able to locate them. Then we both dig tomorrow.”
Pooley thought this not only sound but also far less strenuous. “That is using the old grey matter,” he told John. “Now, if you will release your grip, which is causing no little interference to my general welfare about the throat regions, I shall do my best to assist you.”
Now began the inevitable discussion upon the best method of accomplishing the task in hand. Pooley suggested the hardy sprout as a piece of vegetable matter suitable for the job. In the interests of good taste Omally put up the spud as the ideal substitute. The war then waged between bean poles loaded with tinfoil, shredded newspaper laid out in the form of pentagrams and a whole host of objects ranging from the noble and worthy to the positively obscene. Finally, after Pooley had made a suggestion so ludicrous as to bring the naturally short-tempered Irishman within a hairbreadth of killing him there and then, Omally put his foot down once and for all.
“Enough, enough,” he shouted. “We will not mark them at all, we shall merely pace around the allotment and make notes as to each location as we come upon it. That is that.”
If Pooley had worn a hat he would have taken it off to his companion and cast it into the air. “Brilliant,” he said, shaking his head in admiration. “How do you do it, John?”
“It’s a gift, I believe.”
Pooley pulled out the
Now Official Handbook of Allotment Golf
and handed it to Omally. “Let us go,” he said. “The field is yours.”
Now, it is to be remembered that both men had imbibed considerable quantities of potato gin, a drink not noted for its sobering qualities, and that the light was extremely poor. Had it not been for these two facts it is just possible that the job might have been accomplished with some degree of success. As it was, in no time at all, the two men found themselves crossing and recrossing their tracks and scrawling illegible diagrams and unreadable locative descriptions all over the exercise book.
“We have done this one already,” said Pooley, lurching to one side of a glowing symbol. “I’m sure we’ve done this one.”
Omally shook his head, “No, no,” he said, “it is as clear as clear, look, you can see the way we came.” He tapped at the notebook and as he did so the moon crept away behind a large cloud, leaving them in total darkness. “Bugger,” said John, “I cannot seem to find my way.”
“Best call it off then,” said Pooley, “bad light stops play, nothing more to be done, bed is calling.”
“My hearing is acute,” Omally warned. “One move and I strike you down.”
“But, John.”
“But nothing.”
The two men stood a moment awaiting the return of the moon. “What is that?” Omally asked, quite without warning.
“What is what?” Pooley replied sulkily.
Omally gestured invisibly to a point not far distant, where something definitely untoward was occurring. “That there.”
Pooley peered about in the uncertain light and it did not take him long to see it. “Right,” said Jim, “that is definitely me finished. The Pooleys know when their time is up.”
“Keep your gaping gob shut,” whispered Omally hoarsely, as he leapt forward and dragged the quitter to the dust.
Coming from the direction of Soap Distant’s abandoned hut a soft red light was growing. The door of the heavily bolted shed was slowly opening, showing a ghostly red glow.
“Would you look at that?” gasped Dublin’s finest.
“I should prefer not,” said Pooley, climbing to his feet and preparing for the off.
Omally clutched at his companion, catching him by a ragged trouser cuff. “Look,” said he, “now that is a thing.”
From all points of the allotment shadowy forms were moving, figures indistinct and fuzzy about the edges, striding like automata, ever in the direction of the weird red light. “Ye gods,” whispered Jim as one passed near enough to expose his angular profile, “the
Pooley thought this not only sound but also far less strenuous. “That is using the old grey matter,” he told John. “Now, if you will release your grip, which is causing no little interference to my general welfare about the throat regions, I shall do my best to assist you.”
Now began the inevitable discussion upon the best method of accomplishing the task in hand. Pooley suggested the hardy sprout as a piece of vegetable matter suitable for the job. In the interests of good taste Omally put up the spud as the ideal substitute. The war then waged between bean poles loaded with tinfoil, shredded newspaper laid out in the form of pentagrams and a whole host of objects ranging from the noble and worthy to the positively obscene. Finally, after Pooley had made a suggestion so ludicrous as to bring the naturally short-tempered Irishman within a hairbreadth of killing him there and then, Omally put his foot down once and for all.
“Enough, enough,” he shouted. “We will not mark them at all, we shall merely pace around the allotment and make notes as to each location as we come upon it. That is that.”
If Pooley had worn a hat he would have taken it off to his companion and cast it into the air. “Brilliant,” he said, shaking his head in admiration. “How do you do it, John?”
“It’s a gift, I believe.”
Pooley pulled out the
Now Official Handbook of Allotment Golf
and handed it to Omally. “Let us go,” he said. “The field is yours.”
Now, it is to be remembered that both men had imbibed considerable quantities of potato gin, a drink not noted for its sobering qualities, and that the light was extremely poor. Had it not been for these two facts it is just possible that the job might have been accomplished with some degree of success. As it was, in no time at all, the two men found themselves crossing and recrossing their tracks and scrawling illegible diagrams and unreadable locative descriptions all over the exercise book.
“We have done this one already,” said Pooley, lurching to one side of a glowing symbol. “I’m sure we’ve done this one.”
Omally shook his head, “No, no,” he said, “it is as clear as clear, look, you can see the way we came.” He tapped at the notebook and as he did so the moon crept away behind a large cloud, leaving them in total darkness. “Bugger,” said John, “I cannot seem to find my way.”
“Best call it off then,” said Pooley, “bad light stops play, nothing more to be done, bed is calling.”
“My hearing is acute,” Omally warned. “One move and I strike you down.”
“But, John.”
“But nothing.”
The two men stood a moment awaiting the return of the moon. “What is that?” Omally asked, quite without warning.
“What is what?” Pooley replied sulkily.
Omally gestured invisibly to a point not far distant, where something definitely untoward was occurring. “That there.”
Pooley peered about in the uncertain light and it did not take him long to see it. “Right,” said Jim, “that is definitely me finished. The Pooleys know when their time is up.”
“Keep your gaping gob shut,” whispered Omally hoarsely, as he leapt forward and dragged the quitter to the dust.
Coming from the direction of Soap Distant’s abandoned hut a soft red light was growing. The door of the heavily bolted shed was slowly opening, showing a ghostly red glow.
“Would you look at that?” gasped Dublin’s finest.
“I should prefer not,” said Pooley, climbing to his feet and preparing for the off.
Omally clutched at his companion, catching him by a ragged trouser cuff. “Look,” said he, “now that is a thing.”
From all points of the allotment shadowy forms were moving, figures indistinct and fuzzy about the edges, striding like automata, ever in the direction of the weird red light. “Ye gods,” whispered Jim as one passed near enough to expose his angular profile, “the
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