“Chap” West, who was never an enthusiast for work, laid down the long pole that had brought him from Bisham to the shade of a backwater west of Hurley Lock, and dropped to the cushions at the bottom of the punt, groaning his relief. He was a lank youth, somewhat shortsighted, and the huge horn-rimmed spectacles which decorated his knobbly face lent him an air of scholarship which his school record hardly endorsed.

Elsie West woke from a doze, took one glance at her surroundings and settled herself more comfortably.

“Light the stove and make some tea,” she murmured.

“I’m finished for the day,” grunted her brother. “The hooter sounded ten minutes ago; and cooking was never a hobby of mine.”

“Light the stove and make tea,” she said faintly.

Chap glared down at the dozing figure; then glared past her to where, paddle in hand, Tim Lensman was bringing the punt to the shore.

Tim was the same age as his school friend, though he looked younger. A goodlooking young man, he had been head of the house which had the honour of sheltering Chapston West. They had both been school prefects at Mildram and had entered and passed out on the same day.

Tim Lensman was looking disparagingly at the tangle of bush and high grass which fringed the wooded slope.

“Trespassers will be prosecuted,” he read. “That seems almost an invitation — can you see the house, Chap?”

Chap shook his head.

“No; I’ll bet it is the most horrible shanty you can imagine. Old Colson is just naturally a fug. And he’s a science master — one of those Johnnies who ought to know the value of fresh air and ventilation.”

Elsie, roused by the bump of the punt side against the bank, sat up and stared at the unpromising landing-place.

“Why don’t you go farther along?” she asked. “You can’t make tea here without—”

“Woman, have you no thought before food?” demanded her brother sternly. “Don’t you thrill at the thought that you are anchored to the sacred terrain of the learned Professor Colson, doctor of science, bug expert, performer on the isobar and other musical instruments and—”

“Chap, you talk too much — and I should love a cup of tea.”

“We’ll have tea with the professor,” said Chap firmly. “Having cut through the briars to his enchanted palace, we will be served in crystal cups reclining on couches of lapis lazuli.”

She frowned up at the dark and unpromising woods.

“Does he really live here?” she addressed Tim, and he nodded.

“He really lives here,” he said; “at least, I think so; his driving directions were very explicit and I seem to remember that he said we might have some difficulty in finding the house—”

“He said, ‘Keep on climbing until you come to the top,’” interrupted Chap.

“But how does he reach the house?” asked the puzzled girl.

“By aeroplane,” said Chap, as he tied the punt to the thick root of a laurel bush. “Or maybe he comes on his magic carpet. Science masters carry a stock of ‘em. Or perhaps he comes through a front gate from a prosaic road — there must be roads even in Berkshire.”

Tim was laughing quietly. “It is the sort of crib old Colson would choose,” he said. “You ought to meet him, Elsie. He is the queerest old bird. Why he teaches at all I don’t know, because he has tons of money, and he really is something of a magician. I was on the science side at Mildram and it isn’t his amazing gifts as a mathematician that are so astounding. The head told me that Colson is the greatest living astronomer. Of course the stories they tell about his being able to foretell the future—”

“He can, too!”

Chap was lighting the stove, for, in spite of his roseate anticipations, he wished to be on the safe side, and he was in need of refreshment after a strenuous afternoon’s punting.

“He told the school the day the war would end — to the very minute! And he foretold the big explosion in the gas works at Helwick — he was nearly pinched by the police for knowing so much about it. I asked him last year if he knew what was going to win the Grand National and he nearly bit my head off. He’d have told Timothy Titus, because Tim’s his favourite child.”

He helped the girl to land and made a brief survey of the bank. It was a wilderness of a place, and though his eyes roved around seeking a path through the jungle, his search was in vain. An ancient signboard warned all and sundry that the land was private property, but at the spot at which they had brought the punt to land the bank had, at some remote period, been propped up.

“Do you want me to come with you?” asked Elsie, obviously not enamoured

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