CHAPTER 3
BEING DETECTIVES

The next thing that happened to us was very interesting. It was as real
as the half-crowns--not just pretending. I shall try to write it as
like a real book as I can. Of course we have read Mr Sherlock Holmes,
as well as the yellow-covered books with pictures outside that are so
badly printed; and you get them for fourpence-halfpenny at the bookstall
when the corners of them are beginning to curl up and get dirty, with
people looking to see how the story ends when they are waiting for
trains. I think this is most unfair to the boy at the bookstall. The
books are written by a gentleman named Gaboriau, and Albert's uncle says
they are the worst translations in the world--and written in vile
English. Of course they're not like Kipling, but they're jolly good
stories. And we had just been reading a book by Dick Diddlington--that's
not his right name, but I know all about libel actions, so I shall not
say what his name is really, because his books are rot. Only they put
it into our heads to do what I am going to narrate.

It was in September, and we were not to go to the seaside because it is
so expensive, even if you go to Sheerness, where it is all tin cans and
old boots and no sand at all. But every one else went, even the people
next door--not Albert's side, but the other. Their servant told Eliza
they were all going to Scarborough, and next day sure enough all the
blinds were down and the shutters up, and the milk was not left any
more. There is a big horse-chestnut tree between their garden and ours,
very useful for getting conkers out of and for making stuff to rub on
your chilblains. This prevented our seeing whether the blinds were down
at the back as well, but Dicky climbed to the top of the tree and
looked, and they were.