Jennings and Darbishire (The Shades of Night)

Halfway up the hill, Mr Wilkins paused to rally his forces.

"Keep together, you boys. Don't straggle, or you'll get lost. And if any one thinks he hears a ...Be quiet Venables, when I'm talking!"

"I was being quiet, sir?"

"Well, don't be quiet so loudly! It's difficult enough to keep track of you in the dark without...Now, where's Mr Carter got to?"

"He's still over by that barn, sir. I heard his whistle a moment ago," said a voice in the darkness.

"Good! I'll give an answering whistle so he can join us, and the we'll press on." Mr Wilkins searched through his pockets in vain. "Tut-tut-tut! I seem to have left my whistle behind at school."

"I can lend you one, sir," said another disembodied voice. "It isn't much of a thing though. I got it out of a crackers last Christmas, sir."

"Never mind where you got it, so long as it works," Mr Wilkins groped in the gloom and found himself holding a thin wooden reed, barely an inch long.

In the distance, three long, low blasts boomed out light a lightship's siren as Mr Carter sought to make contact with the main party. Immediately, Mr Wilkins put the toy whistle to his lips and blew with all the strength of a north-easterly gale. A thin, high-pitched pheep-pheep, like the chirrup of a newly-hatched chick, was audible at a distance of three yards, and the boys around the whistler collapsed with laughter.

"Oh sir! What a feeble whistle, sir!"

"Golly, sir! Is that your famous jet-propelled, short-wave radar transmitter, sir?"

"I...I..Corwumph! Be quiet and listen to me. When we get to the top of this hill, half of you will go with Mr Carter towards Haltpottle and the rest will come with me towards...Who's that boy straying about? I said no one was to go wandering off."

"I think it's Atkinson, sir," guessed Temple: though, in point of fact, it was Darbishire making a roundabout approach.

"No, it's not me; I'm here, sir," Atkinson's voice piped up from the outer darkness.

Mr Wilkins strained his eyes trying to identify the shapes milling around him. "I can't see who's here and who isn't. Stand still, everybody - I'm going to count you."

He marched round the little group, prodding each boy in the chest and calling his number aloud. A note of bewilderment crept into his voice as he reached the end of his census. "...eight, nine, ten, eleven!"

Eleven! It couldn't possibly be eleven: they had only ten to start with!

Mr Carter arrived at that moment. He was followed at a discreet distance by Jennings, who passed unseen into the midst of this group, as Mr Wilkins turned to his colleague in despair.

"This is hopeless, Carter! I'm trying to count these boys and they keep moving about in the dark."

"Is any one missing - apart from the two we're looking for?"

"I don't think so. The last time I counted it came to one more than it should have done." The master's voice sounded strained as he started his check all over again. "One, two, three, four, five...tut-tut, I don't know whether I've counted that boy over there. Is it you, Bromwich?"

"I don't know, sir; I can't see."

"You don't have to see, Bromo. You know if it's you, don't you? said Venables.

"Oh yes, this is me all right, but I don't know whether I've been counted," Bromwich major explained.

The note of strain in Mr Wilkins' voice grew more marked as he grappled with his counting.

"....six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, TWELVE!"

The last word was uttered in a strangled squeak, as though the speaker's vocal chords were strung to the tension of a violin's E string.

Twelve! The thing was fantastic! Somebody must have moved twice; or perhaps two people had moved once; perhaps...Mr Wilkins gave it up. At any rate, their numbers were not short, so now they could press on with the business at hand.

The party moved slowly up the hill, straining their eyes and ears for any sign of the missing boys. But they did not look behind them or they might have observed that the objects of their search had attached themselves to the fringe of the group. As they wandered on, Jennings peered about as keenly as the official searchers, for he was still hoping to find his fleecy-lined glove.

At the top of the hill they all stopped to pick up their bearings and the two masters held a short conference.

"This seems to be the end of the path, Carter," said Mr Wilkins doubtfully. "Now I wonder what lies over there to the north?"

"I think it's the way back to Pottlewhistle Halt, sir," said Jennings helpfully.

"Don't interrupt, boy, when I'm talking to Mr Carter. I've had enough of Whistlehalt Pott for one evening, and besides..."

Mr Wilkins stopped abruptly. The voice from the darkness had had a familiar ring. For a moment he could have sworn it was...But how could it be? "Which boy spoke just then?" he demanded loudly.

"I did, sir," replied seven boys who were enjoying a lively discussion about how far cats could see in the dark.

"No, no, no...not you people! Somebody else; I was almost sure..." He turned again to his colleague. "I say, Carter, I'm hearing things. Somebody spoke just then, and it sounded like Jennings."

"That's just wishful thinking, I'm afraid."

"Yes, I suppose it must have been. This business is getting me down. I tell you, Carter, I'll be thankful when this wild-goose chase is over. I wouldn't be surprised if those two silly boys have turned up at school by this time, and he we are traipsing about all over the countryside, and..."

A loud shout came from a patch of shadow a few yards to the right.

"Ooh sir! Quick, sir! Come over here, sir - I've found something."

"Who's that?"

"It's me, sir - Temple. I've just found a glove this rabbit hole, sir."

Instantly, torches clicked on and beams of light were focused on the speaker. Temple was kneeling on the turf a few paces down the hill, and in his hand was a fleecy-lined glove. He screwed up his eyes as he held the name-tab up towards the torchlight.

"J.C.T Jennings. I've found Jennings' glove," he shouted in triumph.

"Wacko!" cried the owner, but his exclamation was lost in the stampede to investigate the find at close quarters.

The discovery put new heart into the searchers. Here was a clue which proved that they were on the right track after all. Why, with any luck the absentees might even be within earshot, and Mr Wilkins lost no time in giving his instructions.

"We'll all shout together at the top of our voices," he commanded. "Take a deep breath, every one. Now! One, two, three..."

"JEN-NINGS!" A vast wave of sound rolled over the quiet downland, scaring the wild creatures of the night, and setting the farm dogs barking in the valley below. Faintly,the echo returned from the surrounding hills..."JEN-NINGS!"

"Yes, sir?" said Jennings, briskly.

He was standing just behind Mr Wilkins, and he had to sidestep smartly as the master recoiled from the shock and swung round like a rotating gun-turret.

"I...I...I...Corwumph! Who spoke then? Who said 'Yes, sir'?

"Me, sir - Jennings. I thought I heard you calling me, sir."

"But...but...you're standing right here in the middle of us!"

"Yes, sir. I wondered why you were shouting so loudly, sir."

It was perhaps as well that Mr Wilkins' features were obscured by the shades of night, and that the emotions searing through him were not visible to the naked eye. His jaw dropped through thirty degrees and his lips moved as though he would speak. But, for the moment, the fount of speech was dry.

The rest of the party were equally surprised by Jennings' unexpected appearance. They surged round him, voicing exclamations of disbelief.

"I say, it's not really you, is it Jen?"

"Of course, it's me. And old Darbi's about somewhere, too. We've been here some time."

"Why didn't you say so before?"

"Well, nobody asked me before."

"If you want to know what I think, you've no business to be here at all. You're supposed to be lost," grumbled Martin-Jones. He felt, somehow, that he was being cheated.

Mr Carter rescued Jennings and Darbishire from the jostling crowd around them. He listened to a brief outline of their misfortunes, and wisely decided to leave the details until they had returned to school.

"Well, I'm glad we've found you at last," he said. "We've been searching high and low."

"Yes, sir; so have I," Jennings answered.

"You've been searching? Whatever for?"

"For my glove, sir. Wasn't it a good job Temple found it! Matron would have been awfully fed up if I'd gone back without it, sir."

"Doh!" An anguished gasp of exasperation rang out loud and clear as Mr Wilkins found his voice again. "I...I...Really, Carter, it's too much! Any one would think we'd got nothing better to do all night than grope our way round the rural parish of Whistlepottle like a pack of moles."

"Never mind, Wilkins; we can start making for home now."

"Yes, yes, yes, I know, but the whole thing's too ridiculous, Carter! Here have we been traipsing round looking for two wretched little boys, who have been traipsing round with us looking for a wretched little glove!"

As they descended the hill, Darbishire sought out Jennings and fell into step beside him.

"I say, did you hear what Mr Wilkins said just then, Jennings?" he asked. "If we're still somewhere near Pottlewhistle we must have been walking round in circles like chaps in a mirage."

"Huh! A mirage is nothing to get excited about," his friend answered as he pulled on his newly-found glove. "Just look at Old Wilkie - he's walking round in circles like a chap in a trance!"

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It was late when the search-party reached Linbury Court and later still before the boys had finished their supper. But despite the lateness of the hour, Jennings and Darbishire were summoned to the Headmaster's study before they were allowed to go upstairs to their dormitory.

They spent an uncomfortable twenty minutes listening to Mr Pemberton-Oakes' reproving words, and wondering what action he was going to take when he came to the end of them. Many of his observations they had heard before, and it was no news to them that he was "somewhat at a loss to understand" their motives, and that he "asked himself why they should fail to observe the rules of civilised behaviour."

But behind the Headmaster's ponderous words was a feeling of relief that the boys had come to no harm. her was a fair-minded man and he realised that the escapade was due more to muddle-headed reasoning than to disobedience. However, as the culprits had caused a great deal of trouble, neither of them would be allowed to accompany a school team to an "away" match for the rest of the term.

Jennings and Darbishire went upstairs to their dormitory in a subdued frame of mind.

"Talk about mouldy luck!" Jennings complained. "It's not so bad for you because you're not in the team, but there are at least four more 'away' matches I shall have to miss; and some of those schools dish out a supersonic tea after the game."

"Never mind, you'll be able to spend more time on our mag," Darbishire consoled him. "We ought to be getting the next number out pretty soon, now."

"With a nice front-page picture of the winning goal in the Bracebridge match, I suppose!"

Jennings wasn't going to let his assistant forget his shortcomings as a press photographer. "Honestly, Darbi, you're about as handy with a camera as a carthorse on stilts. You turn up when the game's half over, and load yourself up on three refills of shepherd's pie before any one else can even get their forks on the job. If you want to know what I think, you've bished up the whole day. I should have never left my glove in the train if I hadn't been worrying myself bald-headed about what you were going to get up to next."

"But you didn't leave it in the train. And besides..." Darbishire stopped. The criticism was grossly unfair, but perhaps it might be better not to argue about the photographs of the Bracebridge match while the little matter of shepherd's pie still rankled in the minds of the team. They would have to think of something else for the front page - the story of their accidental train ride, for instance: that should make good reading!

In his mind's eye he pictured the banner headlines: Jennings and Darbishire Discover Search Party...And underneath, in smaller type: Search Party Discover Fleecy-Lined Glove.

The story sounded so promising that he reached for his diary and began writing a rough draft as he sat up in bed.

An enthusiastic gathering took place near Pottlewhistle Halt last Saturday evening, when the mysterious disappearance of a missing glove led to an interesting episode, he wrote. Asked by our Special Correspondent to comment on the proceedings, Mr L.P. Wilkins, the well-known schoolaster, said...

But at that moment, Mr Carter put out the dormitory light and the observations of Mr L.P. Wilkins were, fortunately, lost in the darkness.