I put away my photographs, and hung the oleos. Ruding! The name was familiar. Among the marriages in my family pedigree, such as ‘daughter of Fitzherbert,’ ‘daughter of Tastborough,’ occurred the entry, ‘daughter of Ruding,’ some time before the Civil War. Daughter of Ruding! This demigod might be a far-off kinsman. But I felt I should never dare to tell him of the coincidence. Miles Ruding was not brilliant, but pretty good at everything. He was not well dressed--you did not think of dress in connection with him either one way or the other. He was not exactly popular--being reserved, far from showy, and not rich--but he had no ‘side,’ and never either patronised or abused his juniors. He was not indulgent to himself or others, but he was very just; and, unlike many monitors, seemed to take no pleasure in ‘whopping.’ He never fell off in ‘trials’ at the end of a term, and was always playing as hard at the finish of a match as at the start. One would have said he had an exacting conscience, but he was certainly the last person to mention such a thing. He never showed his feelings, yet he never seemed trying to hide them, as I used always to be. He was greatly respected without seeming to care; an independent, self-dependent bird, who would have cut a greater dash if he hadn’t been so, as it were, uncreative. In all those two years I only had one at all intimate talk with him, which after all was perhaps above the average number, considering the difference in our ages. In my fifth term and Ruding’s last but one, there had been some disciplinary rumpus in the house, which had hurt the dignity of the captain of the football ‘torpid’ eleven--a big Irish boy who played back and was the mainstay of the side. It happened on the eve of our first house match and the sensation may be imagined when this important person refused to play; physically and spiritually sore, he declared for the part of Achilles and withdrew to his tent. The house rocked with pro and con. My sympathies, in common with nearly all below the second fifth, lay with Donelly against the sixth form. His defection had left me captain of the side, so that the question whether we could play at all depended on me. If I declared a sympathetic strike, the rest would follow. That evening, after long hours of ‘_fronde_’ with other rebellious spirits, I was alone and still in two minds, when Ruding came into my room. He leaned against the door, and said: “Well, Bartlet, _you’re_ not going to rat?” “I--I don’t think Donelly ought to have been--been whopped,” I stammered. “That as may be,” he said, “but the house comes first. You know that.” Torn between the loyalties, I was silent. “Look here, young Bartlet,” he said suddenly, “it’ll be a disgrace to us all, and it hangs on you.” “All right,” I said sulkily, “I’ll play.” “Good chap!” “But I don’t think Donelly ought to have been whopped,” I repeated inanely; “he’s--he’s too big.”