“All right, Toothy Biden,” jeered Rodber. “We’ll tell the whole of your rotten army at four o’clock, when we give you the biggest lamming you’ve ever had. Come on, young Fane,” he went on, and Michael, somewhat perturbed by the prospect of being involved in these encounters, followed at his heels. “Look here,” said Rodber presently, “you’d better come and show yourself to Pearson. He’s the captain of our army; and for goodness’ sake look a bit cheerful.” Michael forced an uncomfortable grin such as photographers conjure. Under the shade of a gigantic tree stood Pearson the leader, languidly eating a very small and very unripe pear. “Hullo, Pinky,” he drawled. “I say, Pearson,” said Rodber in a reverent voice, “I know this kid at home. He’s awfully keen to be allowed to join your army.” Pearson scarcely glanced at Michael. “All right. Swear him in. I’ve got a new oath written down in a book at home, but he can take the old one.” Pearson yawned and threw away the core of the pear. “He’s awfully glad he’s going to join your army, Pearson. Aren’t you, young Fane?” “Yes, awfully glad,” Michael echoed. “It’s the best army,” said Pearson simply. “Oh, easily,” Rodber agreed. “I say, Pearson, that kid Biden said Church was going to lam you at four o’clock.” The offended Pearson swallowed a large piece of a second unripe pear and scowled. “Did he? Tell the army to line up behind the lav. at four o’clock.” Rodber’s eyes gleamed. “I say, Pearson, I’ve got an awfully ripping plan. Supposing we ambush them.” “How?” enquired the commander. “Why, supposing we put young Fane and two or three more new kids by the tuckshop door and tell them to run towards the haunted house, we could cop them simply rippingly.” “Give the orders before afternoon school,” said Pearson curtly, and just then the bell for ‘second hour’ sounded. “Wait for me at half-past twelve,” Rodber shouted to Michael as he ran to get into school. Michael grew quite feverish during ‘second hour’ and his brain whirled with the imagination of battles, so that the landing of Julius Cæsar seemed of minor importance. Tuckshops and haunted houses and doors and ambushes and the languid pale-faced Pearson occupied his thoughts fully enough. At a quarter-past twelve Mr. Whichelo the First Form master told Michael and the other new boys to go to the book-room and get their school caps, and at half-past twelve Michael waited outside on the yellow gravel for Rodber, splendidly proud of himself in a blue cap crested with a cockleshell worked in silver wire. He was longing to look at himself in the glass at home and to show Miss Carthew and Stella and Nanny and Cook and Gladys his school cap.