At any rate, the butler, Dumbleton, was worthy of the best traditions of the Manor. He had a shrewd, clean-shaven face, and the deportment of an archbishop. The Head of the House took the paper, and began to call over the names. Each boy, as his name was called, said, "Here," or, if he wished to be funny, "Here, _sir_!" "Verney?" The name rang out crisply. "Here, _sir_," said John. The Head of the House eyed him sharply. "Kinloch?" No answer. "Kinloch?" Scaife answered dryly: "Kinloch's portmanteau has come." Then Dumbleton said in his smooth, bland voice, "His lordship is in the drawing-room with Mr. Rutford." The boys exchanged knowing glances. Scaife looked contemptuous. The next moment the last name had been called, and the boys scurried into the passages. Lawrence was the first to leave the hall. Impulsively, John rushed up to him. "I didn't mean to be funny, I didn't really," he panted. "Quite right. It doesn't pay," Lawrence smiled grimly, "for new boys to be funny. I saw you didn't mean it." Lawrence spoke in a loud voice. John realized that he had so spoken purposely, trying to wipe out a new boy's first blunder. "Thanks awfully," said John. He reached his room to find three other boys busily engaged in abusing their house-master. They took no notice of John, who leaned against the wall. "His lordship is in the drawing-room with Mr. Rutford." A freckle-faced, red-headed youth, with a big elastic mouth had imitated Dumbleton admirably. "What a snob Dick is!" drawled a very tall, very thin, aristocratic-looking boy. "And fool," added Scaife. "This sort of thing makes him loathed." "It _is_ a sell his being here." All three fell to talking. The question still festering in John's mind was answered within a minute. The "brute" was Rutford. Towards the end of the previous term gossip had it that the master of the Manor had been offered an appointment elsewhere. Whereat the worthier spirits in the ancient house rejoiced. Now the joy was turned into wailing and gnashing of teeth. "Is he a beast to us?" said John. The freckle-faced boy answered affably, "That depends. His Imperial Highness"--he kicked the new portmanteau hard--"will not find Mr. Richard Rutford a beast. Far from it. And he's civil to the Demon, because his papa is a man of many shekels. But to mere outsiders, like myself, a beast of beasts; ay, the very king of beasts, is--Dirty Dick." And then--oh, horrors!--the door of No. 15 opened, and Rutford appeared, followed by a seemingly young and very fashionably dressed lady. The boys jumped to their feet. All, except Scaife, looked preternaturally solemn. The house-master nodded carelessly. "This is Scaife, Duchess," he said in his thick, rasping tones. "Scaife and Verney, let me present you to the Duchess of Trent." He mouthed the illustrious name, as if it were a large and ripe greengage.