There were other satisfactory points about him also. He had asked that David should be allowed to see him off at the station, so that he could have a further talk with him. This meant missing half an hour (or more, if he lingered on his way back, as he was doing) of repetition of Latin prose. David had not been certain, at starting, that he would not sooner do prose repetition than have more “jaw”; but the “jaw,” when it came, was of the most delightful kind. Not only was he certainly to go to Marchester in September, but, after consultation with the Head, it had been settled that he was to go there next week to try for one of the scholarships, a wholly lovely adventure. Apparently—this was news to David—his work had shown great improvement during this last term; it showed signs of perception and taste, and, though greatly wanting in accuracy, which, the Archdeacon reminded him, could always be attained by the industrious and painstaking, it might prove up to scholarship-level. David did not attend much to these generalities: the point was that he would go to Marchester for a three-days’ examination next week. Finally, as a cause of happiness, his father had on the platform presented him with the five shillings that now he clutched in his pocket, to commemorate his having got into the school eleven. That presentation had been so sheer a surprise that David could have fallen flat on his face with astonishment. He would have expected, if the fatal topic of cricket was to occur again, to be reminded that it was only a game, and to be bidden to take thought of it just as such and no more; but to be tipped on such a scale had not entered into his most sanguine calculations. Then the train had come in, and David submitted to be kissed publicly without shying, even though a small vendor of papers, with whom he had slight differences before this, ceased shouting “Dily Mile,” and squeaked “Kiss me, ducky,” in perfectly audible tones. He could be dealt with after the train had gone. . . .