“Your man is quite well known to the profession,” he said, when Francis had finished. “Not a very serious person. Rather an ass, in fact. Quite a common type; he has no important contact with the people he talks about, and no real influence. But he likes to suggest that he has a lot of power. Of course, he scorns the out-in-the-open student Communist group: he likes subtlety and secrecy and all the allurement of the classy spy. He isn’t one, believe me. Your fellow-Canadian is much more interesting, really. Hot-heads like that can reveal quite a lot by what they do, or try to do, rather than what they know. Keep me posted.”

“I’m sorry not to have been more useful,” said Francis. This was his first attempt to show that he was worthy of the profession, and it was disappointing to find that he had not really uncovered anything.

“Oh, but you have been useful,” said the Colonel. “You’ve corroborated some information, and that’s useful. My job needs an enormous amount of work that isn’t at all dramatic, you know. Don’t be influenced by novels that suggest that extraordinary things are done by some wonderful chap working entirely on his own.”

“Aren’t there any wonderful chaps?”

“There may be. But there are far more who just get on quietly, noticing something here, something there, corroborating something for the fifteenth time.”

“Wasn’t Father wonderful?”

“You should ask him. I can guess what he’d tell you. His best work was understanding and collating things he heard from dozens of chaps who were doing what you’re doing. He was awfully good at putting two and two together.”

“And I’m likely to go on doing this for quite a while?”

“Quite a while, I should say. Yes.”

“I’m not likely to be a permanency, then?”

“Paid, you mean. Oh, my dear fellow, don’t be silly. Chaps with incomes like yours don’t get paid for the kind of thing you’re doing.”

“I see. That seems to be the English way. A while ago I was talking to the chief of the curators of the Ashmolean, asking if there were any chance of my getting an appointment there when I’ve taken my degree. ‘What private income have you?’ he asked, very first thing. Listen, Uncle Jack, suppose BBB were to offer me a job—a job with money—wouldn’t it be a temptation?”

“Not if you’ve got any brains at all. He won’t, you know, but if he did, you should tell me at once. Because you’d never get away with it. You aren’t as much alone, or as unknown, as you might suppose. But why are you fussing about money? You’ve got plenty, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but everybody seems to think I’m to be had cheap. Everybody thinks I’m a money-bags. Haven’t I any value, apart from my money?”

“Of course you have. Would I be talking to you now if you hadn’t? But nobody gets rich in the profession. And nobody who is once in it—even as far in as you are, which isn’t far—ever quite gets out of it. Do you think for a moment that your man has lashings of money from his side, to pass out to people like you? He’s probably being squeezed, and that can be very uncomfortable. Now, you just get on with what you’re doing, and if the time ever comes when we should talk about money, I’ll bring the subject up myself.”

“Very sorry, Uncle Jack.”

“Don’t mention it, Francis. And I mean that in every sense of the words.”

There had been a look in Colonel Copplestone’s eye that surprised and humbled Francis. The benevolent uncle had suddenly turned tough.

It was the fourth week of the Oxford summer term; Trinity Term, as the ancient custom of the University called it. It was Eights Week, when the colleges raced their boats to determine which college should be Head of the River. Francis was taking a leaf out of Colonel Copplestone’s book, and he was having a very important conversation with Ismay in the open air, sitting comfortably on the upper deck of the Corpus barge, amid a din of cheering, as they ate strawberries and cream and watched the sweating oarsmen.

“I had a queer message from my bank a couple of days ago.”

“I never get anything but queer messages from my bank.”

“I’m not surprised if you go on the way you’re going.”

“Meaning what?”

“I think you know very well what. A cheque made out to you and signed by me, for a hundred and fifty pounds.”

Ismay seemed to be chewing a difficult strawberry. “What did they say?”

“Called me in to have a look at it and inquire a little.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, we just chatted. Banker and client, you know.”

“Frank, you’ve got to understand about this. My bank cashed the cheque and I haven’t got the money.”

“I didn’t suppose you had. Charlie’s got it, hasn’t he?”

“Do we have to talk here?”

“Why not? Just keep your voice down, and if you have anything particularly important to say, whisper it when I’m shouting ‘Well rowed, Corpus!’ I’ll hear you. I have excellent hearing.”

“Oh for God’s sake don’t be so facetious! Do you suppose I’m a forger?”

“Yes. And if you want to know, I’ve suspected it for some time. Do you think I was taken in when you admired my elegant Italic hand suddenly, and wanted me to show you how it was done? You’re one of Nature’s scrawlers, Ismay; if you wanted to learn Italic, it was so you could write like me. Enough to change a cheque, for instance. And why would you want to do that, you little twister?”

“Why did the bank ask you, anyway?”

“The banks all have an agreement with the Proctors that if a junior member of the University cashes a particularly big cheque they will tip the Proctors off. It’s a way of keeping an eye on gambling. I suppose the money went to pay off Charlie’s debts to Buys-Bozzaris?”

“It will. But you’ve got to understand; Charlie was being threatened.”

“By the fat count? Don’t be funny.”

“No, by some other chaps—real thugs. Frank, Buys-Bozzaris is a crook.”

“You amaze me! Crooks on all sides! You make me tremble!”

“Oh, for God’s sake be serious!”

“I am serious. These races stir the blood. Listen to those people shouting, ‘Well rowed, Balliol!’ Doesn’t that excite you?”

“Some terrible toughs came to see Charlie and threatened him. They had all his IOUs that he gave to Buys-Bozzaris. That fat bugger had sold them!”

“Mind your language. This is the barge of the College of Corpus Christi, and we must not disgrace our sacred name. Are you surprised that BBB sold the IOUs? I suppose he needed ready cash and sold them at a discount.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like it!”

“Oh, but you will, Ismay, you will. When you’ve gone a little farther in the forging game, you’ll hear some things that will astonish you. The conversation in prison is most illuminating, I’m told.”

“Be serious, Frank. Please!”

“I can be awfully serious about a hundred and fifty nicker. That’s an underworld expression, by the way; you’ll pick up the lingo soon.”

“What did you tell the bank about the cheque?”

“As they’d cashed it, I didn’t think I needed to say much. They were looking very coy, you know the way bankers do when they think you’re a perfect devil of a fellow.”

“You mean you didn’t tell?”

“And shame my bank? When you had done such a lovely job, neatly transforming that birthday cheque for ten quid? How could they have faced me, if I’d told them it was a forgery?”

“Oh, Frank, you are a darling!”

“A darling or a complete mug, do you mean?”

“Well—it was one of those tight squeezes. I’ll make it up to you, honestly I will.”

“Honestly you will? What could you do honestly, Ismay? Sleep with me, do you suppose?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“You know it’s what I want. But not with a price on it, the price being Charlie’s skin. I don’t think that would have quite the right romantic savour, do you? Though, let’s see: woman sacrifices herself to the lust of her wealthy pursuer, to save the honour other lover. Rather good, isn’t it? Only I don’t like the casting; either I’m the lover and Charlie is the villain, or it’s no deal. May I get you some more strawberries?”