Whether or not he was aware of this I did not of course know, but both as an act of kindness and in justice to myself, I felt it incumbent on me to seek the earliest chance of dissociating myself from such a practice. I accordingly took the opportunity one day, when he was acting as arbitrator in a game of football in the playground, of approaching him and touching him on the elbow and suggesting that I should like to have a few words with him. “Eh, what?” he said. “Foul,” and he then blew a blast, I remember, on a small whistle. Taken unawares, I could not refrain from shuddering a little, and instinctively put my hands to my ears. “Well, what is it?” he asked. “What’s the matter?” “Perhaps we might withdraw,” I replied, “to some quieter place.” “But what’s the trouble?” he said. “Look out,” and he abruptly leapt back to avoid the oncoming football. Not so fortunate, and left entirely unprotected by Mr. Beerthorpe’s sudden retreat, I received the full impact of the hurtling projectile upon the upper part of my neck and my left ear, and for some moments I was entirely unable to proceed with the conversation. Indeed had the missile been of the egg-shaped variety frequently employed, I understand, in the same barbarous pursuit, the blow might well have had the most serious, if not fatal, consequences. Nor could I help feeling a trifle disheartened to perceive, when I had regained my powers of speech, that Mr. Beerthorpe was still callously blowing his whistle in a remote corner of the playground. Under such circumstances many another lad would have been deflected from his purpose. But in spite of what followed, I have always been glad to remember that I did not allow myself to be deterred. Approaching him a second time, I again touched his elbow. “Good God,” he said, “are you still there?” Naturally flinching a little at the expletive, I reminded him that I had still something to communicate. “Oh, all right,” he said. “Come along then.” He handed his instrument to a neighbouring boy. “Well, what is it?” he asked. We entered an empty schoolroom. “Perhaps I may first,” I said, “ask you to accept this.” It was a box of chocolates weighing half a pound and tastefully adorned with a lemon-coloured ribbon. “It is merely a token,” I proceeded, “albeit I hope an acceptable one, of a desire to inaugurate friendly relations.” For a moment he stared at it with his mouth open and then made a rasping noise in the back of his throat. “But look here,” he said, “you don’t mean to tell me that you’ve interrupted a game of football just to bring me in here and give me half a pound of chocolates?” “Not wholly,” I said, “nor even principally, though I am naturally a little wounded by your tone of voice. But I also desired to inform you that you were the subject of a prevalent indignity from which personally I have strongly dissented.” “Good God!” he said. “What on earth do you mean?” After flinching a second time, I lowered my voice a little.