Ever since his untimely death on Hopeless, Father Ignatius Stamage had come to regard his old Oxford college, Campion Hall, as a place of refuge. Accessed via the interior of his hat, the college invariably behaved itself. Corridors remained where they were put, doors opened when expected, and nothing of consequence ever bounded unexpectedly around a corner.

Until now, this arrangement had suited him very well. Things, however, had gone horribly wrong when Durosimi O’Stoat had managed – albeit inadvertently – to send Drury clattering noisily along the hallowed corridors of his beloved alma mater.

Having completed a thorough inspection of the chapel pews, Drury discovered the library and entered it with the air of a dog who has just realised that the world contains shelves.

The smell here was different. It was paper, dust and old leather. And, faintly beneath it all, that familiar and reassuring trace of cheap brilliantine and incense.

Drury followed the scent with professional interest.

Behind him, Father Stamage paused at the threshold and considered the situation with what dignity he could muster.

“Drury,” he said firmly, “this is a place of quiet study.”

Drury wagged, and several vertebrae responded enthusiastically.

Inside the library, a young Jesuit sat alone at a long wooden table, surrounded by books of a seriousness that suggested they had never once been opened for pleasure. He was making notes in a careful hand when he became aware of a presence.

He looked up.

Drury looked back.

For a long moment neither moved.

The young man blinked once, slowly, as though attempting to adjust the world into a more acceptable arrangement.

“I see,” he said at last, in the tone of one who did not, in fact, see at all.

Drury took this as encouragement and approached the table, placing his front paws gently upon it. His claws made a small, decisive tick-tick on the polished wood. The inkpot rattled supportively.

The young Jesuit followed the line of Drury’s skeleton from paw to shoulder to skull.

“I wonder,” he said quietly, “if this might be allegorical.”

Drury sniffed the ink.

Father Stamage closed his eyes.

“Not allegorical,” he said. “He is, regrettably, literal.”

The young man looked up again, this time at the faint, shimmering outline of a clerical figure hovering near the door.

He considered this.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. He seemed completely unfazed, as though skeletal hounds and phantom priests were frequent visitors.

“That does seem more likely.”

Across the room, another novice had risen to his feet.

“Is there a dog in the library?” he asked.

“There is,” said the first.

“A real dog?”

There was a pause.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that we may need to reconsider what we mean by ‘real’.”

Meanwhile, Drury had discovered a chair and, finding it agreeable, attempted to sit on it. This proved only partially successful. The chair remained where it was. Drury did not entirely do so.

His tail continued to wag as a pile of papers slid quietly to the floor.

Father Stamage stepped forward, gathering what remained of his composure.

“Drury,” he said, with a firmness that suggested he would very much like to be obeyed, “we must return at once.”

Drury turned his head.

The word return held promise.

Back on Hopeless, Durosimi O’Stoat had begun to pace. Knowing how fond the Bucket woman was of that infernal hound, its disappearance would invite nothing but trouble. 

“This is inconvenient,” he muttered.

He drew another small symbol in the air, made a slight adjustment, and tried again.

Inside Campion Hall, the air shifted.

Drury’s ears, or the memory of them, pricked.

Father Stamage straightened.

“Yes,” he said quickly, “that will be Durosimi attempting to correct his mistake. Do try to remain still.”

To no one’s surprise, Drury did not remain still.

The corridor seemed to tilt slightly, as though reconsidering its allegiance.

The novices felt a sudden draught, and smelt, quite distinctly, marsh water. They watched, open-mouthed and not a little awe-struck, as the dog, the ghostly priest, and a small portion of the room’s composure were simply no longer present.

Silence returned.

The first novice looked down at his notes.

He read the last line he had written, then very carefully crossed it out.

“I think,” he said, “I won’t include that in the final essay.”

Back on Hopeless, Drury reappeared with enthusiasm, although Father Stamage did not.

From his hat, which was still lying in the grass close to Not-Hopeless, came a long, measured sigh.

Durosimi brushed his hands together and glared at Drury. 

“There,” he said. “The problem is resolved, finally. Thank goodness. Now go away.”

(That might not have been his exact phraseology, but I’m sure you get the drift).

Drury wagged his bony tail. 

After a moment, Father Stamage’s voice emerged, weary but intact.

“I should like it to be recorded,” he said, “that Campion Hall is not equipped for the presence of dogs of this, or any other, description.”

Drury, having enjoyed himself immensely, picked up the hat once more and trotted happily off in the general direction of The Squid and Teapot.