He touched his neck proudly. It was encircled by the stiffest of stick-up collars, which custom decreed could be worn only by the Sixth. And the Sixth saw those collars and said no word. “Pussy,” Abanazar, or Dick Four of a year ago would have seen them discarded in five minutes or... But the Sixth of that term was made up mostly of young but brilliantly clever boys, pets of the house-masters, too anxious for their dignity to care to come to open odds with the resourceful three. So they crammed their caps at the extreme back of their heads, instead of a trifle over one eye as the Fifth should, and rejoiced in patent-leather boots on week-days, and marvellous made-up ties on Sundays--no man rebuking. McTurk was going up for Cooper’s Hill, and Stalky for Sandhurst, in the spring; and the Head had told them both that, unless they absolutely collapsed during the holidays, they were safe. As a trainer of colts, the Head seldom erred in an estimate of form. He had taken Beetle aside that day and given him much good advice, not one word of which did Beetle remember when he dashed up to the study, white with excitement, and poured out the wondrous tale. It demanded a great belief. “You begin on a hundred a year?” said McTurk unsympathetically. “Rot!” “_And_ my passage out! It’s all settled. The Head says he’s been breaking me in for this for ever so long, and I never knew--I never knew. One don’t begin with writing straight off, y’know. Begin by filling in telegrams and cutting things out o’ papers with scissors.” “Oh, Scissors! What an ungodly mess you’ll make of it,” said Stalky. “But, anyhow, this will be your last term, too. Seven years, my dearly beloved ’earers--though not prefects.” “Not half bad years, either,” said McTurk. “I shall be sorry to leave the old Coll.; shan’t you?” They looked out over the sea creaming along the Pebbleridge in the clear winter light. “Wonder where we shall all be this time next year?” said Stalky absently. “This time five years,” said McTurk. “Oh,” said Beetle, “my leavin’s between ourselves. The Head hasn’t told any one. I know he hasn’t, because Prout grunted at me to-day that if I were more reasonable--yah!--I might be a prefect next term. I s’ppose he’s hard up for his prefects.” “Let’s finish up with a row with the Sixth,” suggested McTurk. “Dirty little schoolboys!” said Stalky, who already saw himself a Sandhurst cadet. “What’s the use?” “Moral effect,” quoth McTurk. “Leave an imperishable tradition, and all the rest of it.” “Better go into Bideford an’ pay up our debts,” said Stalky. “I’ve got three quid out of my father--_ad hoc_. Don’t owe more than thirty bob, either. Cut along, Beetle, and ask the Head for leave. Say you want to correct the ‘Swillingford Patriot.’” “Well, I do,” said Beetle. “It’ll be my last issue, and I’d like it to look decent. I’ll catch him before he goes to his lunch.”