He left the dormitory, and Mike began to brood over his wrongs once more. Wyatt came back, brandishing a jug of water and a glass. “Oh, for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene! Have you ever tasted Hippocrene, young Jackson? Rather like ginger-beer, with a dash of raspberry-vinegar. Very heady. Failing that, water will do. A-ah!” He put down the glass, and surveyed Mike, who had maintained a moody silence throughout this speech. “What’s your trouble?” he asked. “For pains in the back try Ju-jar. If it’s a broken heart, Zam-buk’s what you want. Who’s been quarrelling with you?” “It’s only that ass Firby-Smith.” “Again! I never saw such chaps as you two. Always at it. What was the trouble this time? Call him a grinning ape again? Your passion for the truth’ll be getting you into trouble one of these days.” “He said I stuck on side.” “Why?” “I don’t know.” “I mean, did he buttonhole you on your way to school, and say, ‘Jackson, a word in your ear. You stick on side.’ Or did he lead up to it in any way? Did he say, ‘Talking of side, you stick it on.’ What had you been doing to him?” “It was the house-fielding.” “But you can’t stick on side at house-fielding. I defy any one to. It’s too early in the morning.” “I didn’t turn up.” “What! Why?” “Oh, I don’t know.” “No, but, look here, really. Did you simply bunk it?” “Yes.” Wyatt leaned on the end of Mike’s bed, and, having observed its occupant thoughtfully for a moment, proceeded to speak wisdom for the good of his soul. “I say, I don’t want to jaw--I’m one of those quiet chaps with strong, silent natures; you may have noticed it--but I must put in a well-chosen word at this juncture. Don’t pretend to be dropping off to sleep. Sit up and listen to what your kind old uncle’s got to say to you about manners and deportment. Otherwise, blood as you are at cricket, you’ll have a rotten time here. There are some things you simply can’t do; and one of them is bunking a thing when you’re put down for it. It doesn’t matter who it is puts you down. If he’s captain, you’ve got to obey him. That’s discipline, that ’ere is. The speaker then paused, and took a sip of water from the carafe which stood at his elbow. Cheers from the audience, and a voice ‘Hear! Hear!’” Mike rolled over in bed and glared up at the orator. Most of his face was covered by the water-jug, but his eyes stared fixedly from above it. He winked in a friendly way, and, putting down the jug, drew a deep breath. “Nothing like this old ’87 water,” he said. “Such body.” “I like you jawing about discipline,” said Mike morosely. “And why, my gentle che-ild, should I not talk about discipline?” “Considering you break out of the house nearly every night.”