Then Traill came in and sat down with an air of relief. He had no very great opinion of Clinton, but they got on together quite agreeably, and he found that it was rather pleasanter to have an entirely negative person with one—it was not necessary to think about him. “My word,” said Clinton, his eyes glued to the Daily Mail, “the London Scottish fairly wiped the floor with the Harlequins yesterday—two goals and a try to a try—all that man Binton—extraordinary three-quarter—no flies on him! Have some sausages? Not bad. I wonder if they 'll catch that chap Deakin?” “Deakin?” said Traill rather drearily, looking up from his breakfast. How dismal it all was this morning! Oh, well—in a year's time! “Yes, you know—the Hollins Road murder—the man who cut his wife and mother into little bits and mixed them up so that they couldn't tell which was which. There's a photograph of him here and his front door.” “I think,” said Traill, shortly, “following up murder trials like that is perfectly beastly. It isn't civilized.” “All right!” said Clinton, helping himself to the remaining sausages. “Perrin's having breakfast in there, isn't he? He won't want any more.” “He sometimes does,” said Traill, feeling that at the moment he hated Clinton's good-natured face more than anything in the whole world. “He's awfully sick if he comes in hungry and doesn't find anything.” Clinton smiled. “He's rather amusing when he's sick,” he said. “He so often is. By the way, has the Head passed those exam, questions of yours yet?” “No,” said Traill, frowning. “He 's made me do them five times now, and last time he crossed but a whole lot of questions that he himself had suggested the time before. I pointed that out to him, and he called me, politely and gently, but firmly, a liar. There's no question that he's got his knife into me now, and I've got friend Perrin to thank for it!” “Yes,” said Clinton, helping himself to marmalade, “Perrin does n't love you—there's no question of that. Young Garden Minimus has been helping the feud.” “Garden? What's he got to do with it?” “Well, you know that he was always Old Pompous' especial pet—well, Pompous has riled him, kept him in or something, so now he goes about telling everybody that he's transferred his allegiance to you. That makes Pompous sick as anything.” “I like the kid especially,” Traill said. “He 's rather a favorite of mine.” “Yes,” said Clinton. “Well, look out for trouble, that 's all. There 'll be open war between you soon if you are not careful.” At that moment Perrin came in. He was continuing, as he entered, a conversation with some small boy whose head just appeared at the door for a moment and revealed Garden Minimus. “Well, a hundred times,” Perrin was saying, “and you don't go out till you 've done it.” Garden displayed annoyance, and was heard to mutter under his breath. Perrin's face was gray; his hair appeared to be unbrushed, and there was a good deal of white chalk on the back of his sleeve.