“Well, you _do_ need most of a single man’s time, I must say.” The Reverend John considered his hosts critically. “But do you never feel that the world--the Common-room--is too much with you sometimes?” “Not exactly--in summer, anyhow.” Stalky’s eye roved contentedly to the window. “Our bounds are pretty big, too, and they leave us to ourselves a good deal.” “For example, here am I sitting in your study, very much in your way, eh?” “Indeed you aren’t, Padre. Sit down. Don’t go, sir. You know we’re glad whenever you come.” There was no doubting the sincerity of the voices. The Reverend John flushed a little with pleasure and refilled his briar. “And we generally know where the Common-room are,” said Beetle triumphantly. “Didn’t you come through our lower dormitories last night after ten, sir?” “I went to smoke a pipe with your house-master. No, I didn’t give him any impressions. I took a short cut through your dormitories.” “I sniffed a whiff of ’baccy, this mornin’. Yours is stronger than Mr. Prout’s. _I_ knew,” said Beetle, wagging his head. “Good heavens!” said the Reverend John absently. It was some years before Beetle perceived that this was rather a tribute to innocence than observation. The long, light, blindless dormitories, devoid of inner doors, were crossed at all hours of the night by masters visiting one another; for bachelors sit up later than married folk. Beetle had never dreamed that there might be a purpose in this steady policing. “Talking about bullying,” the Reverend John resumed, “you all caught it pretty hot when you were fags, didn’t you?” “Well, we must have been rather awful little beasts,” said Beetle, looking serenely over the gulf between eleven and sixteen. “My Hat, what bullies they were then--Fairburn, ‘Gobby’ Maunsell, and all that gang!” “’Member when ‘Gobby’ called us the Three Blind Mice, and we had to get up on the lockers and sing while he buzzed ink-pots at us?” said Stalky. “They _were_ bullies if you like!” “But there isn’t any of it now,” said McTurk soothingly. “That’s where you make a mistake. We’re all inclined to say that everything is all right as long we aren’t ourselves hurt. I sometimes wonder if it is extinct--bullying.” “Fags bully each other horrid; but the upper forms are supposed to be swottin’ for exams. They’ve got something else to think about,” said Beetle. “Why? What do you think?” Stalky was watching the chaplain’s face. “I have my doubts.” Then, explosively, “On my word, for three moderately intelligent boys you aren’t very observant. I suppose you were too busy making things warm for your house-master to see what lay under your noses when you were in the form-rooms last week?” “What, sir? I--I swear we didn’t see anything,” said Beetle.