But, as David had expected, there were far worse things to be faced than the sarcasms of Mr. Dutton. Since the conclusion of the match, David’s performances, heavily handicapped by those of his father, had been subjected to serious debate, and had been found to be wholly unsatisfactory. It was true that he had captured a quantity of Eagles’ wickets at small cost, but with the match in his hands, literally in his hands, he had let it go. Taking his record as a whole, therefore, his futile innings being also brought under scrutiny, it was fair to make unkind allusions to his father. There were dissentients from the general view, the chief of whom was Bags, who said hotly that it was a “chouse” to rag Blazes, considering that if it hadn’t been for him Eagles would probably have won by eight wickets instead of one, for who stood the slightest chance of getting out the fellow whose father had made fifty for England, even weighted as he was with salad of many lobsters? But this view was that of a small minority, and an untrustworthy sort of hush settled down on the first-form class-room as David entered with simulated composure. No master was in charge during this hour of preparation on Saturday evening, and though every boy had to sit at his desk, talking was allowed. Sometimes a sort of patrol-master visited them, and occasionally, for a pleasant surprise, the Head came round, the knowledge of which possibility checked any exuberance; but, provided that no row was made, there was nothing to be feared. So there was an uncomfortable silence when David entered, the sarcastic intention of which was not lost on him, for there was no mistaking the chilliness of his reception. Bags, it is true, greeted him with a “Hullo, Blazes,” but otherwise nothing was said. Then trouble gently began to accumulate, like the quiet piling up of thunder-clouds, with Old Testament allusions. “I say, Jesse must have been a fine old chap,” said somebody. “He had such lots of sons.” “Oh, did he?” asked somebody else politely. “How many?” “’Bout ten. But the elder ones didn’t seem to matter much.” There was a dead silence, and David gathered himself up within himself. Then conversation began again, with rustling of the leaves of Bibles, to refresh memories. “I suppose Jesse was a Jew.” “Oh, rather. That’s why Bags is so keen about his kids. I say, it’s sausages to-morrow, isn’t it?” “Yes; Bags and Jesse and the kids won’t have any breakfast. Bad luck.” David looked up, and caught Bags’s mild eye, which was gleaming with sympathetic martyrdom. Then the attack became more direct. “I say, Da—I mean, Blazes—I hope you had a good blow-out to-night.” David had got a certain fighting-light in his eye, which Bags altogether lacked. He replied briskly: “Yes, thanks,” he said. “But why?” “Oh, I didn’t know. As there are sausages for breakfast——” and a subdued giggle went round. David opened the lid of his desk.