Baltimore looked back over his shoulder. Jeremy could not precisely see the expression, but fancied it contemptuous. Most curiously, then, for the rest of the evening he was worried and unhappy. Why should he worry? Baltimore was his friend—must be, after all that Jeremy had done for him. Jeremy was too young and too unanalytical to know what it was that he wanted, but in reality he longed now for that protective sense to continue. He must still “have something to look after.” There were lots of things he could do for Baltimore. . . . Next morning after breakfast he caught him alone, ten minutes before chapel. He was embarrassed and shy, but he plunged in: “I say—it was ripping yesterday. Weren’t you glad?” Baltimore, looking at Jeremy curiously, shrugged his shoulders. “You’re coming out next Sunday, aren’t you?” he went on. Baltimore smiled. “I’m not going to have you following me everywhere,” he said, in a rather feeble imitation of Jeremy’s voice. “If you behave all right, and don’t cry and tell me when anyone kicks you, I’ll let you speak to me sometimes. Otherwise you keep off.” He put his tongue out at Jeremy and swaggered off. Jeremy stood there. He was hurt as he had never been before in his young life; he had, indeed, never known this kind of hurt. Someone came in. “Hullo, Stocky! Coming up to chapel?” “All right,” he answered, moving to get his books out of his locker. But he’d lost something, something awfully jolly. . . . He fumbled in his locker for it. He wanted to cry—like any kid. He was crying, but he wasn’t going to let Stokoe see it. He found an old fragment of liquorice stick. It mingled in his mouth with the salt taste of tears. So, dragging his head from his locker, he kicked Stokoe in amicable friendship, and they departed chapel-wards, tumbling over one another puppywise as they went. But no more miserable boy sat in chapel that morning. VI Two days later, turning the corner of the playground, he heard shrill crying. Looking farther, he perceived Baltimore twisting the arms of a miniature boy, the smallest boy in the school—Brown Minimus. He was also kicking him in tender places. “Now will you give it me?” he was saying. A second later Baltimore was, in his turn, having his arms twisted and his posterior kicked. As Jeremy kicked and twisted he felt a strange, a mysterious pleasure. Baltimore tried to bite, then he said, “I’ll tell Thompson.” “I don’t care if you do,” said Jeremy. Yes, he felt a strange wild pleasure, but when that afternoon old Thompson genially said: “Well, Cole, I think Baltimore’s found his feet now all right, hasn’t he?” Jeremy said: “Yes, sir; he has.” He felt miserable. He sat down and kicked the turf furiously with his toes. He had lost something, he knew not what; something very precious. . . . Someone called him, and he went off to join in a rag. Anyway, “Tom Brown” was a rotten book.