"Oh, I say, Professor!" he blurted out. "Farrell, you know! He's no sort of class. He--he deserves punishing, but he don't mean any harm, if you understand." Here Jimmy faced about with an ingenuous smile. "I'm a bit of a fool myself, you see, and must speak up for my order." "But you speak up too late, my boy," answered Foe. "What's the use of telling me that Farrell is no class? As if I didn't know _that_! . . . Why, man, I didn't _choose_ Farrell, to pay my attentions to him. If the gods had paid me the compliment of sending along the late Mr. Gladstone, or the present Archbishop of Canterbury (whoever he may be), or General Booth (if he's alive), to knock out eight years of my life like so many skittles in an alley, I'd have felt flattered, of course. But they didn't: they sent along Farrell, and I bow my head before a higher wisdom which, you'll allow, has been justified of its child. Could the late Mr. Gladstone--since we've instanced him--have done it more expeditiously, more thoroughly, with a neater turn of the wrist? . . . No. Very well, then! Better men than I have married their cooks and been content to recognise that it just happened so. You can start apologising for Farrell when I start complaining he's inadequate." Jack's eyes, during this speech, were for Jimmy, of course, and I had used the opportunity to watch his face pretty narrowly. It was a little more than ordinarily pale, but composed, as his tone was light and his manner of speech almost flippant. I wondered. . . . "Jimmy meant," said I, "that _you're_ too good to match yourself against Farrell. The harm he's done you is atrocious--I can hardly look you in the face, Jack, and speak about it. . . . All the same, Jimmy talks sense: an outsider like Farrell isn't worthy of your steel, as the writers say."