Until now Gordon had never really quarrelled with anyone in his own house. All his encounters had been with outhouse men or "the Bull": he might have helped to make the House feel independent of the school, but he had always aimed at the unity of the House's aim. It was a pity that his last contest should have been with the head of his own house. Rudd was a bad head; there could be no doubt about that. His dormitory made him apple-pie beds, and soaked his candle in water, so that it would not light. The day-room ragged him mercilessly. Gordon had never minded. In comparison with Rudd's weakness his own strength shone the more. It made him so essentially the big power in the House. But things reached a limit shortly after half term, when Rudd tried to drag him in to help him in his troubles, and shelter behind the rest of the prefects. It all arose from a most "footling" source. Rudd was taking hall, and the usual music hall performance was in full swing. Bray had asked to borrow some ink, and having once gained a pretext for walking about, was dancing up and down the floor singing _What would the Seaside be without the Ladies?_ Everyone was, of course, talking. Now a certain Stockbrew, imagining himself a poet, immortalised the occasion with the following stirring lyric:-- "_Ruddy-doodle went to town_ _In his little suit of brown,_ _As he could not find his purse_ _He cried aloud, 'Oh, where's my nurse?_'" Like the famous quatrain _The Purple Cow_, this poem immediately achieved a success totally out of proportion to its merits. It was passed slowly down the table. Finally it reached Bray. "Ah, Rudd," he said, "I believe this is meant for you." Rudd read it, and flushed a dusky red. "Who wrote this?" Proudly the author claimed his work. "Well--er--let me see," said Rudd: "it is er--gross impertinence. Come and see me after breakfast to-morrow." The poet sat down, and his friends showered condolences on him; Bray recommenced his wanderings. That night in second hall Rudd called a prefects' meeting to discuss the affair. He pointed out that it was gross insolence to a prefect, and that a prefects' beating was the recognised punishment for such an offence. Gordon protested vehemently. "But, damn it all, Rudd, if you are such a weak-kneed ass as to be ragged by a fool like Stockbrew, you jolly well oughtn't to be head of the House. And, by the way, we haven't heard this masterpiece of satire read out yet." "I don't think there's any need," said Rudd. "Well, I think there is," said Gordon. "I am not going to see a kid beaten for an unknown piece of cheek. Read the thing out!" With many blushes Rudd read it out. "Ah, jolly suitable, too," said Foster. "What you want is a nurse. Good lord, man, can't you look after yourself in hall. Jolly ignominious, isn't it, having to call up a lot of prefects to back you up? Fine example to the rest of the House, isn't it?"