"My dear Gordon, don't you make any mistake about it. Lunn knows what he is talking about. But old Public School men shroud their school life in a mist of sentiment; so they forget what they really did. All they remember is how they ragged the 'stinks' master, and pulled off the Senior cricket cup. Why, when that new house master--oh, what's his name, Lee? Well, at any rate, when he came to Lunn's house he was slowly getting rid of undesirables for terms, actually for terms. Cayley was not the only one who had to go, and, of course, no one thought of anything but games. I got a schol. there from my prep., and I literally had to live it down. It took me some time, too. We want a good deal of improvement in this rusty old system." So after all it was the system that was at fault, not Fernhurst.... Fairly contentedly he went back by the three-thirty from Waterloo; but as he saw the evening sun steeping the gravel courts in shadows, and watched the lights flickering behind the study panes, it came home to him with a poignant vividness that Fernhurst, which should have been a home of dreams and of ideas, had, by the inefficiency of a vacillating system, become immersed in petty intrigues, and was filled with a generation that was being taught to blind itself to the higher issues. But in a moment he was caught up in the tear and bustle of an opening term. There was the rush to the notice-board to see what dormitory he was in, who were the prefects; then the hurried interview with the Chief, and the inevitable Health certificate. The meeting of the eight-ten from Exeter; prayers; the arrival of the last train; and finally sleep. The hold of tradition is very strong; in a few moments Gordon had flung aside his doubts and scruples. Arm-in-arm with Collins he rolled down to the day-room to look at the new boys. There were twelve of them in all, very frightened, very timid, huddled round the day-room fire, wondering what was before them. "Well, Caruthers, what do you think of that lot?" said Collins, as they swaggered back again to the studies. "Oh, not much; that fellow second from the left was not bad. What's his name, oh yes, Morcombe. Believe me, he is some stuff." "Oh, I thought him rather a washed-out specimen, but, I say, that fat fellow looks rather a sport. You know, the man like a dormouse." "Oh yes, that podgy lad. Morgan, he is Welsh, I know about him. He was captain of the prep, last year at football--not a bad forward, I believe. Oh, but there's Lovelace--Lovelace." "Hullo, Caruthers." In a huge brown coat, Lovelace charged across from the porter's lodge. "Had any cricket? What price Middlesex--below Hants, rotten county--you should watch Leicester now." "Oh, dry up, Middlesex has had bad luck this year." The defeat at Lord's by Worcester and Kent in the same week was a sore point with Gordon. "Oh, did they? I call them rotten players. But, look here, who are pres?" "Oh, Tester, Betteridge, Clarke, Mansell, all the whole crowd."