He retired, brooding, to his house. The day was Wednesday. There were only two more days, therefore, in which to prepare a quarter of a book of Livy. It couldn't be done. The thing was not possible. In the house he met Smythe. 'What are you going to do about it?' he inquired. Smythe was top of the form, and if he didn't know how to grapple with a crisis of this sort, who _could_ know? 'If you'll kindly explain,' said Smythe, 'what the dickens you are talking about, I might be able to tell you.' Pillingshot explained, with unwonted politeness, that 'it' meant the Livy examination. 'Oh,' said Smythe, airily, 'that! I'm just going to skim through it in case I've forgotten any of it. Then I shall read up the notes carefully. And then, if I have time, I shall have a look at the history of the period. I should advise you to do that, too.' 'Oh, don't be a goat,' said Pillingshot. And he retired, brooding, as before. That afternoon he spent industriously, copying out the fourth book of _The Aeneid_. At the beginning of the week he had had a slight disagreement with M. Gerard, the French master. Pillingshot's views on behaviour and deportment during French lessons did not coincide with those of M. Gerard. Pillingshot's idea of a French lesson was something between a pantomime rally and a scrum at football. To him there was something wonderfully entertaining in the process of 'barging' the end man off the edge of the form into space, and upsetting his books over him. M. Gerard, however, had a very undeveloped sense of humour. He warned the humorist twice, and on the thing happening a third time, suggested that he should go into extra lesson on the ensuing Wednesday. So Pillingshot went, and copied out Virgil. He emerged from the room of detention at a quarter past four. As he came out into the grounds he espied in the middle distance somebody being carried on a stretcher in the direction of the School House. At the same moment Parker loomed in sight, walking swiftly towards the School shop, his mobile features shining with the rapt expression of one who sees much ginger-beer in the near future. 'Hullo, Parker,' said Pillingshot, 'who's the corpse?' 'What, haven't you heard?' said Parker. 'Oh, no, of course, you were in extra. It's young Brown. He's stunned or something.' 'How did it happen?' 'That rotter, Babington, in Dacre's. Simply slamming about, you know, getting his eye in before going in, and Brown walked slap into one of his drives. Got him on the side of the head.' 'Much hurt?' 'Oh, no, I don't think so. Keep him out of school for about a week.' 'Lucky beast. Wish somebody would come and hit me on the head. Come and hit me on the head, Parker.' 'Come and have an ice,' said Parker.