He enquired as to the next train that was expected to arrive from London. The station-master's son was not sure, but would ask the porter, whose name it appeared was Johnny. Johnny gave the correct answer without an effort. 'Seven-thirty it was, sir, except on Saturdays, when it was eight o'clock.' 'Thanks,' said the Bishop. 'Dash the man, he might at least have wired.' He registered a silent wish concerning the uncle who had brought him a long three miles out of his way with nothing to show at the end of it, and was just turning to leave the station, when the top-hatted small boy, who had been hovering round the group during the conversation, addressed winged words to him. These were the winged words-- 'I say, are you looking for somebody?' The Bishop stared at him as a naturalist stares at a novel species of insect. 'Yes,' he said. 'Why?' 'Is your name Gethryn?' This affair, thought the Bishop, was beginning to assume an uncanny aspect. 'How the dickens did you know that?' he said. 'Oh, then you are Gethryn? That's all right. I was told you were going to be here to meet this train. Glad to make your acquaintance. My name's Farnie. I'm your uncle, you know.' 'My what?' gurgled the Bishop. 'Your uncle. U-n, un; c-l-e--kul. Uncle. Fact, I assure you.' [3] THE UNCLE MAKES HIMSELF AT HOME 'But, dash it,' said Gethryn, when he had finished gasping, 'that must be rot!' 'Not a bit,' said the self-possessed youth. 'Your mater was my elder sister. You'll find it works out all right. Look here. A, the daughter of B and C, marries. No, look here. I was born when you were four. See?' Then the demoralized Bishop remembered. He had heard of his juvenile uncle, but the tales had made little impression upon him. Till now they had not crossed one another's tracks. 'Oh, all right,' said he, 'I'll take your word for it. You seem to have been getting up the subject.' 'Yes. Thought you might want to know about it. I say, how far is it to Beckford, and how do you get there?' Up till now Gethryn had scarcely realized that his uncle was actually coming to the School for good. These words brought the fact home to him. 'Oh, Lord,' he said, 'are you coming to Beckford?' The thought of having his footsteps perpetually dogged by an uncle four years younger than himself, and manifestly a youth with a fine taste in cheek, was not pleasant. 'Of course,' said his uncle. 'What did you think I was going to do? Camp out on the platform?' 'What House are you in?' 'Leicester's.' The worst had happened. The bitter cup was full, the iron neatly inserted in Gethryn's soul. In his most pessimistic moments he had never looked forward to the coming term so gloomily as he did now. His uncle noted his lack of enthusiasm, and attributed it to anxiety on behalf of himself. 'What's up?' he asked. 'Isn't Leicester's all right? Is Leicester a beast?'