This was excellent Duttonese, cutting and insulting, and impossible to answer without risk of further penalties for insolence. For the moment David’s face went crimson with anger, and Mr. Dutton rejoiced in his mean heart, and proceeded to pile up irony. He had forgotten the pipe in his pocket, the smoke of which curled thinly up. But David had not forgotten it, nor did he fail to see that the Head was coming up across the field towards them with his swift, rocking motion, and a vengeance of a singularly pleasant kind suggested itself to him. Had not Dubs made himself so gratuitously offensive, he would not have dreamed of taking it; if he had even only stopped there, he might not have done so. But the disgusting Dubs, intoxicated with his own eloquence, and rejoicing to see David writhing under it, did not stop. “It was a grand day for you, was it not?” proceeded this odious man, “with your father to look on, and call out ‘Well played, Blaize’—I beg your pardon, ‘Well played, David.’ And to finish with being late for lock-up is a fine achievement.” The Head was close to them now, coming up silently, on the grass behind Mr. Dutton. At a few yards distance he joined in the colloquy. “What is all this? What is all this?” he inquired. Mr. Dutton turned. “Blaize is late for lock-up,” he said. “I have just set him two hundred lines.” “Well, Blaize?” said the Head. David shook off the guilty slouch, and stood erect and confident. “Please, sir, I was walking with my father,” he said. “Mr. Dutton didn’t ask me to explain, as he went on about my being out first ball and missing that catch.” “You have only just left your father?” asked the Head. “Yes, sir, two minutes ago.” The Head nodded. “We will remit that imposition,” he observed. Then David suddenly stared at that which he had been secretly glancing at, namely, the whorl of smoke from Mr. Dutton’s pocket. “Please, sir, you’re burning,” he said, anxiously pointing at it. “Something is burning in your pocket.” The Head transferred his awful eye to Mr. Dutton, and sniffed with his omniscient nose. “You may go, Blaize,” he said. “Well, Mr. Dutton?” David scuttled off. “Scored off, you cad,” he said to himself, still hot with indignation at these insults. * * * * *