Higson junior therefore introduced into the classroom the most succulent morsels from his midday ham sandwiches to devour them in lengthy bliss before Philip's sickened eyes. Philip began to discover little blobs of ham fat in his pockets and school bag. Upon one calamitous day he found as he devoured the first mouthful of his lunch a taste of unutterable impiety in his mouth. Looking with horror into his paper bag he found that its contents had been skilfully tampered with, (he kept his lunch stowed in the pockets of his coat hanging in the basement cloakroom), and that his mouth was now tainted with the abomination of desolation. He withdrew on the wings of disgust and scoured his mouth with water for the remainder of that interval, a process he repeated impetuously during the next few days as often as he recalled the dishonour of his mouth. "What do you mean by it?" Higson asked Philip one afternoon. "By what?" "Killing Christ!" Philip winced and turned away. "I say, lads!" Higson said winking. "Let's have a lark with _smoggie_!" "What's on, Turnips?" "Let's crucify him!" A slight gasp of horror rose from the Higson clientele. "It's quite easy! Let's first stretch him out on the wall...." Philip ran to the foot of Mr. Mathers' desk. His desperate eye had caught sight of a large earthenware bottle of ink. He lifted it and with twitching lips he whispered, "Touch me, that's all!" "You little squib!" said Higson, swaggering forward nonchalantly. He looked round to his friends. "Just give me a hand, you fellows!" "This is your job, Turnips! You bring him to the wall! We'll do the rest!" "Just you touch me, that's all!" Philip said wildly, his whole body tense against the desk. "And what will you do?" "I'll throw this in your face! You'll see!" "Go it, Turnips!" the retinue encouraged. "He's littler than you!" Higson looked round with a growing expression of despair. It was impossible to withdraw. He moved towards Philip. Philip's arm shot forward. "Oogh--oogh--oogh!" A great volume of muddy ink was streaming down Higson's face and over his light green suit. "Oh, you bloody little devil! Oh, by Christ, I'll show you!" "No you don't!" a quiet voice said. It was Forrester, the football captain for the form. "You've had your whack! You'd better go and wash before Mathers comes in!" "Yah!" howled the retinue with swift veer of sails. "Look at Turnips!" Bullying was one thing, in fact, and dirty blasphemy another, particularly when attended by public ignominy. Philip, it is true, was not more beloved after this incident than before, but Higson certainly receded into a background of smouldering impotence. It can readily be seen then that Transition A was not likely to render Philip's old interests less attractive.