“I’m ’fraid he must be so dull in heaven,” said Jack seriously. “I don’t think they let them race, or bet, or do anything amusin’ there.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought he had heard so. “I ought to have gone down as well as you, instead of Gerry,” said Boo, who had been exceedingly aggrieved at being left in town like Baby. “Oh, no,” said Jack with much dignity, “you’re not in the succession; you’re a female.” “A female? Me? How dare you?” cried Boo in a red fury of wrath, and gave him a resounding box on the ear. The head of her House perceived that he was not a hero to his relatives, and, ignorant of the French proverb, turned to the servants. “I’m Duke, James,” he said to his friend the hall-boy. “So I’ve heard, your Grace.” “We’ll play marbles all day long, James.” “All right, sir.” “Why aren’t you a duke, James?” The hall-boy grinned. “_M. le Duc ne doit pas causer avec les domestiques_,” said the French governess, and took hold of him by his right ear and propelled him upstairs. “_Pourquoi nong pas?_” asked Jack. “_Parcequ’ils sont vos inférieurs_,” replied the French lady. Jack did like the reply, it sounded harsh, he did not believe it was true; James beat him at marbles, and could make popguns and cut out boats, and had talents and virtues innumerable. Jack loved the hall-boy, and had once got into dreadful disgrace by taking his place and answering the door, to let his friend go round the corner. As he was being driven upstairs by the governess he heard the voice of Brancepeth arguing with a footman; the young man was insisting that they should let him in, and the servants were apologizing, her Grace’s orders had been positive. Jack, with a leap like a chamois’s, rushed downstairs and leaped into his friend’s arms. “Well, your Grace,” said Brancepeth, as he kissed the child, “how is my lord duke, eh?” Brancepeth had not been allowed to go down to Staghurst, even for the funeral; he had been desired to allege military duties as an obstacle, and had done so, though he thought it brutally uncivil to poor Cocky. Jack laughed; his rosy face was bright above his black jersey; but he tried to look serious, as he had been told that he ought to do. “Mammy says we must not laugh,” he said sorrowfully. “Come in here.” He pulled his favorite by the hand into the library. “He’s deaded you know,” he whispered solemnly. Brancepeth nodded; he sat down on a low chair, took Jack on his knee and kissed him. “He won’t pinch my calves any more,” said Jack with a sense of relief. “He won’t do anything any more, poor devil,” said his friend, who sincerely mourned him. Jack was silent, trying to realize the position and failing. “Cuckoopint’s mine now, ain’t he?” he said suddenly. Cuckoopint was Cocky’s cob. “Everything’s yours, you lucky little beggar,” said Brancepeth. “But don’t flatter yourself they’ll let you do as you like. Ronnie and the bishop between ’em will keep you uncommon tight.”