“'Tisn't Life that matters, but the Courage--” And then suddenly the train stopped, the two boys flung themselves at the window, and the porter outside, like a magician who kept a rabbit in a bag, suddenly shouted “Salton!” After that there were mixed impressions. He stood alone on the dark, windy platform whilst dark figures passed and repassed him. Then a tall, thin Somebody said “Are you Westcott?” and Peter said “Yes,” and he was conveyed to a large wagonette already crowded with boys. Then there was a great deal of squeezing, a great deal of noise, and some one in authority said from somewhere, “Less noise, please.” The wagonette started in a jolting uncertain way, and then they seemed to go on for ever and ever between dark sweet-smelling hedges with black trees that swept their heads, and the faint blue of the evening sky on the horizon. Every one was very quiet now, and Peter fell asleep once more and dreamed of the Old Gentleman, plum cake, and Stephen. A sudden pause--the sound of an iron gate being swung back, and Peter was awake again to see that they were driving up to a dark heavy building that looked like a hospital or a prison. “The new boys please follow me,” and he found himself, still struggling with sleep, blinded by the sudden light, following, with some ten others, a long and thin gentleman who wore a pince-nez. His strongest feeling was that he was very cold and that he hated everybody and everything. He heard many voices somewhere in the distance, doors were being continually opened and shut, and little winds blew down the dismal passages. They were suddenly in a study lined with books and a stout rubicund gentleman with a gold watch chain and a habit (as Peter at once discovered) of whistling through his teeth was writing at a table. He turned round when he heard them enter and watched them for a moment as they stood by the door. “Well, boys” (his voice came from somewhere near his watch chain), “come and shake hands. How are you all?” Some eager boy in the front row, with a pleasant smile and a shrill piping voice said, “Very well, thank you, sir,” and Peter immediately hated him. Then they shook hands and their names were written in a book. The stout gentleman said, “Well, boys, here you all are. Your first term, you know--very important. Work and play--work and play. Work first and play afterwards, and then we'll be friends. Oh, yes! Supper at nine. Prayers at nine-thirty.” They were all bundled out, and the tall man with pince-nez said: “Now, boys, you have an hour before supper,” and left them without another word in a long dark passage. The passage was hung with greatcoats and down each side of it were play-boxes. At the other end, mistily and vaguely, figures passed. Peter sat down on one of the play-boxes and saw, to his disgust, that the eager boy with the piping voice sat down also. “I say,” said the piping boy, “don't you like school awfully?” “No, I hate it,” said Peter.