And, as the Averys continued to beget generation after generation and continued to worship the golden calf of education, each ensuing one added to the library, until at the time of which we speak, the Avery collection of tomes had become, if not impressive in quality, at least large. The farm, of course, had continued to suffer from the mismanagement those with higher degrees from University tend to display toward granges, and although Josephus Avery the Ninth attempted to stay this decline by studying animal husbandry at both Eton and Cambridge, the fact was that by the time he took his honors the last of the farm animals had starved to death, and the land was being whittled away for taxes. The result, coming many years later as these things often do, was that in the year 1921 Josephus Avery the Twelfth had been forced to put the farmhouse itself up for hire to who would have it, and it had remained rental property for all the many years since.
But the library had never been sacrificed and remained one of the outstanding examples of literary mishmash in a country where libraries of confused collections are far from unknown, for the Averys, like other Englishmen dedicated to books, were of various shades of literary taste. And it was for this reason that Timothy Briggs, studying the shelves in search of something that might induce slumber, or at least bring on the degree of lethargy necessary to allow him to forget his sea of troubles, was both surprised and pleased to see one of his own epics, written lo! these many years before, among the jumble of titles that faced him above his head from the library walls.
He stared at the book almost reverently for several moments before pulling up a stool to climb up and take the book down, but as he did so he appeared to disturb something behind the volume, because there was a brief movement of some sort and then some object detached itself from its alcove in the gloom behind the Briggs opus, and tumbled to the floor. With a frown Briggs climbed down from his stool, put aside his own book, bent, and picked up the object, bringing it closer to the light.
It was a rolled-up bit of material Briggs guessed was parchment from the rather boardy feel of it — he had once had a pair of kid shoes that had also gotten stiff, although from rain, not age — tied about with a faded and brittle ribbon, and covered with the dust of generations. In a sudden wonder that he might have inadvertently stumbled upon something valuable, Briggs took a deep breath, blew the dust away, sneezed violently several times as a result, and then carefully untied the ribbon, laying it aside. He unrolled the parchment gingerly, and found himself facing this:
When Timothy Briggs had gone to school in Newcastle-on-Tyne as a child, Latin was among the dozen or so studies not offered to the children of miners, but he had seen enough of the stuff in hymn books and on doctor’s walls at least to recognize it for what it was. He frowned. Clifford Simpson, he knew, and William Carruthers, he suspected, had had classical educations, and it was but the work of a moment to reroll the scroll, tuck the ribbon carefully into his pocket, and make his way to the bedroom.
Although both Carruthers and Simpson were in their respective beds, neither was sleeping. Billy-Boy, decked out in the horoscopic nightmare Briggs had brought him for pajamas, was lying atop his bed looking like an advertisement for a color-blind fortuneteller. Simpson in his long underwear, looking like a cotton-covered carpenter’s rule folded at the knees, was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. Briggs got right to the point.
“Cliff,” he said, “do you read Latin?”
“Of course,” Simpson said, surprised. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“I don’t, for one,” Briggs said shortly, and unrolled the scroll, holding it out. “What do you make of this? It looks older than God. Has it any value?”
“Let me see—” Simpson draped himself over the edge of the bed and took the parchment from Briggs, while Carruthers got up on one elbow to watch interestedly. Simpson held the parchment flat beneath the lamp while he studied it. “Well,” he said at last, “it goes on and on, as these things usually do — one would think they were paid by the word — but what it’s trying to say is simply that a certain J. Avery the Ninth, whoever he might be, completed all the studies necessary to obtain a degree from Cambridge in the field of pig-farming, on a date in June of the year 1895.” He frowned. “I didn’t even know they taught pig-farming at Cambridge. Oxford, yes, but Cambridge—?” He looked up. “At any rate, is that what you wanted to know?”
“A diploma! A bloody diploma!” Briggs said in disgust. “For a bloody pig-farmer, yet! And I thought I might have stumbled on something that could put a quid or two in the bank for us!”
“I’m sorry,” Simpson said contritely.
“That’s all right,” Briggs said, trying to sound magnanimous, but finding it difficult to hide his disappointment. “I suppose it really wasn’t your fault.” He took a deep breath and shrugged. “Ah, well, back to the library again. Believe it or not, I found a copy of one of my old books on the shelves there. It’s called Mayhem on Monday, if any of you recall it. I think I’ll read it again, and see how smart I was in those distant days.”
“Hold it!” Carruthers said suddenly, and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Why hold it?” Briggs asked curiously. “I don’t believe it was all that bad a book. It’s about this Irish washerwoman, you see, who was found drowned in one of her tubs — the rinse one, as I recall. It seems—”
“No, no!” Carruthers said impatiently. He was in the process of ridding himself of the pajamas. He drew his shirt on over the money belt, pulled on his trousers, and tucked himself in. “That parchment — that diploma. May I see it?”
“Of course,” Simpson said, mystified by Billy-Boy’s attitude, and handed it over. Carruthers paused in the task of buttoning up, allowing his trousers to slide to the floor as he took the old scroll and unrolled it, holding it apart as he studied it. He considered the face of the scroll for several moments and then turned the parchment over, studying the back. The presence of a few small lines, tiny cracks occasioned by the age of the ancient document, seemed, for some unknown reason, to please him inordinately. He smiled broadly and put the parchment down long enough to allow him to complete his buttoning and suspendering, after which he returned to the scroll, studying it intently.
“What’s the matter?” Briggs asked curiously. “D’you think it’s a fake or something? Do you suspect this J. Avery the Ninth never got his degree in slopping pigs?” He suddenly snapped his small fingers, his tiny eyes alight, the ex-writer in him coming to the surface. “That’s it! There’s an idea! The truth is that Josephus Avery the Ninth was on the verge of failing his thesis in sow-scrubbing, or wart-hog wallowing, or piglet-priming, or whatever made up his final examinations, and he knew if he came home without his diploma, his father—” He paused for the briefest of moments to reconsider. “No, make that the buxom daughter of the wealthy pig-farmer next door — would never allow him to hold hands with her again—”
“Which would have broken his heart, since she owned a Poland China sow and he had a Tamworth boar, and he had always dreamed of a double ceremony,” Simpson went on, taking up the story, his imagination charging along at top speed, “so he went to this local forger for a false diploma, and luckily for him the man happened to be a Latin forger, since all the forges in the neighborhood had originally come from Milano, in Italy. And when—”