Barrett stood at the window of his study with his hands in his pockets, looking thoughtfully at the football field. Now and then he whistled. That was to show that he was very much at his ease. He whistled a popular melody of the day three times as slowly as its talented composer had originally intended it to be whistled, and in a strange minor key. Some people, when offended, invariably whistle in this manner, and these are just the people with whom, if you happen to share a study with them, it is rash to have differences of opinion. Reade, who was deep in a book—though not so deep as he would have liked the casual observer to fancy him to be—would have given much to stop Barrett's musical experiments. To ask him to stop in so many words was, of course, impossible. Offended dignity must draw the line somewhere. That is one of the curious results of a polite education. When two gentlemen of Hoxton or the Borough have a misunderstanding, they address one another with even more freedom than is their usual custom. When one member of a public school falls out with another member, his politeness in dealing with him becomes so Chesterfieldian, that one cannot help being afraid that he will sustain a strain from which he will never recover.
After a time the tension became too much for Barrett. He picked up his
cap and left the room. Reade continued to be absorbed in his book.
It was a splendid day outside, warm for April, and with just that
freshness in the air which gets into the blood and makes Spring the
best time of the whole year. Barrett had not the aesthetic soul to any
appreciable extent, but he did know a fine day when he saw one, and
even he realized that a day like this was not to be wasted in pottering
about the School grounds watching the 'under thirteen' hundred yards
(trial heats) and the 'under fourteen' broad jump, or doing occasional
exercises in the gymnasium. It was a day for going far afield and not
returning till lock-up. He had an object, too. Everything seemed to
shout 'eggs' at him, to remind him that he was an enthusiast on the
subject and had a collection to which he ought to seize this excellent
opportunity of adding. The only question was, where to go. The
surrounding country was a Paradise for the naturalist who had no absurd
scruples on the subject of trespassing. To the west, in the direction
of Stapleton, the woods and hedges were thick with nests. But then, so
they were to the east along the Badgwick road. He wavered, but a
recollection that there was water in the Badgwick direction, and that
he might with luck beard a water-wagtail in its lair, decided him. What
is life without a water-wagtail's egg? A mere mockery. He turned east.
'Hullo, Barrett, where are you off to?' Grey, of Prater's House, intercepted him as he was passing.
'Going to see if I can get some eggs. Are you coming?'
Grey hesitated. He was a keen naturalist, too.
'No, I don't think I will, thanks. Got an uncle coming down to see me.'
'Well, cut off before he comes.'
'No, he'd be too sick. Besides,' he added, ingenuously, 'there's a
possible tip. Don't want to miss that. I'm simply stony. Always am at
end of term.'
'Oh,' said Barrett, realizing that further argument would be thrown
away. 'Well, so long, then.’
'So long. Hope you have luck.'
'Thanks. I say.'
'Well?'
'Roll-call, you know. If you don't see me anywhere about, you might
answer my name.'
'All right. And if you find anything decent, you might remember me. You
know pretty well what I've got already.'
'Right, I will.'
'Magpie's what I want particularly. Where are you going, by the way?'
'Thought of having a shot at old Venner's woods. I'm after a
water-wagtail myself. Ought to be one or two in the Dingle.'
'Heaps, probably. But I should advise you to look out, you know. Venner's awfully down on trespassing.'
'Yes, the bounder. But I don't think he'll get me. One gets the knack
of keeping fairly quiet with practice.'
'He's got thousands of keepers.'
'Millions.'
'Dogs, too.'
'Dash his beastly dogs. I like dogs. Why are you such a croaker today, Grey?'