At last the meal was over, the things had been cleared away, and Peter was bending over a sum in preparation for lessons on Monday. Such a sum--add this and this and this and this and then divide it by that and multiply the result by this!... and the figures (bad ill-written figures) crept over the page and there were smudgy finger marks, and always between every other line “London, looking-glasses, and fat Mr. Zanti laughing until the tears ran down his face.” Such a strange world where all these things could be so curiously confused, all of them, one supposed, having their purpose and meaning--even grandfather--and even 2469 X 2312 X 6201, and ever so many more until they ran races round the page and up and down and in and out. And then suddenly into the middle of the silence his father's voice: “What are you doing there?” “Sums, father--for Monday.” “You won't go back on Monday” (and this without the _Cornish Times_ moving an inch). “Not go back?” “No. You are going away to school--to Devonshire--on Tuesday week.” And Peter's pencil fell clattering on to the paper, and the answer to that sum is still an open question. CHAPTER IV IN WHICH “DAWSON'S,” AS THE GATE OF LIFE, IS PROVED A DISAPPOINTMENT I It was, of course, very strange that this should come so swiftly after the meeting with the London gentleman--it was almost as though he had known about it, because it was a first step towards that London that he had so confidently promised. To Peter school meant the immediate supply of the two things that he wanted more than anything in the world--Friendship and Knowledge; not knowledge of the tiresome kind, Knowledge that had to do with the Kings of Israel and the capital of Italy, but rather the experience that other gentlemen of his own age had already gathered during their journey through the world. Stephen, Zachary, Moses, Dicky, Mrs. Trussit, old Curtis, even Aunt Jessie--all these people had knowledge, of course, but they would not give it you--they would not talk to you as though they were at your stage of the journey, they could not exchange opinions with you, they could not share in your wild surmises, they could not sympathise with your hatred of addition, multiplication, and subtraction. The fellow victims at old Parlow's might have been expected to do these things, but they were too young, too uninterested, too unenterprising. One wanted real boys--boys with excitement and sympathy... _real_ boys. He had wanted it, far, far more terribly than any one had known. He had sat, sometimes, in the dark, in his bedroom, and thought about it until he had very nearly cried, because he wanted it so badly, and now it had suddenly come out of the clouds... bang! II