The form accepted this invitation to the extent of dismissing the passage of unprepared translation from their thoughts for ever, and settling down with a grateful sigh, began to search their pockets for fresh provender. The seraph-like Benton slipped back into his seat. His mission was accomplished. The rest of the hour was provided for. Three times in the past five years Mr. Cayley's colleagues had offered to present him with a testimonial. He could never understand why. * * * * * Mr. Bull was a young master, and an international football-player. Being one of the few members of the staff at Eaglescliffe who did not possess a first-class degree, he had been entrusted with the care of the most difficult form in the school--the small boys, usually known as The Nippers. A small boy is as different from a middle-sized boy as chalk from cheese. He possesses none of the latter's curious dignity and self-consciousness. He has the instincts of the puppy, and appreciates being treated as such. That is to say, he is physically incapable of sitting still for more than fifteen minutes at a time; he is never happy except in the company of a drove of other small boys; and he is infinitely more amenable to _fortiter in re_ than to the _suaviter in modo_ where the enforcement of discipline is concerned. Above all, he would rather have his head smacked than be ignored. Mr. Bull greeted his chattering flock with a hearty roar of salutation, coupled with a brisk command to them to get into their places and be quick about it. He was answered by a shrill and squeaky chorus, and having thrown open the form-room door herded the whole swarm within, assisting stragglers with a genial cuff or two; the which, coming from so great a hero, were duly cherished by their recipients as marks of special favour. Having duly posted up the names and tender ages of his Nippers in his mark-book, Mr. Bull announced: "Now we must appoint the Cabinet Ministers for the term." Instantly there came a piping chorus. "Please, sir, can I be Scavenger?" "Please, sir, can I be Obliterator?" "Please, sir, can I be Window-opener?" "Please, sir, can I be Inkslinger?" "Please, sir, can I be Coalheaver?" "Shut up!" roared Mr. Bull, and the babble was quelled instantly. "We will draw lots as usual."