As for that puppy, Traill—well, he 'd kept him in his place, thank Heaven. As the days increased, Perrin had grown to dislike him more and more—conceited, insufferable, giving himself such airs. When he met anyone who gave himself airs, Perrin had a curious habit of referring things back to his old mother and seeing her insulted. He could see the patronizing way that Traill would speak to her. This always made him furiously angry when he thought of it. But being furiously angry only brought on his headaches again. Oh! there were things to be done! He looked around his room and saw a pile of mathematical papers, some English essays. His eye crossed to the mantelpiece, and he saw there a silly china figure, painted in red and yellow, of an old gentleman in a cocked hat. This, for no reason that he could explain, always irritated him. The old gentleman had so confident and knowing a smile. He had always meant to get rid of it, but for some reason or other he never could destroy it. Oh! he must get out into the air! His head was very had. As he left his room, there was a vague fear, somewhere, at his heart. The game had begun. The ropes on either side were thickly lined with a dark crowd of boys, and a long wailing shout, “Scho-o-l!” rose and fell without ceasing. Perrin, in his shabby greatcoat, watched with a superior but interested air. There was nothing in the world that excited him more, but he had never been able to play himself and so he affected to despise it. In front of him, pressed against the rope, were three small boys of his own house, each boy holding a paper bag from which he drew fat and sticky green and brown sweets. They had not noticed him. They divided their attention between their neighbors, their sweets, and the game. “Shut up, Huggins, you silly fool! What are you shoving for?” “Can't help it—Grey's barging—Oh! I say, run it, Morton. That's it! Pick it up—dodge him, man! Oh, hang it!” “I say, swop one of those brown things for one of mine—Thanks! Where's Garden, you chaps?” “Swotting up for Old Pompous.” “Oh! what rot! I'm blowed if I would. I thought Pompous was rather sweet on Garden.” “So he is—but Garden can't stand him.” “No wonder—blithering ass, with his long words!” “Oh! I say—they 've got it! There's Morton off again—Oh! he's going! Well run, my word! He's in! No, he isn't! The back's got him! No, he hasn't! Hurray! Try! Good old Morton!” Amongst the commotion that followed the happy event Perrin moved to a less crowded portion of the people. He was accustomed to hearing himself spoken of with but little respect by those who, when he was present, trembled before him. He always told himself that all the members of the staff were in the same box; but this afternoon it hurt—it hurt badly.