Thus, but for Dan, my loneliness would have been unbearable. His friendship was always there for me to creep to, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. To this day one may always know Dan's politics: they are those of the Party out of power. Always without question one may know the cause that he will champion, the unpopular cause; the man he will defend, the man who is down. “You are such an un-understandable chap,” complained a fellow Clubman to him once in my hearing. “I sometimes ask myself if you have any opinions at all.” “I hate a crowd,” was Dan's only confession of faith. He never claimed anything from me in return for his affection; he was there for me to hold to when I wanted him. When, baffled in all my attempts to win the affections of others, I returned to him for comfort, he gave it me, without even relieving himself of friendly advice. When at length childish success came to me and I needed him less, he was neither hurt nor surprised. Other people--their thoughts, their actions, even when these concerned himself--never troubled him. He loved to bestow, but as to response was strangely indifferent; indeed, if anything, it bored him. His nature appeared to be that of the fountain, which fulfils itself by giving, but is unable to receive. My popularity came to me unexpectedly after I had given up hoping for it; surprising me, annoying me. Gradually it dawned upon me that my company was being sought. “Come along, Kelver,” would say the spokesman of one group; “we're going part of your way home. You can walk with us.” Maybe I would go with them, but more often, before we reached the gate, the delight of my society would be claimed by a rival troop. “He's coming with us this afternoon. He promised.” “No, he didn't.” “Yes, he did.” “Well, he ain't, anyhow. See?” “Oh, isn't he? Who says he isn't?” “I do.” “Punch his head, Dick!” “Yes, you do, Jimmy Blake, and I'll punch yours. Come, Kelver.” I might have been some Queen of Beauty offered as prize for knightly contest. Indeed, more than once the argument concluded thus primitively, I being carried off in triumph by the victorious party. For a period it remained a mystery to me, until I asked explanation of Norval--we called him “Norval,” he being one George Grampian: it was our wit. From taking joy in teasing me, Norval had suddenly become one of my greatest admirers. This by itself was difficult enough to understand. He was in the second eleven, and after Dan the best fighter in the lower school. If I could understand Norval's change of attitude all would be plain to me; so when next time, bounding upon me in the cloakroom and slipping his arm into mine, he clamoured for my company to Camden Town, I put the question to him bluntly. “Why should I walk home with you? Why do you want me?” “Because we like you.” “But why do you like me?” “Why! Why, because you're such a funny chap. You say such funny things.”