John's taste for fiction had undergone a change. Once he had loved tiger stories, and hunting yarns in India; now he wanted school stories. It fascinated him to know how English boys lived in that far country where he had been born. Their escapades at school, their tricks on masters, their friendships, sports, quarrels, the fagging and the lordly prefects, all filled him with wonder and delight. As he listened to these tales, a great desire grew up within him. He longed to be with them, to go to an English school. It would be St. Martin's or St. David's--for all big schools began with St. something he discovered. He would be among English boys there and perhaps share a study with one of them. They would be great friends and then they would quarrel and "cut" one another. He didn't like the idea of the quarrel, but it was necessary, otherwise he couldn't get hurt on the football field, scoring the goal that won the match for the school. Yes, he would have to quarrel, because how otherwise could his friend help him to limp back to his study, and then shake hands, and sit down to make toast, as in the days before they had quarrelled? John also wondered what the school chapel would be like. He had never been in a chapel. He imagined there would be hundreds of boys bowing their heads, and the stern-faced headmaster would speak in a deep voice (that was really kind although it would seem terrible), and at his side there would be a big boy crying, a prefect--for was not this his last Sunday? There would also be the pealing organ--he wondered how an organ would sound--and the light would stream down through the high-coloured windows and rest on the heads of the boys while the lines of the last hymn died away. For the light always streamed through highly coloured windows in school chapels--that was what helped the prefect to cry. It would be--- "John, you are not listening--are you sleepy?" said his father. "No, Daddy--I was only wondering--" "What?" "If only I could go to a big school like that, and have friends and--" "Well, you will one day." "Oh! In England?" asked John, his eyes dancing with excitement. "Yes--when you are a little older." "O-o-oh!" cried John, flinging his brown arms round Dean's neck, and wriggling his body until his face touched his father's. "And shall I have a study, and a big box with my name on it--'J. N. Dean' in great black letters?" "Yes, Anna will pack it full with your clothes." "Oh, how glorious--and you will come too?" Dean laughed, and pinched his son's leg. "No, old son--they won't have daddies at school." Then seeing the young face cloud over, "But I shall take you there. When you are fourteen we will all go to England for a holiday, and I shall leave you at school." "And come back here?" "Yes, you see your father has to make money to pay for your schooling." The young arm tightened around his neck, and in the dim light Dean saw the boy's mouth quiver.