hands. “And that is all you can tell us?”
“Now, then, Morgan!” called the landlord. “Glasses wanted!”
“Think ’e paid me, wouldn’t you?” grumbled the old man. “All right! All right! Comin’ over,” he savagely responded. He left Hamish and Henry and shambled to the bar counter with his thick fingers thrust inside half-a-dozen empty glasses which he dumped down in front of the landlord. At the same moment a second barmaid, in all her evening finery and with a tremendous corsage of artificial flowers pinned to the front of her dress, came out from behind the scenes and joined the landlord at the counter. With a word or two in her ear, the landlord left her and her companion to cope with the customers and came over to Hamish and Henry. He leaned over and spoke in low tones.
“Mr. Jones owes me fifteen nicker,” he said. “Carted off a car-load of stuff and five hundred fags last Monday. Asked him to pay me when he come in here Tuesday evening, but he said I’d have to wait ’til next day, as he hadn’t got his cheque book with him. ‘You know as I don’t take cheques,’ I said. Well, he agrees about that. ‘I mean the bank,’ he says. ‘I can’t get your money ’til I’ve been to the bank, and I can’t go there tonight, of course. You’ll get your money all right,’ he says. ‘What’s more, I’ve never welshed on you yet. I’m a good customer,’ he says, ‘so I don’t think much of your attitood.’ Well, he has been a good customer. I don’t say nothing about that, but I likes my money on the dot. You can’t afford to run up a slate in a pub, not to the tune of fifteen quid at a time. ‘I let you have the stuff as a favour yesterday,’ I said, ‘and I expected the money this morning.’ Well, he promised it faithful, but, like I’m telling you, I’ve never seen no more of him, and now you gents comes along here enquiring after him. When am I going to see my fifteen quid? That’s what I want to know.”
“Oh, you’ll get it all right,” said Henry. He turned to Hamish. “The College will pay it,” he said. “I’ll make myself personally responsible for bringing it here tomorrow,” he added, addressing the landlord.
“God bless tomorrow, in case it ever comes,” said the landlord sardonically. “But what brings you gents here? Don’t tell me he’s done a bunk!”
The next news of Jones’s whereabouts was dramatic and shocking. A white-faced student—a blameless type who had been expelled from his school for being in possession of pornographic literature which had been palmed off on him by some unknown addict who must have heard that fifth-form studies were to be searched for drugs—came bursting into Hamish’s room just as he was preparing to go down to breakfast on the morning following the visit to the inn.
“James,” the boy said, “the dogs! They’re digging up the long-jump pit.”
“Buried a bone there, I suppose,” said Hamish, but with a horrid premonition of the truth.
“No!” said the boy. He made a retching sound. “We think they’re digging up Jonah.”
----
chapter 7
Talk
« ^ »
T he dogs lived in College, but actually belonged to Celia. They were a couple of lively, friendly, agreeable, wire-haired fox-terriers, great favourites with the students, who groomed and exercised them and who teased the plump, good-natured Celia about them, alleging that she kept them to protect her virginity from the Warden’s predatory advances. As the Warden was a pillar of monkish virtue where the women on his staff and the women students were concerned, this had continued down the years as a time-honoured jest.
There was no jest attached to the present circumstances, however.
“Jones?” said Hamish. “Are you sure?” There was no need for the question. He had realized that before he asked it. The boy put his hand over his mouth and tore for the nearest lavatory. Hamish, striding along the corridor to Henry’s room, encountered
“Now, then, Morgan!” called the landlord. “Glasses wanted!”
“Think ’e paid me, wouldn’t you?” grumbled the old man. “All right! All right! Comin’ over,” he savagely responded. He left Hamish and Henry and shambled to the bar counter with his thick fingers thrust inside half-a-dozen empty glasses which he dumped down in front of the landlord. At the same moment a second barmaid, in all her evening finery and with a tremendous corsage of artificial flowers pinned to the front of her dress, came out from behind the scenes and joined the landlord at the counter. With a word or two in her ear, the landlord left her and her companion to cope with the customers and came over to Hamish and Henry. He leaned over and spoke in low tones.
“Mr. Jones owes me fifteen nicker,” he said. “Carted off a car-load of stuff and five hundred fags last Monday. Asked him to pay me when he come in here Tuesday evening, but he said I’d have to wait ’til next day, as he hadn’t got his cheque book with him. ‘You know as I don’t take cheques,’ I said. Well, he agrees about that. ‘I mean the bank,’ he says. ‘I can’t get your money ’til I’ve been to the bank, and I can’t go there tonight, of course. You’ll get your money all right,’ he says. ‘What’s more, I’ve never welshed on you yet. I’m a good customer,’ he says, ‘so I don’t think much of your attitood.’ Well, he has been a good customer. I don’t say nothing about that, but I likes my money on the dot. You can’t afford to run up a slate in a pub, not to the tune of fifteen quid at a time. ‘I let you have the stuff as a favour yesterday,’ I said, ‘and I expected the money this morning.’ Well, he promised it faithful, but, like I’m telling you, I’ve never seen no more of him, and now you gents comes along here enquiring after him. When am I going to see my fifteen quid? That’s what I want to know.”
“Oh, you’ll get it all right,” said Henry. He turned to Hamish. “The College will pay it,” he said. “I’ll make myself personally responsible for bringing it here tomorrow,” he added, addressing the landlord.
“God bless tomorrow, in case it ever comes,” said the landlord sardonically. “But what brings you gents here? Don’t tell me he’s done a bunk!”
The next news of Jones’s whereabouts was dramatic and shocking. A white-faced student—a blameless type who had been expelled from his school for being in possession of pornographic literature which had been palmed off on him by some unknown addict who must have heard that fifth-form studies were to be searched for drugs—came bursting into Hamish’s room just as he was preparing to go down to breakfast on the morning following the visit to the inn.
“James,” the boy said, “the dogs! They’re digging up the long-jump pit.”
“Buried a bone there, I suppose,” said Hamish, but with a horrid premonition of the truth.
“No!” said the boy. He made a retching sound. “We think they’re digging up Jonah.”
----
chapter 7
Talk
« ^ »
T he dogs lived in College, but actually belonged to Celia. They were a couple of lively, friendly, agreeable, wire-haired fox-terriers, great favourites with the students, who groomed and exercised them and who teased the plump, good-natured Celia about them, alleging that she kept them to protect her virginity from the Warden’s predatory advances. As the Warden was a pillar of monkish virtue where the women on his staff and the women students were concerned, this had continued down the years as a time-honoured jest.
There was no jest attached to the present circumstances, however.
“Jones?” said Hamish. “Are you sure?” There was no need for the question. He had realized that before he asked it. The boy put his hand over his mouth and tore for the nearest lavatory. Hamish, striding along the corridor to Henry’s room, encountered
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