'Beware of vinegar made from honey,' King replied. 'Pater, like some other people, is patient and long-suffering, but he has his limits. The Head is oppressing him damnably, too. As I pointed out, the boy has practically been in the First Fifteen since term began.' 'But, my dear fellow, I've known you give a boy an impot and refuse him leave off games, again and again.' 'Ah, but that was when there was real need to get at some oaf who couldn't be sensitised in any other way. Now, in our esteemed Head's action I see nothing but--' The conversation from this point does not concern us. Meantime Winton, very penitent and especially polite towards Vernon, was being cheered with cocoa in Number Five Study. They had some difficulty in stemming the flood of his apologies. He himself pointed out to Vernon that he had attacked a sub-prefect for no reason whatever, and, therefore, deserved official punishment. 'I can't think what was the matter with me to-day,' he mourned. 'Ever since that blasted mouse-business--' 'Well, then, don't think,' said Stalky. 'Or do you want Paddy to make a row about it before all the school?' Here Vernon was understood to say that he would see Winton and all the school somewhere else. 'And if you imagine Perowne and Malpass and me are goin' to give evidence at a prefects' meeting just to soothe your beastly conscience, you jolly well err,' said Beetle. 'I know what you did.' 'What?' croaked Pater, out of the valley of his humiliation. 'You went Berserk. I've read all about it in _Hypatia_.' 'What's "going Berserk"?' Winton asked. 'Never you mind,' was the reply. 'Now, don't you feel awfully weak and seedy?' 'I _am_ rather tired,' said Winton, sighing. 'That's what you ought to be. You've gone Berserk and pretty soon you'll go to sleep. But you'll probably be liable to fits of it all your life,' Beetle concluded. ''Shouldn't wonder if you murdered some one some day.' 'Shut up--you and your Berserks!' said Stalky. 'Go to Mullins now and get it over, Pater.' 'I call it filthy unjust of the Head,' said Vernon. 'Anyhow, you've given me my lickin', old man. I hope Pot'll give you yours.' 'I'm awfully sorry--awfully sorry,' was Winton's last word. It was the custom in that consulship to deal with games' defaulters between five o'clock call-over and tea. Mullins, who was old enough to pity, did not believe in letting boys wait through the night till the chill of the next morning for their punishments. He was finishing off the last of the small fry and their excuses when Winton arrived. 'But, please, Mullins'--this was Babcock tertius, a dear little twelve-year-old mother's darling--'I had an awful hack on the knee. I've been to the Matron about it and she gave me some iodine. I've been rubbing it in all day. I thought that would be an excuse off.' 'Let's have a look at it,' said the impassive Mullins. 'That's a shin-bruise--about a week old. Touch your toes. I'll give you the iodine.'