And now--here he was--this Mr (or Dr) Mortimer--under her own father’s roof; and here, too, was Mr Jefferson, who had already expressed his feelings with regard to this Mr (or Dr) Mortimer. Under the peculiar circumstances, Dora had no desire to enter into conversation with Jim, and so took shelter--as girls so often, and so wisely, do--under the paternal wing. Frank, however, had no reason to avoid Mr Mortimer. He rather admired him for the easy way he had picked up his portmanteau and shouldered it upstairs. A real boy admires a strong man, and Frank was a real boy enough--suffering, at present, from being too much at home--for his summer holidays were only just over. So he seated himself by Jim. "I say, Dr Mortimer," he said at length, "would you mind telling me how tall you are?" Jim was genially glad of somebody to talk to. "Six foot four," he replied. "I _say_! Do you like being so tall?" "Don’t mind it," said Jim; "knock my head rather too often, perhaps." Frank laughed. "There’s a master at my school almost as tall as you," he proceeded, "but much broader." "Indeed!" said Jim, who frequently had to listen to comparisons of this sort. "Well," continued Frank, surveying Jim with a critical eye, "I don’t know whether he’s _much_ broader. You are _rather_ broad, aren’t you? But he’s much fatter. They say he weighs eighteen stone. What do _you_ weigh?" "Frank," said Mrs Maybury, "don’t ask such personal questions, dear." Dora smiled. She was listening in a not uninterested way to her brother’s ingenuous remarks. "Oh, I don’t mind, Mrs Maybury," said Jim; "I go just over thirteen stone," he added, addressing Frank. The boy looked thoughtful. Presently he said: "Can you fight well, Dr Mortimer?" He asked the question in all innocence, for Dora had not breathed a word about Jim’s performance at the Exhibition. "I don’t like fighting," replied Jim; "I am afraid of my nose bleeding." Frank gazed at him with suspicion. Then, as Jim’s face remained quite grave, Frank’s grew scornful. Afraid of his nose bleeding! That was a nice thing for a man of six feet four to say! To what extent Frank might have continued his interrogations we can only vaguely surmise, but at this point Miss Bird--who had been much irritated by Frank’s inquisitive treble tones--dashed into the breach. "And what, Mr Cleave," she asked, "are the cases in your ’Pillory’ this week? Anything of an exceptional nature?" Mr Cleave came to life with a convulsive start. He had been absorbed in a series of reports supplied by the _Abstainer’s_ special commissioner from the London police-courts. "Pardon?" he asked. "Didn’t catch----" Miss Bird snapped her teeth, which came together much as a man-trap would close on an unfortunate poacher’s leg. "’Pillory!’ What’s the worst case?" she bawled. "Oh! The cases in ’Our Pillory’?" bleated Mr Cleave. "Yes! Read ’em out!" Miss Bird returned in a saw-like, rasping growl.