“Hey you—get in quickly!” yelled the man. “Train’s just going!”
Poor Snubby had no chance to choose his carriage carefully as he usually did. He liked a completely empty one, so that he could occupy each corner in turn, and look out of any window he liked. There was no time to look into even one carriage now. He wrenched open a door, threw Loony in, and fell in himself, landing on hands and knees. The porter slammed the door, and the train moved off.
Loony retired under the seat. Snubby glared at him. “Idiotic dog! You nearly made us miss the train!”
He got up and dusted himself down. He looked round the carriage. Only one other person was there, thank goodness.
The one other person stared at Snubby in annoyed surprise. He was an old man with a head of silvery-white hair, a real mane. His eyes were a faded blue and he had a small pointed beard, also very white.
“My boy,” he said, “it is most inadvisable to leave so little time for catching a train.”
“I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes,” said Snubby indignantly. “Here, Loony, come on out. You’ll get filthy under there.”
Loony appeared, his tail well between his legs. The old man looked at him with dislike.
“Dogs!” he said. “I think they should travel in the guard’s van. They always smell. And they scratch themselves in such an objectionable manner.”
“Of course dogs smell,” said Snubby; sitting down opposite the old man. “It’s a nice smell, a doggy smell. So is a horsy smell. And I like a cow’s smell too. And as for... ”
“I don’t think I want to discuss smells,” said the old man. “I do not like the smell of dogs, and I do not like the way they scratch themselves.”
“Loony never scratches,” said Snubby, at once. “A dog only scratches when he’s got heaps of fleas. I keep Loony jolly clean. Brush him every single day, and... ”
Loony put himself into a peculiar position and began to scratch himself very hard indeed, making a thumping noise against the floor of the carriage.
Snubby pushed him crossly with the toe of his shoe. “Shut up, idiot. Didn’t you hear what I just said?”
Loony looked up politely, and then began to scratch himself again. The old man looked disgusted. “Do you mind taking him to the other end of the carriage?” he said. “Bearing in mind your remark about dogs only scratching themselves when they have a large number of fleas, I don’t feel too happy about having him in quite such close proximity.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Snubby obstinately, not moving. “I tell you, he hasn’t got fleas, he’s never... ”
“I don’t think I want to discuss fleas,” said the old man stiffly. “Well, if you won’t move your dog, I must move myself. But I must say that children nowadays are not remarkable for their good manners.”
Snubby hastily removed Loony to the other end of the carriage, feeling rather ashamed of himself. The spaniel tried to climb up the seat, but the old man looked so very disapproving that Snubby changed his mind about letting him.
Loony fortunately went to sleep. Snubby undid his case and took out a paper-covered book. He settled down to read. The old man looked to see what Snubby was reading. The book had a most lurid cover and an extraordinary title. It was called SPIES! SPIES! SPIES!
Snubby curled himself up, lost to the world. The old man was astonished to see such a peculiar title.
“What is your book about?” he asked at last.
Snubby thought that was a silly question, considering that the book’s title was plainly to be seen.
“It’s about spies,” he said. “Stealing old maps and plans and things like that.”
The old man gazed at Snubby and then made a curious remark. “Spies! I never thought of that! It might have been spies.”
Snubby looked up, astonished. “Funny old fellow!” he thought. “What’s he talking about now?”
“It’s strange you should be reading a book about old documents being stolen,” said the old man. “Because I’ve just left a place where there’s been a theft of that kind. Terrible, terrible!”
Snubby stared at him. “What exactly was stolen?” he asked.
“The letter of Lord Macaulay, of maps of the county of Lincolnshire, and the correspondence between Lady Eleanor Ritchie and her sister,” said the old man, shaking his head solemnly. “And the old recipes of the Dowager Lady Lucy, and... ”
This was all Greek to Snubby. He began to think the old man was pulling his leg. All right, he could do some of that too!
“And I suppose the pedigree tables of all the dogs went too, and the letters written by Lord Popoffski,” he said, solemnly and sympathetically.
Now it was the old man’s turn to stare. “Ah—I see you don’t believe me,” he said with dignity. “Well, let me tell you this, young man. The thief got into a locked room without unlocking it. He got into a room with every window fastened and didn’t unfasten one. He left no fingerprints, he made no noise.”
Snubby didn’t believe a word. He looked disbelievingly at the old man.
“Well,” said the old fellow, “that’s a queer story, isn’t it? Too queer for me. I’ve left the house where it all happened, and I’m not going back there. I don’t like thieves who go through locked doors. Do you?”
Snubby put down his book. If there was to be a bit of story-telling, well he would do some too.
“Funny you should tell me this, sir,” he said earnestly. “I’m running away too. I’ve unearthed a Plot, sir, a very sinister Plot.”
“Good gracious!” said the old man, alarmed. “What kind of a plot?”
“Sort of atom-bomb plot, sir,” went on Snubby, enjoying himself. “They tried to get me, sir—and they very nearly did.”
“Who tried to get you?” asked the old man, amazed.
“Sh!” said Snubby mysteriously, looking all round the compartment as if he thought “They” were listening. “It’s the Green Hands, sir—surely you’ve heard of that gang?”
“No. No, I can’t say I have,” said the old man. “Who are they?”
“An international gang, sir,” said Snubby, enjoying himself more and more, and marvelling at his powers of invention. “They’ve got the secret of the atom bomb, sir—and I stumbled on it by accident. They captured me and wanted me to work for them.”
“What—a boy like you?” said the old man.
“They can use boys,” said Snubby. “For experiments and so on, you know. Well, I didn’t want to be blown to bits, did I?”
“Good heavens!” said the old fellow. “This is incredible. You should go to the police.”
“I’m running away,” said Snubby, sinking his voice to a whisper. “But They’re after me, sir—the Green Hands. I know they are. They’ll track me down. They’ll get me in the end.”
“But this is unbelievable!” said the old man, mopping his forehead with a big white silk handkerchief. “First I stay in a house where thieves go through locked doors and fastened windows—and now I travel with a boy hunted by—by what, did you say—the Green Hands. Do they—do they have green hands?”
“They wear green gloves,” invented Snubby wildly. “Beware if you ever see anyone wearing green gloves, won’t you? Man or woman.”
“Yes. Yes, I certainly will,” said the old man. “My poor boy—have you no