16 Nicolas-Jacques Conte

16 Nicolas-Jacques Conte Peanut and Rockwell skidded to a stop in the library's reference section, having run at full speed through the corridors to get there. They had about ten minutes to do their research before the bell went for their next lesson. 'Tell me again: why don't we just google it when we get home?' asked Peanut, mindful of the fact that mobile phones were banned at St Hubert's. 'No time like the present, replied Rockwell. 'You do want to find your dad, don't you? Anyway, can't you smell it?' 'Smell what? Oh no. You haven't, have you?' 'No!' shouted Rockwell, blushing. 'I mean, can't you smell the knowledge?'

'I don't know about any "knowledge" but I can definitely smell these musty old books. This dictionary must be from the nineties. It's ancient!' 'I love the smell of libraries,' said Rockwell wistfully. All those pages full of facts, opinion and analysis. Don't get me wrong, computers are great and everything, but there is nothing like a bit of analogue action when it comes to learning. One day I'm going to have an entire section in this room dedicated to me and my wisdom. You just wait and see. I'm sure you're right,' said Peanut. 'But in the meantime, let's look up what "LORE" means, shall we?' She pulled the dictionary from the shelf, blew the dust off the cover, opened it and started flicking through the 'L' section. Ah. Here it is!' she shouted. LORE {lor} noun Collective knowledge or wisdom on a particular subject, especially of a traditional nature Knowledge or learning Teachings, or something that is taught (archaic) 'Knowledge! It says knowledge! See? I told you I could smell it,' said Rockwell, smiling. 'I don't understand,' Peanut said. 'What collective

knowledge or wisdom? What teachings? Rockwell? Rockwell?' He had moved further down the aisle and was leafing through the biggest book that Peanut had ever seen in her life. He was doing his best to turn the pages while he held on to it with both arms. It looked super-heavy. 'Need some help?' asked Peanut. 'Yes please,' puffed Rockwell. 'I thought I'd grab this encyclopaedia and look up who the inventor of the pencil was. See if it tells us anything about ours. 'That's actually a really good idea,' said Peanut as she helped Rockwell lower the book to the floor. 'Hang on a second. What do you mean, "ours"?' Right. Let's have a look,' said Rockwell, ignoring her. 'Yes. Here we are. "The History of the Pencil". 'His expression intensified as he read the entry. 'Well?' said Peanut impatiently. It says here that it was invented by some French bloke called Nicolas-Jacques Conte in the eighteenth century. Basically, the British wouldn't sell France any graphite, so he decided to mix what powdered graphite they had with clay, and make the lead that way. Then he clamped it between two half-cylinders of wood to make the first ever version of the handy drawing implement we all know and love.' 'Hmm, so maybe our pencil is French, then, mused Peanut. 'Oh, so it is ours, then?' said Rockwell, smiling.

DRING!! The end-of-lunch bell almost deafened the pair. Rockwell slammed the encyclopaedia shut and heaved it back on to the shelf. Gotta run, Peanut! Double chemistry now, and Mrs Bloyce does not appreciate lateness.

'OK. Er, shall we meet at the end of school then and see if we can find out anything else?' asked Peanut. 'Can't. Chess Club. I'll call for you in the morning and we'll work out what to do next. OK?' 'OK. But remember, this doesn't mean 'I know, I know,' he said, smiling. 'This doesn't mean we're friends. I'll see you in the morning.