Life at St. Austin's was rendered somewhat hollow and burdensome for Pillingshot by the fact that he fagged for Scott. Not that Scott was the Beetle-Browed Bully in any way. Far from it. He showed a kindly interest in Pillingshot's welfare, and sometimes even did his Latin verses for him. But the noblest natures have flaws, and Scott's was no exception. He was by way of being a humorist, and Pillingshot, with his rather serious outlook on life, was puzzled and inconvenienced by this. It was through this defect in Scott's character that Pillingshot first became a detective. He was toasting muffins at the study fire one evening, while Scott, seated on two chairs and five cushions, read "Sherlock Holmes," when the Prefect laid down his book and fixed him with an earnest eye. "Do you know, Pillingshot," he said, "you've got a bright, intelligent face. I shouldn't wonder if you weren't rather clever. Why do you hide your light under a bushel?" Pillingshot grunted. "We must find some way of advertising you. Why don't you go in for a Junior Scholarship?" "Too old," said Pillingshot with satisfaction. "Senior, then?" "Too young." "I believe by sitting up all night and swotting----" "Here, I say!" said Pillingshot, alarmed. "You've got no enterprise," said Scott sadly. "What are those? Muffins? Well, well, I suppose I had better try and peck a bit." He ate four in rapid succession, and resumed his scrutiny of Pillingshot's countenance. "The great thing," he said, "is to find out your special line. Till then we are working in the dark. Perhaps it's music? Singing? Sing me a bar or two." Pillingshot wriggled uncomfortably. "Left your music at home?" said Scott. "Never mind, then. Perhaps it's all for the best. What are those? Still muffins? Hand me another. After all, one must keep one's strength up. You can have one if you like." Pillingshot's face brightened. He became more affable. He chatted. "There's rather a row on downstairs," he said. "In the junior day-room." "There always is," said Scott. "If it grows too loud, I shall get in amongst them with a swagger-stick. I attribute half my success at bringing off late-cuts to the practice I have had in the junior day-room. It keeps the wrist supple." "I don't mean that sort of row. It's about Evans." "What about Evans?" "He's lost a sovereign." "Silly young ass." Pillingshot furtively helped himself to another muffin. "He thinks some one's taken it," he said. "What! Stolen it?" Pillingshot nodded. "What makes him think that?" "He doesn't see how else it could have gone." "Oh, I don't--By Jove!" Scott sat up with some excitement. "I've got it," he said. "I knew we should hit on it sooner or later. Here's a field for your genius. You shall be a detective. Pillingshot, I hand this case over to you. I employ you." Pillingshot gaped.