'Who are you?' he demanded. I introduced myself. 'What do you want to come butting in for?' 'I am paid to butt in. It's the main duty of an assistant-master.' 'Oh, you're the assistant-master, are you?' 'One of them. And, in passing--it's a small technical point--you're supposed to call me "sir" during these invigorating little chats of ours.' 'Call you what? Up an alley!' 'I beg your pardon?' 'Fade away. Take a walk.' I gathered that he was meaning to convey that he had considered my proposition, but regretted his inability to entertain it. 'Didn't you call your tutor "sir" when you were at home?' 'Me? Don't make me laugh. I've got a cracked lip.' 'I gather you haven't an overwhelming respect for those set in authority over you.' 'If you mean my tutors, I should say nix.' 'You use the plural. Had you a tutor before Mr Broster?' He laughed. 'Had I? Only about ten million.' 'Poor devils!' I said. 'Who's swearing now?' The point was well taken. I corrected myself. 'Poor brutes! What happened to them? Did they commit suicide?' 'Oh, they quit. And I don't blame them. I'm a pretty tough proposition, and you don't want to forget it.' He reached out for the cigarette-case. I pocketed it. 'You make me tired,' he said. 'The sensation's mutual.' 'Do you think you can swell around, stopping me doing things?' 'You've defined my job exactly.' 'Guess again. I know all about this joint. The hot-air merchant was telling me about it on the train.' I took the allusion to be to Mr Arnold Abney, and thought it rather a happy one. 'He's the boss, and nobody but him is allowed to hit the fellows. If you tried it, you'd lose your job. And he ain't going to, because the Dad's paying double fees, and he's scared stiff he'll lose me if there's any trouble.' 'You seem to have a grasp of the position.' 'Bet your life I have.' I looked at him as he sprawled in the chair. 'You're a funny kid,' I said. He stiffened, outraged. His little eyes gleamed. 'Say, it looks to me as if you wanted making a head shorter. You're a darned sight too fresh. Who do you think you are, anyway?' 'I'm your guardian angel,' I replied. 'I'm the fellow who's going to take you in hand and make you a little ray of sunshine about the home. I know your type backwards. I've been in America and studied it on its native asphalt. You superfatted millionaire kids are all the same. If Dad doesn't jerk you into the office before you're out of knickerbockers, you just run to seed. You get to think you're the only thing on earth, and you go on thinking it till one day somebody comes along and shows you you're not, and then you get what's coming to you--good and hard.' He began to speak, but I was on my favourite theme, one I had studied and brooded upon since the evening when I had received a certain letter at my club.