Mr. Brownell and his umbrella scudded off, and Pot returned to his match-plannings. Anon, he observed, much as the Almighty might observe black-beetles, two small figures coming over the Pebble-ridge a few hundred yards to his right. They were a Major and his Minor, the latter a new boy and, as such, entitled to his brother’s countenance for exactly three days--after which he would fend for himself. Pot waited till they were well out on the great stretch of mother-o’-pearl sands; then caused his ground-ash to describe a magnificent whirl of command in the air. “Come on,” said the Major. “Run!” “What for?” said the Minor, who had noticed nothing. “’Cause we’re wanted. Leg it!” “Oh, I can do _that_,” the Minor replied and, at the end of the sprint, fetched up a couple of yards ahead of his brother, and much less winded. “’Your Minor?” said Pot looking over them, seawards. “Yes, Mullins,” the Major replied. “All right. Cut along!” They cut on the word. “Hi! Fludd Major! Come back!” Back fled the elder. “Your wind’s bad. Too fat. You grunt like a pig. Mustn’t do it! Understand? Go away!” “What was all that for?” the Minor asked on the Major’s return. “To see if we could run, you fool!” “Well, I ran faster than you, anyhow,” was the scandalous retort. “Look here, Har--Minor, if you go on talking like this, you’ll get yourself kicked all round Coll. An’ you mustn’t stand like you did when a Prefect’s talkin’ to you.” The Minor’s eyes opened with awe. “I thought it was only one of the masters,” said he. “Masters! It was Mullins--Head o’ Games. You _are_ a putrid young ass!” By what seemed pure chance, Mr. Brownell ran into the School Chaplain, the Reverend John Gillette, beating up against the soft, September rain that no native ever troubled to wear a coat for. “I was trying to catch you after lunch,” the latter began. “I wanted to show you our objects of local interest.” “Thank you! I’ve seen all _I_ want,” Mr. Brownell answered. “Gillette, _is_ there anything about me which suggests the Congenital Dupe?” “It’s early to say, yet,” the Chaplain answered. “Who’ve you been meeting?” “A youth called Mullins, I believe.” And, indeed, there was Potiphar, ground-ash, pipe, and all, quarter-decking serenely below the Pebble-ridge. “Oh! I see. Old Pot--our Head of Games.” “He was smoking. He’s smoking _now_! Before those two little boys, too!” Mr. Brownell panted. “He had the audacity to tell me that----” “Yes,” the Reverend John cut in. “The Army Class is allowed to smoke--not in their studies, of course, but within limits, out of doors. You see we have to compete against the Crammers’ establishments, where smoking’s usual.” This was true! Of the only school in England was this the cold truth, and for the reason given, in that unprogressive age. “Good Heavens!” said Mr. Brownell to the gulls and the gray sea. “And I was never warned!”