'They're none so dusty!' said Henry, perhaps enigmatically. 'I could go on eating these all day.' A pretty girl of eighteen or so wandered past them. 'Nice little bit of stuff, that!' Tom remarked reflectively. 'What say?' 'That little thing there!' Tom explained, pointing with his elbow to the girl. 'Oh!' Henry grunted. 'I thought you said a nice little bit of stuff.' And he bent to his chestnuts again. By slow and still slower degrees they were reduced to one. 'Have this,' he invited Tom. 'No,' said Tom. 'Don't want it. You finish up.' 'I think I can't eat any more,' Henry sighed. 'Oh yes, you can,' Tom encouraged him. 'You've shifted about fifty. Surely you can manage fifty-one.' Henry put the survivor to his lips, but withdrew it. 'No,' he said. 'I tell you what I'll do: I'll put it in the box and save it.' 'But you can't cart that box about for the sake of one chestnut, my bold buccaneer.' 'Well, I'll put it in my pocket.' And he laid it gently by the side of the watch in his waistcoat pocket. 'You can find your way home, can't you?' said Tom. 'It's just occurred to me that I've got some business to attend to.' A hundred yards off the pretty girl was reading on a seat. His business led him in that direction. CHAPTER VI A CALAMITY FOR THE SCHOOL It was a most fortunate thing that there was cold mutton for dinner. The economic principle governing the arrangement of the menu was that the simplicity of the mutton atoned for the extravagance of the birthday pudding, while the extravagance of the birthday pudding excused the simplicity of the mutton. Had the first course been anything richer than cold mutton, Henry could not have pretended even to begin the repast. As it was, he ate a little of the lean, leaving a wasteful margin of lean round the fat, which he was not supposed to eat; he also nibbled at the potatoes, and compressed the large remnant of them into the smallest possible space on the plate; then he unobtrusively laid down his knife and fork. 'Come, Henry,' said Aunt Annie, 'don't leave a saucy plate.' Henry had already pondered upon a plausible explanation of his condition. 'I'm too excited to eat,' he promptly answered. 'You aren't feeling ill, are you?' his mother asked sharply. 'No,' he said. 'But can I have my birthday pudding for supper, after it's all over, instead of now?' Mrs. Knight and Aunt Annie looked at one another. 'That might be safer,' said Aunt Annie, and she added: 'You can have some cold rice pudding now, Henry.' 'No, thank you, auntie; I don't want any.' 'The boy's ill,' Mrs. Knight exclaimed. 'Annie, where's the Mother Seigel?' 'The boy's no such thing,' said Mr. Knight, pouring calmness and presence of mind over the table like oil. 'Give him some Seigel by all means, if you think fit; but don't go and alarm yourself about nothing. The boy's as well as I am.' 'I think I _should_ like some Seigel,' said the boy.