“Trust Youth! _We_ call him ‘Mister.’” “‘Mister Brownell’?” “Just ‘Mister.’ It took _Us_ three days to plumb his soul.” “And he doesn’t approve of Our institutions? You say he is On the Track--eh? He suspects the worst?” The School Chaplain nodded. “We-ell. _I_ should say that that was the one tendency we had _not_ developed. Setting aside we haven’t even a curtain in a dormitory, let alone a lock to any form-room door--there has to be tradition in these things.” “So I believe. So, indeed, one knows. And--’tisn’t as if I ever preached on personal purity either.” The Head laughed. “No, or you’d join Brownell at term-end. By the way, what’s this new line of Patristic discourse you’re giving us in church? I found myself listening to some of it last Sunday.” “Oh! My early Christianity sermons? I bought a dozen ready made in Town just before I came down. Some one who knows his Gibbon must have done ’em. Aren’t they good?” The Reverend John, who was no hand at written work, beamed self-approvingly. There was a knock and Pot entered. The weather had defeated him, at last. All footer-grounds, he reported, were unplayable, and must be rested. His idea, to keep things going, was Big and Little Side Paper-chases thrice a week. For the Juniors, a shortish course on the Burrows which he intended to oversee personally the first few times, while Packman lunged Big Side across the inland and upland ploughs, for proper sweats. There was some question of bounds that he asked authority to vary; and, would the Head please say which afternoons would interfere least with the Army Class, Extra Tuition. As to bounds, the Head left those, as usual, entirely to Pot. The Reverend John volunteered to shift one of his extra-Tu classes from four to five P. M. till after prayers--nine to ten. The whole question was settled in five minutes. “_We_ hate paper-chases, don’t we, Pot?” the Headmaster asked as the Head of Games rose. “Yes, sir, but it keeps ’em in training. Good night, sir.” “To go back----” drawled the Head when the door was well shut. “No-o. I do _not_ think so!... Ye-es! He’ll leave at the end of the term.... A-aah! How does it go? ‘Don’t ’spute wid de squinch owl. Jam de shovel in de fier.’ Have you come across that extraordinary book, by the way?” “Oh, yes. _We_’ve got it badly too. It has some sort of elemental appeal, I suppose.” Here Mr. King came in with a neat little scheme for the reorganisation of certain details in Macrea’s House, where he had detected reprehensible laxities. The Head sighed. The Reverend John only heard the beginnings of it. Then he slid out softly. He remembered he had not written to Macrea for quite a long time. * * * * *