Jan stood a moment at the door. Either his imagination flattered him, or young Petrie’s right ear was still rather red. But he was a good type of small boy, clear-skinned, bright-eyed, well-groomed. And even as Jan watched him he cast down the _Graphic_, stretched himself, glanced at the clock, and smiled quite pleasantly as they stood face to face upon the threshold. “I’m sorry,” said Jan, not as though he were unduly sorry, but yet without a moment’s thought. “That’s all right, _Tiger_!” replied young Petrie, brightly. “But I wouldn’t lose my wool again, if I were you. It don’t pay, Tiger, you take my tip.” CHAPTER VI BOY TO BOY The match on the Upper, although an impromptu fixture on the strength of an Indian summer’s day, was exciting no small interest in the school. It was between the champion house at cricket and the best side that could be got together from all the other houses; and the interesting point was the pronounced unpopularity of the champions (one of the hill houses), due to the insufferable complacency with which they were said to have received the last of many honours. The whole house was accused of having “an awful roll on,” and it was the fervent hope of the rest of the school that their delegates would do something to diminish this offensive characteristic. Boys were lying round the ground on rugs, and expressing their feelings after almost every ball, when Chips and Jan crept shyly upon the scene. But within five minutes a bell had tinkled on top of the pavilion; the game had been stopped because it was not a real match after all; and three or four hundred boys, most of them with rugs over their arms, huddled together in the vicinity of the heavy roller. It so happened that Heriot was call-over master of the day. He stood against the roller in a weather-beaten straw hat, rapping out the names in his abrupt, unmistakable tones, with a lightning glance at almost every atom that said “Here, sir!” and detached itself from the mass. The mass was deflating rapidly, and Jan was moistening his lips before opening them for the first time in public, when a reddish head, whose shoulders were wedged not far in front of him, suddenly caught Jan’s eye. “Shockley.” “Here, sir.” “Nunn _minor_.” “Here, sir.” “Carpenter.” “Here, sir.” “Rutter.” No answer. Heriot looking up with pencil poised. “Rutter?” “Here, sir!” And out slips Jan in dire confusion, to join Carpenter on the outskirts of the throng; to be cursed under Shockley’s breath; and just to miss the stare of the boy with reddish hair, who has turned a jovial face on hearing the name for the second time. “I say, Carpenter!” “Yes?” “Did you see who that was in front of us?” “You bet! And they said he wasn’t coming back till half-term! I’m going to wait for him.” “Then don’t say anything about me—see? He never saw me, so don’t say anything about me.”