Rouse fumbled in his pocket and at last produced a small piece of chalk. “Here you are,” said he. “Draw yourself one on the wall.” From that time onward the conversation was maintained solely by the expectant captain of Rugby football. Nobody else seemed to have anything to say, but he had a great deal. Terence Nicholson sat in his corner with the reminiscent smile of the man one may notice in the stalls of any theatre—the man who has seen the show twice before but who is enjoying it all none the less for that. Bobbie Carr listened with deep and genuine interest, but he said nothing. He was too hypnotised. His large eyes followed Rouse’s every movement and never wavered. Arthur merely swayed backwards and forwards in his seat, and sometimes when the train stopped with a jerk he was jolted forward on to the knees of the boy in the corner, over whom he hung with sagging head; then when the train started again was bumped back so that he cracked his skull against the wall of the compartment, but he seemed not to care. At last they reached Harley. As soon as they had alighted the large figure of a man suddenly appeared from nowhere and loomed over them. The man was dressed exceedingly well and exceedingly comfortably in Harris tweeds. He wore a soft hat and a club tie, and his large feet were enclosed in large brogue shoes. Even his pipe was large. His hand reached out and rested upon Terence’s shoulder. Finally he looked at Rouse. “As for you,” said he, “it’s no use you saying you’re not there, because I can see your ears flapping behind that grin.” The gentleman addressed endeavoured to keep a straight face, whilst from the near locality Arthur was to be heard lamenting his ill-fortune and crying aloud for advice. For the last year or so Terence had been doing his best to overtake Toby in point of size, but he was still a trifle overshadowed by his brother’s large form, and he stood beside him modestly, as if pleased to claim a certain reflected glory. He could never see any reason for self-conceit in the fact that he had been three years in the Harley Cricket Eleven and one year in the First Fifteen. The only thing he was really proud about was the fact that Toby was his brother. “There’s rather bad news,” said Toby at last. “I’m afraid you’ll be very sorry.” They looked at him inquiringly. “The Grey Man has been very ill,” said he, puffing slowly at his pipe, “and he’s not coming back. We’ve got a new Head.” The boy who had sat in the corner was standing hesitantly behind them, and he was amazed to find Rouse struck dumb. For Rouse just stood and looked first at Toby and then at Terence, and it was a long time before he spoke. Terence asked quietly: “Who’s coming instead of him then?” And Toby answered: “He’s a man called Roe. That’s all I can tell you.” And then the pair of them seemed to consider the news with a fresh gravity, until at last Rouse shook his head sadly and said: “I loved that man, you know.”