“Much you can do to help it, though,” she said. “I _can_ do much,” he replied, “but,” he flattered her, “perhaps you can do more. You see, Sarah,” he went on confidentially, “Madge trusts you and she doesn’t trust me. Now, between ourselves, she needs a friend’s advice. Put yourself in her place. Would you knuckle under to your mother?” “I’d see her further first,” said Sarah. “I wonder,” said Sam, “if you could see your way to communicating your views to Madge without mentioning that I suggested it?” “You!” said Sarah. “You! It’ud take a dozen your size to suggest anything to me. Get off home and play marbles, or I’ll give you a slap on th’ earhole that you’ll remember.” They didn’t play marbles in the Classical Fifth, but Sam was content to put her allusion down to ignorance rather than deliberate insult. He had gained his point: the atmosphere he desired created was about to he created. He left that pot to simmer and turned his mind to George, whom he judged less susceptible than Madge to the promptings of a friend. Besides, he knew no friend of George, and confessed himself at fault. One day, shortly before the Whitsuntide holidays, he was staring gloomily out of the window at the top of the stairs outside the Fifth Form room, watching the boys of the Chetham’s Hospital at play in that yard of theirs which the Grammar School pretends to scorn but secretly envies, when he heard behind him a conversation between Lance Travers and Dubby Stewart which set his brain awhirl. Yet it was not a distinguished conversation. “Who ever heard of anyone in Manchester staying at home in Whit week?” asked Lance. Sam had heard, often. “It isn’t done,” said Dubby, who had earned that abiding name when he was in the Lower Third, and once read “dubious” aloud with a short “u.” “But I’ve to do it,” said Lance. “My governor’s too busy to get away. Bit damnable, isn’t it?” “Matter of fact,” said Dubby, “we’re not going, either.” And it presently appeared that out of the form of twenty-four boys there were as many as six who lived in Manchester and were not going away. “It will be hell,” prophesied one of the unfortunates. “It needn’t,” said Sam Branstone, turning from the window to the mournful group. “You’re used to it. We’re not,” said someone cruelly, and Lance smacked his head. Allusions to anybody’s poverty were bad form. “What’s the prescription?” asked Dubby, and Sam was silent for a minute. “Watch him. Something’s dawning,” chaffed Dubby. It wasn’t dawning, it had dawned; but at first it looked like a risk, and then much less like one, and Sam smiled beautifully as he realized that he, at least, had all to gain and nothing to lose. He drew the luckless five mysteriously aloof.