"What a beastly term the Easter term is," said Linton, yawning. "There won't be a thing to do till the house-matches begin properly." Seymour's had won their first match, as had Day's. They would not be called upon to perform for another week or more. "Let's get a boat out," suggested Dunstable. "Such a beastly day." "Let's have tea at the shop." "Rather slow. How about going to Cook's?" "All right. Toss you who pays." Cook's was a shop in the town to which the school most resorted when in need of refreshment. "Wonder if we shall meet Albert." Linton licked the place where his tooth should have been, and said he hoped so. Sergeant Cook, the six-foot proprietor of the shop, was examining a broken window when they arrived, and muttering to himself. "Hullo!" said Dunstable, "what's this? New idea for ventilation? Golly, massa, who frew dat brick?" "Done it at ar-parse six last night, he did," said Sergeant Cook, "the red-'eaded young scallywag. Ketch 'im--I'll give 'im--" "Sounds like dear old Albert," said Linton. "Who did it, sergeant?" "Red-headed young mongrel. 'Good old Pedder,' he says. 'I'll give you Pedder,' I says. Then bang it comes right on top of the muffins, and when I doubled out after 'im 'e'd gone." Mrs Cook appeared and corroborated witness's evidence. Dunstable ordered tea. "We may meet him on our way home," said Linton. "If we do, I'll give him something from you with your love. I owe him a lot for myself." Mrs Cook clicked her tongue compassionately at the sight of the obvious void in the speaker's mouth. "You'll 'ave to 'ave a forlse one, Mr Linton," said Sergeant Cook with gloomy relish. The back shop was empty. Dunstable and Linton sat down and began tea. Sergeant Cook came to the door from time to time and dilated further on his grievances. "Gentlemen from the school they come in 'ere and says ain't it all a joke and exciting and what not. But I says to them, you 'aven't got to live in it, I says. That's what it is. You 'aven't got to live in it, I says. Glad when it's all over, that's what I'll be." "'Nother jug of hot water, please," said Linton. The Sergeant shouted the order over his shoulder, as if he were addressing a half-company on parade, and returned to his woes. "You 'aven't got to live in it, I says. That's what it is. It's this everlasting worry and flurry day in and day out, and not knowing what's going to 'appen next, and one man coming in and saying 'Vote for Bruce', and another 'Vote for Pedder', and another saying how it's the poor man's loaf he's fighting for--if he'd only _buy_ a loaf, now--'ullo, 'ullo, wot's this?" There was a "confused noise without", as Shakespeare would put it, and into the shop came clattering Barry and McTodd, of Seymour's, closely followed by Stanning and Attell. "This is getting a bit too thick," said Barry, collapsing into a chair. From the outer shop came the voice of Sergeant Cook. "Let me jest come to you, you red-'eaded--"