Jennings And Darbishire (The Search Party)

As the five o'clock bus from Dunhambury left the town and sped along the Linbury road, Mr Carter turned to his colleague in the seat behind him.

"It's as well I ran ahead and stopped the bus. There isn't another one for two hours," he said.

Mr Wilkins nodded. He was still breathing heavily from the exertion of shepherding his flock along the road to the bus stop at a brisk eight miles an hour. Now, at last, he could relax.

"I suppose you counted to make sure that all the team were with you?" Mr Carter asked.

"Well, actually, no, I didn't," Mr Wilkins admitted. "What with you holding the bus back for us, and the conductor waving to us to get a move on, I didn't have time. But you needn't worry, Carter; they're all here, right enough. I'll count then now, if it'll make you feel any happier."

The magenta-and-white caps of Linbury Court School were easily distinguishable in the crowded vehicle, and Mr Wilkins could see them all from where he sat - Venables and Atkinson in the front seats, with Temple and Bromwich major just behind: across the gangway he noted Rumbelow, and Martin-Jones, Binns major and Nuttall, and in the back row were Parslow and Thompson.

"That's queer! I can only see ten," muttered Mr Wilkins. "There must be one I haven't counted."

"There should be two more," corrected Mr Carter. "Eleven in the team, plus a linesman makes...Linesman! Yes, of course; where are Jennings and Darbishire?"

Mr Wilkins looked baffled for a moment. Then he said: "They must be on the bus, somewhere. Perhaps, they've gone upstairs."

"Upstairs!? Mr Carter's voice rose in shocked surprise. "This, Wilkins, is a single-decker bus!"

"Eh, what's that! I...I.. Corwumph! Good heavens, so it is. I never noticed!"

"Well, really Wilkins! You were responsible for seeing every one off the platform. Surely I can leave a simple job liek that to..."

"All right, all right, all right!" Mr Wilkins was inclined to grow excitable at times of crisis. He leapt to his feet for a rapid recount, calling loudly: "Hands up, everybody! Put your hands up; I want to see who's here."

The Linbury boys obeyed, and a middle-aged lady with a shopping basket shot both hands towards the ceiling, under the impression that an armed hold-up was in progress.

"Quickly, now. Hands up all the boys who aren't here - er, I mean, has any one seen Jennings and Darbishire?"

Again he counted, but the total remained obstinately at ten.

"Are you sure they're not here, sir?" queried Thompson.

"Of course I'm sure, you silly little boy. They wouldn't have put their hands up if they were; or rather, they would have put their hands up if they ... oh, be quiet!" Mr Wilkins was feeling rather confused. Action, prompt and immediate, was called for, and he pushed his way along to the door at the back. "I say, conductor, stop the bus! You're going the wrong way - I mean, I want to get off!"

By now, the team was agog with excitement and the other passengers were seething with curiosity.

"Just like old Jennings to go and make a bish of things!"

"Perhaps they were in a hurry, so they've run on ahead."

The bus buzzed with wild speculation, and the lady with the shopping basket crouched low in her seat, expecting any second to hear the sharp crack of revolver shots. She had spent the afternoon watching a gangster film at the Dunhamnbury Empire, and the memory was still vivid.

It was Mr Carter who restored order and persuaded his colleague to return to his seat. He pointed out that no useful purpose would be served by alighting on a deserted country road two miles from the town. By the time they had walked back, it would be dark and they would probably miss the boys in the maze of streets near the station. Far better, he reasoned, to return to school first and telephone the station to see if they were still there.

"They may even have got back on the train to retrieve their belongings and been carried on to the next stop," he pointed out with brilliant guesswork.

"And where's the next stop - Brighton?" snorted Mr Wilkins.

"Oh, no. It's only a local train. The next station is a little place called Pottlewhistle Halt."

"I'll Pottlewhistle Halt them if they have! I tell you, Carter, when I get hold of Jennings and Darbishire I'll...I'll...well, they'd better look out!"

"Quite. But if you'd looked out at the bus stop it would have saved a lot of trouble," Mr Carter reminded him.

Soon the bus drew up at the school gates, and when the remaining five-sixths of the team had been hustled indoors, the two masters made for the telephone in Mr Carter's study and put through a call to Dunhambury station. Unfortunately, no one there could throw any light on the whereabouts of the two boys and the senior master wore a worried frown as he replaced the receiver.

"I'll go along and tell the Head at once," he said. At the door, he turned and added: "If you want to be useful, Wilkins, you can phone the next station down the line and see if they got off there."

"Yes, of course; I'll do it right away." And Mr Wilkins strode over to the telephone as the door closed behind his colleague.

The next station down the line! That would be...Mr Wilkins paused in the act of picking up the receiver. What was the name that Carter had mentioned in the bus? Whistlepottle Halt?...Pottlewhistle Halt?...Or was it Haltpottle Whistle? Mr Wilkins could not be sure.

"It's either Whistlehalt Pottle or Pottlehalt Whistle," he muttered to himself as he sat with the receiver to his ear, waiting for Enquiries! to come to his aid.

When it did, he said: "Oh hullo, Enquiries! Can you put me through to a station called Whistleport Hortle please? ... What's that? There's no such place? Well, try Haltpottle Whistle, then?"

The operator regretted that she couldn't find that place either, but after Mr Wilkins had suggested Haltwhistle Pottle and Pittlewhostle Halt, she said she thought she knew where the caller meant.

"Oh good - that's more than I do," said the caller thankfully; and a few moments later the voice of the elderly porter sounded on line.

"Hullo, are you Whistlehalt Pott? I want to speak to the stationmaster, please," said Mr Wilkins.

A burring Sussex accent replied that the stationmaster had gone home to his tea.

"Well, never mind, you'll do just as well if you're the Whistlehalt Pott porter. Can you tell me whether the last train from Dunhambury halted at Pottlewhistle Stop? Er, stopped at Pottlewhistle Halt? Oh, good. Well did you notice if two boys in school caps alighted at the station?"

The voice replied that there wasn't much at Pollwillall for any one to feel pleased about.

"No, no, no. I said alighted, not delighted. I asked you whether they got off."

There was a pause at the other end of the line, and then the voice declared that it was a funny thing that he should be asked that question: for bless his soul if he hadn't seen two boys walking away from the station towards Cowpatch Wood just after the train had left. He had thought to himself that such a thing was queer - distinctly queer seeing as how he hadn't seen them get off the train - but there it was!

"Thank you very much. Good-bye!" Mr Wilkins replaced the receiver, and heaved a sigh of relief.

Now, at least, they knew roughly where the boys had got to. All that was needed was for some responsible person to walk over the Downs towards Pottle-whatever-it-was, and meet them.

He hurried from the room and along to the Headmaster's study where he found Mr Pemberton-Oakes frowning over Mr Carter's news.

"But this is ridiculous, Carter," the Headmaster was saying. "Surely we can win a football match without losing part of the team in the process! I shall telephone the police station immediately."

"It's all right - I've found them," Mr Wilkins burst out. "Or rather, I know where they are."

"Oh, good! You got through to Pottlewhistle Halt then?" asked Mr Carter.

"So that's what it's called, is it! You could have told me," replied his colleague. "Yes, I've been through, and the Pottleport Halt whistler - er, the Whistlehalt Pott porter - er - the man in charge of the station saw them making for some woods."

The Headmaster continued to frown thoughtfully. It was quite dark now and the boys might easily lose their way - if, indeed, they ever knew it in the first place - among the criss-crossing footpaths which led over the Downs to Linbury. Now, what would be the best course to pursue, he wondered? ...Ah! He had it! A search-party of some half-dozen or more persons equipped with torches and whistles would be the best way of contacting the missing boys in the darkness.

The rest of the school were having tea, and time would be lost in selecting and briefing suitable boys for their task; but the 2nd XI, still in their outdoor shoes and raincoats, could set off at once. They were the obvious choice, for they had had their tea at Bracebridge and already knew the purpose of the search.

Five minutes later, the ten remaining members of the team were standing in a group on the quad, listening to their instructions.

"We're going over the Downs towards Pottlewhistle," Mr Carter told them. "Jennings and Darbishire are bound to be approaching from that direction, so we'll all keep together until you're given the order to spread out and search. Then you'll keep in touch by listening for whistle signals. Three long blasts will mean that you're to report back to Mr Wilkins or to me at one. Now, have you all got torches?"

"I told them to go and collect them," said Mr Wilkins. "We shall need them too, because...Oh, I say, Carter, I haven't got one myself! In the heat of the moment I quite forgot to go and fetch it."

Mr Carter sighed. He felt that the search-party would get on much better if only Mr Wilkins would agree to stay at home; for with his colleague playing a major part in the expedition, there was always the chance that they would lose the rest of the team instead of finding the two who were missing.

But Mr Carter didn't say so. Instead, he asked: "Has any boy got a torch to lend Mr Wilkins?"

"Yes, I have, sir. Here you are, sir; you can have this one," said Temple generously.

"Thank you," said Mr Wilkins. "Are you sure you won't need it yourself?"

"Oh, no, sir, that's all right. It's no good to me, sir - it hasn't got a battery."

"I...I...Corwumph! But, you silly little boy, what's the good of..."

"I think we'd better be going," said Mr Carter hastily. "Just stand still while I count you all."

He switched on his torch and checked carefully; ten boys, plus two masters. Satisfied, he gave the order. "Right; lead on down the drive, Venables!"

The search party was on its way!

****************

The network of lanes and footpaths between Pottlewhistle and Linbury offer a choice of picturesque walks on fine summer afternoons. On dark November evenings, however, they lose much of their charm, and by the time Jennings and Darbishire had covered three miles they were beginning to tire of the Sussex countryside.

If only they had followed the road, they might - with luck - have found their way back to school unaided; but unfortunately Jennings trusted to his sense of direction to guide them safely through what he hoped was a short-cut.

It wasn't; and very soon they had to admit that they were hopelessly lost. For twenty minutes they followed a footpath which led them to the summit of a grassy hill. Then, for no apparent reason, the path stopped short like an escalator disappearing below ground level.

"Oh fish-hooks, this is feeble!" lamented Darbishire. "We must have walked about a thousand miles and I'm so hungry I'm beginning to rattle. What couldn't I do with some more re-fills of that shepherd's pie!"

"If only we could be sure we were going the right way," said Jennings in a worried voice. "We may be walking round and round in circles like chaps in a fog."

"Or, in the desert," Darbishire added gloomily. "They walk for miles through never-ending sand and then, when they're just about dead from hunger, they see supersonic oasis-es with masses of stuff to eat like boxes of dried dates and palm trees."

"If I saw a mirage I'd rather it was bulging with shepherd's pie."

"M'yes, but you wouldn't be able to eat it, because you can only see the mirages properly when they aren't there," Darbishire explained. "Or rather, when they are there, you can't see them quite plainly, if you see what I mean. That's why they call them mirages, and my father says..."

"Oh don't talk such aerated eyewash, Darbi," said Jennings, coming to a halt. "The only thing I can see quite plainly is that it's too dark to see anything at all. Why, I can hardly see my hand in front of my face."

Darbishire sank down on the damp grass for a rest. "I shouldn't strain your eyes trying to. It's only..."

"Oh goodness!" Jennings abandoned his hand-raising experiment and turned towards his reclining friend in dismay. "I say, Darbi - what do you think?"

"I don't know. Whatever I think, it's bound to be wrong - it always is," came in complaining tones from ground level. "Go on, you tell me what I think, if you're so clever."

"I've lost my glove again!"

"You can't have lost it again, because you never really lost it properly the first time. I expect you've got it on. Have a look and see."

Curtly Jennings pointed out that if it was too dark to see his hand in front of his face, there was little chance of seeing his glove there, either. He turned back along the way they had come and followed the path down the hill for a few yards. He knew his glove couldn't be far away, for he remembered twirling both of them round and round like propellers, less than five minutes before.

Wearily, Darbishire rose to his feet and followed his friend down the path. He was cold and hungry and very unhappy; but as he was lost anyway, it mattered little to him whether they went forward or retraced their steps.

For a hundred yards, they wended their way, feeling with their feet and stopping now and again to investigate some black shape which turned out, on closer inspection, to be a mole-hill or a tussock of grass.

"I'm just about fed up to the eardrums with all this mooching about," Darbishire complained. "I wish there was someone we could ask; if only there was a ploughman homeward plodding his weary way, or even a double-decker bus winding slowly o'er the lea that we could catch."

"You've got a hope!" Jennings retorted. "We're more likely to catch frostbite from being marooned all night with only one glove. I bet there isn't another person about for miles."

It was then that they heard the whistle - three long, low blasts sounding distantly from the bottom of the hill. Jennings gripped his friend's arm and his voice throbbed with excitement.

"I say, Darbi, did you hear a whistle just then?

"That wasn't a whistle: that was a moping owl," Darbishire decided.

"But there were three of them!"

"All right then, three moping owls; or the same owl moping three times. Besides, owls don't whistle; they go tu-whit to-whoo and to the moon complain, of such as wandering near..."

"Oh, shut up! I wish you'd leave Gray's Elegy out of this. Listen, there it is again!"

There was no doubt about it. The blasts were nearer now, and with a sudden start of joy, Jennings recognised them. "Oh, wacko! It's Mr Carter's referee whistle."

Darbishire was sceptical. "You're bats! How could it be? You must be hearing things."

"Of course I'm hearing things. I just heard Mr Carter's whistle."

"No, I mean you're hearing things that aren't there. It's probably a mirage, only as it's too dark to see, it's affecting your ears instead of your eyes."

But a few moments later the 'mirage' grew more distinct and the whistles were followed by distant shouts and the flashing of torches. Then the shouts sounded closer, and the boys recognised Venables' high-pitched voice and heard Atkinson call in reply. Temple and Martin-Jones coming up the grass slope at right-angles to the footpath. Another torch flashed away to the left, and Mr Wilkins' stentorian bellow could be heard telling Bromwich major to look where he was walking.

"The whole team's there," Jennings gasped in surprise. "Fancy meeting them wandering about miles from anywhere. They seem to be looking for something too. I wonder what on earth it can be!"

Oddly enough, it never occurred to either Jennings or Darbishire that they might be the object of the search. To them, the most likely explanation was that the team had missed the bus at Dunhambury and were walking back to school over the Downs. Perhaps, they, too, had tried to take a short-cut with unfortunate results.

"Wacko! We're rescued! Let's beetle down the hill in top gear and join them," cried Darbishire.

But Jennings advised caution. It was just possible, he reasoned, that in the scurry of missing the bus and hampered by the approach of darkness, no one had noticed their absence. After all, who could tell, without a careful check, whether they were ten boys or twelve in the party? If, then, he and Darbishire announced their return to the fold with joyful wacko's and hearty back-slappings, Mr Wilkins would realise that they had not been amonsgt those present during the past hour. He would probe into the matter; unpleasant facts about accidental train rides would emerge and a whole chapter of misfortunes would come to light which would be better forgotten.

"Yes, there's something in that," Darbishire agreed. "What had we better do, then?"

"We'll just join up with them quietly, one at a tine, and not say much, for a kick-off. They won't notice in the dark; and when they've found the way, we'll all get back to school without any one knowing we haven't been with them all the time. Go on, you hoof off and join them, and I'll follow in a minute."

Darbishire set off down the path, taking care to keep out of the beams of the torches sweeping over the hillside. Jennings watched until his friend was swallowed up in the darkness: then he strolled slowly after him.