"So am _I_. What's the good of swotting, though? I'm not going to do a stroke." As Stanning was the only one of his rivals of whom he had any real fear, Sheen might have replied with justice that, if that was the case, the more he swotted the better. But he said nothing. He looked at the stove, and dog's-eared the Thucydides. "What a worm you are, always staying in!" said Stanning. "I caught a cold watching the match yesterday." "You're as flabby as--" Stanning looked round for a simile, "as a dough-nut. Why don't you take some exercise?" "I'm going to play fives, I think. I do need some exercise." "Fives? Why don't you play footer?" "I haven't time. I want to work." "What rot. I'm not doing a stroke." Stanning seemed to derive a spiritual pride from this admission. "Tell you what, then," said Stanning, "I'll play you tomorrow after school." Sheen looked a shade more uncomfortable, but he made an effort, and declined the invitation. "I shall probably be playing Drummond," he said. "Oh, all right," said Stanning. "_I_ don't care. Play whom you like." There was a pause. "As a matter of fact," resumed Stanning, "what I came here for was to tell you about last night. I got out, and went to Mitchell's. Why didn't you come? Didn't you get my note? I sent a kid with it." Mitchell was a young gentleman of rich but honest parents, who had left the school at Christmas. He was in his father's office, and lived in his father's house on the outskirts of the town. From time to time his father went up to London on matters connected with business, leaving him alone in the house. On these occasions Mitchell the younger would write to Stanning, with whom when at school he had been on friendly terms; and Stanning, breaking out of his house after everybody had gone to bed, would make his way to the Mitchell residence, and spend a pleasant hour or so there. Mitchell senior owned Turkish cigarettes and a billiard table. Stanning appreciated both. There was also a piano, and Stanning had brought Sheen with him one night to play it. The getting-out and the subsequent getting-in had nearly whitened Sheen's hair, and it was only by a series of miracles that he had escaped detection. Once, he felt, was more than enough; and when a fag from Appleby's had brought him Stanning's note, containing an invitation to a second jaunt of the kind, he had refused to be lured into the business again. "Yes, I got the note," he said. "Then why didn't you come? Mitchell was asking where you were." "It's so beastly risky." "Risky! Rot." "We should get sacked if we were caught." "Well, don't get caught, then." Sheen registered an internal vow that he would not. "He wanted us to go again on Monday. Will you come?" "I--don't think I will, Stanning," said Sheen. "It isn't worth it." "You mean you funk it. That's what's the matter with you." "Yes, I do," admitted Sheen.