the carpet already there. The air was heavy with the tang of damp mould and rotting leaves.

  It was the first time Biggles had knowingly trespassed on private ground, and even though the offence was not a serious one, in view of the harmless nature of his quest, the thumping of his heart made him painfully aware of it. No wood on his uncle’s estate had ever looked like this. There the trees had been friendly, the branches beckoning. He knew it was imagination born of an awareness of what he was doing, but here there was something almost malevolent about the way the trees thrust out their branches to bar his progress, as if resentful of his intrusion. A distant jay screeched. He wished now that he had not started, but having done so he felt bound to go on. To retire would be to acknowledge himself to be a funk.

  Moving without a sound from tree to tree, eyes active, and stopping frequently to listen, he made his way towards the middle of the wood. Once, on the ground, some scattered bones and feathers made him look up, and as the tree was almost destitute of leaves he had no difficulty in spotting a hawk’s nest. Presently a stoat chattered at him from a hole in the root of a tree, before disappearing into it.

  There was a track, or glade, he found, running lengthways through the wood. It was not so much a path as an open area about six yards wide that had not been planted with trees, which now consisted chiefly of oaks and birches, with interlacing branches overhead. A little farther on he could see the golden gleam of chestnut trees. Around him, too, at almost regular intervals, there were thick, wide-spreading old rhododendron bushes, their dark green leaves looking almost black in the twilight of the shadows. Their purpose there in a pheasant covert was, he knew, to provide shelter for the pheasants in hard weather. Here and there, yellow sunlight filtered through the trees to make splashes of colour on the layer of fallen leaves that everywhere covered the ground. A glance up and down and he went on quickly to the chestnuts, on his way picking up a length of dead wood for the purpose of beating the husks open.

  At the sight that presently greeted his eyes his lips parted with satisfaction, for rumour had not lied. Here were nuts in plenty, great fat husks that had sometimes burst open on contact with the ground to discharge their shining contents. Choosing the biggest he began to fill his pockets.

  So engrossed was he in this occupation that the vigilance that he had until now employed was to some extent relaxed; and it was the cackle of a disturbed cock pheasant somewhere at the far end of the wood that brought him back with a start to the realisation of where he was. He stood tense, listening. Something, he knew, must have flushed the pheasant. What was it? A prowling fox? A poaching cat? He stood quite still.

  A minute later, with a rustle of dead leaves, a cock pheasant came running—as only an alarmed cock pheasant can run—down a rabbit track beside the path. This told him much. He knew now that a fox was not the disturbing influence, for had that been so the bird would simply have flown into the nearest convenient tree, and from safety clucked a warning to its kind. There was somebody in the wood beside himself. It was, he had no doubt, Mr. Barnes the gamekeeper.

  He began to back away into the undergrowth with the object of beating a swift and silent retreat; and presently he was to wish fervently that he had persisted in this project. But a curious thing happened. The pheasant came to a dead stop and began to throw itself about in a most astonishing manner, at the same time giving a series of choking gasps.

  For a few seconds Biggles stared, his eyes wide with surprise, at this extraordinary performance; then a frown knitted his forehead as he perceived what had happened. The pheasant had run into a snare and was held by the neck.

  His first reaction was to rush out and release the bird; and he was already moving forward with that object when running footsteps sent him scurrying back into the nearest cover, which was provided by a handy tangle of rhododendron. Into this he crept, and squatted, with heart pounding and hands trembling from dismay. He could still see the pheasant.

  Then, into his view burst the runner—or runners, f
or there were two of them. And neither was Mr. Barnes. To Biggles’ unbounded astonishment they were two boys; and although their jackets and caps were inside out he recognised them instantly. They were Hervey and Brickwell. He went, literally, stiff from shock. Hervey was carrying a sack under his arm. There seemed to be something in it.

  “Here’s one,” said Brickwell in a tense whisper, and swerved towards the kicking pheasant.

  In a moment both boys were on their knees beside it, one holding it while the other with feverish haste strove to loosen the noose which had of course been drawn tight by the bird’s efforts to free itself.

  This operation was not completed. Brickwell, who was holding the bird, looked over his shoulder nervously—as he had every reason to. With a hiss of “Cave!” he was on his feet, running like a deer. Hervey lost no time in following him, and within a few seconds they were lost to sight in the shadows.

  Hard on this came heavier footsteps and into sight burst Mr. Barnes, red of face and black of brow. With his stick waving he paused for a moment to roar: “Stop, you young devils!” and then rushed on in the track of the two boys. His footsteps died away.

  Biggles, who by this time was nearly swooning with fright and consternation, sprang to his feet. His eyes were on the pheasant, now obviously at its last gasp. He dashed over to it, released it, and looking round as it fluttered away saw the burly Mr. Barnes hastening back towards the spot. As a hard-pressed rabbit dives into its burrow he shot back into the rhododendron bush and lay still, holding his breath to steady his madly-racing heartbeats.

  Mr. Barnes, panting, went straight to the snare. He stared at it. He looked around, muttering. He took off his hat and mopped his forehead with a large white-spotted red handkerchief. He looked again at the snare, obviously wondering what had happened to the bird. He swore softly. Then, very deliberately, he tore the snare out of the ground, rolled the wire round the peg, and put it in his pocket. For the minute or two that he remained there, looking up and down, he had Biggles’ deepest sympathy; but Biggles did not choose that moment to express it. It was not the time, he thought, to make the acquaintance of Mr. Barnes.

  Presently the gamekeeper, still muttering under his breath, strode off.

  As the rustle of dry leaves died away Biggles gave vent to his relief in a shuddering intake of breath. He, too, mopped his forehead with a handkerchief already damp. Apart from that he did not move. Anxious as he was to depart, he had no intention of stirring while there was the slightest chance of Mr. Barnes still being in the vicinity. He felt that if he could once get his feet on the high road he would never leave it again.

  As his nerves relaxed he was better able to ponder on what he had seen, and his thoughts were anything but reassuring. The knowledge that Hervey and Brickwell were in the wood to poach pheasants gave him a weak feeling in the legs. As much as he disliked them he could not have imagined them engaging in a pursuit so criminal, for that was what it was. Nor could he think of a reason for it. What could they do with the pheasants when they caught them? He could only suppose that they were doing it from a sheer lust of hurting something.

  He continued to squat in his rhododendron bush. The sun, which he could glimpse through the trees, was now a great red disc balanced on the horizon. The shadows deepened. A cock pheasant, with a loud cackle, went up to roost. Another followed, and another. Biggles counted them automatically, for this was a game he had often played with his uncle’s keepers. They were expected to know how many birds they had in their coverts, for thus could a check be kept on poaching activities. As darkness closed in, and no more birds went up, Biggles knew that there were forty-seven cock pheasants in the wood.

  He dare wait no longer. Straightening his cramped limbs he began moving with the utmost caution towards where he judged the nearest fringe of the wood to be. In the dark silence it was nervy work, for every sound, the rustle of a leaf or the crack of a twig, was magnified tenfold. Slow and careful though his movements were he found it impossible to proceed without a certain amount of noise. He derived a crumb of satisfaction from the knowledge that such conditions cut two ways, in that Mr. Barnes would be similarly handicapped should he still be on the prowl.

  The edge of the wood was reached at last, and such was Biggles’ urgency to get away from it that he cast precautions to the wind and raced across the stubble as though the keeper was actually on his track. He did not trouble to look for the gate. Scrambling over the hedge he fell on the road, dawn which he continued to run as fast as he could put one foot before another.

  It was quite dark by the time he reached the town. The lamplighter with his pole was going his round. Several gas lamps had already been lit, and it may have been a guilty conscience that made Biggles haunt the shadows. He became aware of two figures in front of him, which, oddly enough, seemed to be doing the same thing. In the light of a shop window he made them out to be Hervey and Brickwell. Hervey, he noticed, still carried the sack. This surprised Biggles, for after what had happened he had supposed that they would be back at school long ago. Deciding that it would be better if they did not see him he hung back. At the same time he kept an eye on them for fear Hervey should take the opportunity of catching him alone to give him a hiding for the conker affair.

  Suddenly they disappeared. Biggles stopped, sensing danger, and ready to run. He could not see them anywhere. Just ahead, at the corner shop of Mr. Jeremiah Siggins, the local butcher, a lane turned off to the left. Had they seen him and were waiting for him there? He approached it with caution, and peeped, round the brickwork. A shaft of lamplight fell across the lane from a door that had been opened —presumably the back door of Mr. Siggins’. Voices were talking in low tones. There was a chink of money. He heard Hervey say: “Thank you, Mr. Siggins.” The door was shut. Biggles pressed himself against the wall. The two boys passed within five yards but did not see him; they were too interested in what they were doing. Again came a chink of coins. “That’s your share,” said Hervey, as the boys went on. As they passed under the next street lamp Biggles saw that Hervey no longer carried the sack.

  Feeling sick from shock it was a full minute before he moved. All was now plain. Hervey and Brickwell were not only poachers, but poachers of the worst sort. An excuse might be made for a man who poached an occasional rabbit for the pot; but Hervey and Brickwell had no such excuse. They were poaching for money. Not only were they guilty of killing game, they were also guilty of selling it without a licence. No wonder they always had plenty of pocket money, thought Biggles bitterly.

  Miserable under the burden of his unpleasant secret he returned to school. That night he slept badly for the first time. Haunted by dreams in which Barnes, Hervey, Brickwell, Grimble the policeman and Siggins the butcher were all in conflict in a dark wood from which there was no escape, he tossed on a bed that got harder as the long night wore on. And this, he thought, dolefully, for a few chestnuts. It wasn’t worth it. His only comfort was that he, at any rate, was out of the wood, in every sense of the word. He would take jolly good care, he resolved, never to be mixed up in anything of the sort again.

  It was perhaps fortunate for him that he could not foresee the events that the next day were to bring.

  CHAPTER 10

  ON THE MAT

  THE first indication that the Foxley Wood affair might not yet have ended came the next day, after church, when the general assembly bell clanged its unmusical summons. This was an unusual event and only occurred when an announcement of considerable importance was to be made by the Head. Wherefore, as the boys filed into the Big School there was a good deal of animated speculation as to the cause.

  Biggles had no reason to suppose that the gathering was in any way connected with him, personally; but he had a guilty conscience, and it was with inward misgivings that he took his place in the section of the hall reserved for his form. It was the first time he had seen the whole school assembled for such an occasion, and the spectacle did nothing to ease his qualms. Prefects were standing a
t intervals. All the masters were present, in their caps and gowns, standing in line down the aisle, looking very grave. Then into the room came the Head, followed by an elderly gentleman dressed in a rather old tweed suit. Both mounted the rostrum. The Head indicated a chair to his companion, who sat down. The Head remained standing.

  Advancing to the front of the rostrum he clapped his hands for quiet. An attentive silence fell.

  At his first words Biggles’ stomach seemed to slide down into his boots.

  Said the Head, in a loud clear voice: “Were there any boys of this school in Foxley Wood yesterday afternoon? If so, will they stand up.”

  Biggles, resigned to his fate, rose slowly to his feet.

  The Head’s eyes, as hard as glass, went round the room. “Who else was in Foxley Wood yesterday?”

  Nobody moved.

  The Head turned to the man in the chair, who said: “There were at least two.”

  Again the Head turned to the school. “Who else was in Foxley Wood yesterday afternoon?”

  There was not a movement.

  “Very well,” said the Head shortly, in a tone of voice that Biggles did not like. “Biggletworth, step forward.”

  Biggles advanced to the front of the school. “Come up here.”

  Biggles mounted the rostrum.

  The Head squared himself in front of him. “Who was with you in Foxley Wood yesterday?”