'You mean that Pater fought?' said Mullins. 'Like a devil. Then he nearly went to sleep in our study just now. I expect he'll be all right when he wakes up. Rummy business! Conscientious old bargee. You ought to have heard his apologies.' 'But Pater can't fight one little bit,' Mullins repeated. ''Twasn't fighting. He just tried to murder every one.' Stalky described the affair, and when he left Mullins went off to take counsel with the Head, who, out of a cloud of blue smoke, told him that all would yet be well. 'Winton,' said he, 'is a little stiff in his moral joints. He'll get over that. If he asks you whether to-day's doings will count against him in his--' 'But you know it's important to him, sir. His people aren't--very well off,' said Mullins. 'That's why I'm taking all this trouble. You must reassure him, Pot. I have overcrowded him with new experiences. Oh, by the way, has his Cap come?' 'It came at dinner, sir.' Mullins laughed. Sure enough, when he waked at tea-time, Winton proposed to take Mullins all through every one of his day's lapses from grace, and 'Do you think it will count against me?' said he. 'Don't you fuss so much about yourself and your silly career,' said Mullins. 'You're all right. And oh--here's your First Cap at last. Shove it up on the bracket and come on to tea.' They met King on their way, stepping statelily and rubbing his hands. 'I have applied,' said he, 'for the services of an additional sub-prefect in Carton's unlamented absence. Your name, Winton, seems to have found favour with the powers that be, and--and all things considered--I am disposed to give my support to the nomination. You are therefore a quasi-lictor.' 'Then it didn't count against me,' Winton gasped as soon as they were out of hearing. A Captain of Games can jest with a sub-prefect publicly. 'You utter ass!' said Mullins, and caught him by the back of his stiff neck and ran him down to the hall where the sub-prefects, who sit below the salt, made him welcome with the economical bloater-paste of mid-term. King and little Hartopp were sparring in the Reverend John Gillett's study at 10 P.M.--classical _versus_ modern as usual. 'Character--proportion--background,' snarled King. 'That is the essence of the Humanities.' 'Analects of Confucius,' little Hartopp answered. 'Time,' said the Reverend John behind the soda-water. 'You men oppress me. Hartopp, what did you say to Paddy in your dormitories to-night? Even _you_ couldn't have overlooked his face.' 'But I did,' said Hartopp calmly. 'I wasn't even humorous about it as some clerics might have been. I went straight through and said naught.' 'Poor Paddy! Now, for my part,' said King, 'and you know I am not lavish in my praises, I consider Winton a first-class type; absolutely first-class.'