A few minutes later Wilson dropped into the study of Number Five Standerland, which Deering and Lawrence were sharing that year, Carroll having been promoted to the Old School, a privilege of the Sixth. The two boys were sitting at their desks, books open, it is true, but rather deeper in football than Virgil. Kit received a characteristic welcome. “Hello, old sport, drape yourself on a couch, and listen to this fairy tale about the pious Æneas. Tony’s boned it out.” “Oh, chuck the stuff!” growled Kit. “I’ll do it after breakfast with a trot. I’ve only got ten minutes now for a pow-wow. Have you seen the new kid?” “Well, rather,” answered Jimmie, “the Doctor has loaded him onto Bill. He’s to have Number Three single right across the hall. The little beast is in the Fifth.” “Pon honor?” said Kit. “Why, he looks like a sub-First Former. I just rescued him from a crowd of Lower Schoolers that were putting it to him particularly nastily. I gave Ducky Thornton, that wallowing white elephant of the Third, a kick that I reckon’ll make his sitting down uncomfortable for a week. But Finch is such a gloomy little toad that I was almost sorry I’d done it.” Tony smiled. “That must have been good fun. But I am sorry the Doctor took him here; can’t understand it, in fact. He’ll never do, poor rat!” “Well, hardly.” “By the by, kiddo, what——Come in!” he interrupted himself to cry in response to a knock at the door. Morris entered and was welcomed by the boys in a manner that bespoke both familiarity and deference. The master waved them back into their comfortable chairs. “Thanks, no; I am not going to rob the lot of you of these precious moments of study. I should like to speak to you, Tony, for a few minutes in my study.” “Certainly, sir.” Tony followed the master down the hallway to the familiar cheerful study—Tony had really got to know his house-master more intimately the year before. “Make yourself comfortable,” said Morris, “for I want to talk with you for a little while—quite seriously.” Tony sat down upon the couch, leaned back amongst the pillows and put his hands beneath his head, looking up at Morris who stood on the hearth rug with his back to the open wood fire. “All right, O wise man!” he laughed. “I am very comfy, and all attention.” Morris looked down at the boy and seemed to study him afresh. He liked Deering very much indeed, better he felt than he had ever liked a boy before. And as he stood there, he told himself that the reason was, that beside Tony’s personal charm, the brightness and lovableness of his sunshiny open nature, there were depths of feeling and purpose that one ordinarily did not find. “Well, Tony, I want you to do something—something quite out of the ordinary—something indeed that I think will be particularly hard and disagreeable.” “What is it?” asked the boy, “I don’t exactly crave hardship, but there isn’t a lot I wouldn’t do if you specially asked me.”