“Stocky had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Stocky went That lamb was sure to go.” Jeremy, hearing these voices, made a movement as though he would rise and pursue them, then apparently realized his impotence and stayed where he was. “Beasts!” said Baltimore, and suddenly broke into a miserable crying, a wretched, snivelling, gasping wheeze. Jeremy looked at him with disgust. “You do cry the most awful lot,” he said. “If you didn’t cry so much they wouldn’t laugh at you.” He gloomily reflected over his fate. The summer term, only a week old, that should have been the happiest of the year, was already the worst that he had known at Thompson’s. On his arrival, full of health, vigour and plans, old Thompson had taken him aside and said: “Now, Cole, I’ve something for you to do this term. I want you to be kind to a new boy who has never been away from home before and knows nothing about school life. I want you to be kind to him, look after him, see that no one treats him harshly, make him feel that he is still at home. You are getting one of the bigger boys here now, and you must look after the small ones.” Jeremy was not displeased when he heard this. It gave him a sense of importance that he liked; moreover he had but recently read “Tom Brown,” and Tom, whom he greatly admired, had been approached in just this way about Arthur, and Arthur, although he had seemed tiresome at first, had developed very well, had had a romantic illness and become a first-class cricketer. His first vision of Baltimore had been disappointing. He had found him sitting on his play-box in the passage, snivelling in just that unpleasant way that he had afterwards made so peculiarly his own. He told Jeremy that what he wanted to do was to go home to his mother at once, that his name was Percy, and that he had been kicked on the leg twice. “You mustn’t tell the others that your name’s Percy,” said Jeremy, “or you’ll never hear the last of it.” It appeared, however, from certain cries heard in the distance, that Baltimore had already done this. Jeremy wondered then why he had been selected for this especial duty. He was not by any means one of the older boys in the school, nor one of the more important. He foresaw trouble. Baltimore had been informed that Jeremy was to look after him. “Mr. Thompson says you’re to look after me,” he said, “and not let the boys kick me or take things out of my play-box; and if they do I’m to tell Mr. Thompson.” Jeremy’s cheeks paled with horror as he heard this declaration. “Oh, I say, you mustn’t do that,” he declared. “That would be sneaking. You mustn’t tell Thompson things.” “Why mustn’t I?” asked Baltimore, producing a large cake of chocolate from his play-box and proceeding to eat it. “Oh, because—because—sneaking’s worse than anything.” “My mother said I was to,” said Baltimore.