“Oh, come, Roylston,” exclaimed Morris, making a bad move in his game with Stenton. “Of course, I shall use my influence with the boys in my house to make things easy for poor Finch. Why should I not?” “Echo answers ‘why,’” replied Mr. Roylston, somewhat annoyed; and then he added with an air of indulgence, “but be assured, my dear fellow, I have no intention of criticising your extraordinary theories afresh.” “Thank you,” said Morris and gave his attention to his game. “Your move, Stenton, I think.” Mr. Roylston sent a characteristic glance of patient suffering in the direction of his colleague, and then held up his hands for the benefit of the company as though to say, “You see how useless it is to discuss these things with our friend over there.” He then bade them all a tart good-night, and went off to keep his duty in the schoolroom. His way led across the Gymnasium. There, in the center of a crowd of boys engaged in making his life miserable, stood the new boy, Finch, who had just been the subject of conversation in the masters’ common-room. He was a sorry specimen of a boy, to be sure; the sorriest probably that through mistaken kindness had ever found his way to a great school of wholesome, healthy youngsters. He was thin, he was pallid, he was ugly. He had the face of a little old man, weak light eyes, a high dome-like forehead, over which straggled little wisps of thin yellow hair. His ill-formed mouth was parted now in a snarl half of rage, half of terror, as he glanced from one jibing boy to another, like a hunted rat. His clothes were too small for him, and his thin little legs, which long since should have been concealed by long trousers, were incased in bright red knitted stockings. These had acted upon the imagination of his schoolmates like the proverbial red rag upon a bull, and were the subject of the stream of jibes and jokes that were being heaped upon him. It was not a representative crowd of boys that surrounded him, but a miscellaneous crew of lower schoolers who had followed in the wake of a fat Third Form boy, known as Ducky Thornton, the self-appointed chief inquisitor of the moment. The noise was unduly loud, consisting for the most part of catcalls and strange and weird squeaks from the throats of a dozen excited small boys. It was the sort of commotion that under ordinary circumstances Mr. Roylston would have promptly checked and rewarded with a liberal distribution of pensums. Such indeed had been his immediate impulse, but as he started to carry out his purpose, he had caught sight of Finch and there had flashed into his mind the irritating exchange of words about him in the common-room. He checked the feeling of compassion for the new boy and his annoyance at the disturbance, and passed quickly into the cloister that led into the schoolroom.