Had I not flung my gloves along with my hat and boots into my trunk, thinking they would not be needed? I had considered them as part of Tempest's little joke. But evidently I had made a fearful mistake. For the senior who had given the admonition was not Tempest at all, but his next neighbour; and the fact that it was not given to me but to a monitor made it clear that, however I had been humbugged over the other details of "form," gloves were the order of the day for new boys at first call-over. In a panic I rose and tried to go out, with the wild idea of rescuing my gloves from my trunk. But it was impossible to escape. Not only had my companion his feet up more uncompromisingly than ever, but my sudden movement called down upon me general remarks. "Shut up! sit down, can't you?" said my neighbour. "What are you up to?" "My gloves--I've--I've left them upstairs." "Your what?" "Gloves. I thought it was a mistake about new boys having to wear them, and didn't bring them." The boy looked grave. "Oh, you'll catch it! You can't go now. There's Sharpe coming in. Haven't you got any at all?" "Only my ordinary gloves." "What colour?" "Yellow." "Stick them on then." "But they've only two buttons." "Can't be helped. You're bound to catch it, but they're better than nothing." So, in dire agitation, I drew on my new dog-skin gloves. The smiles of the boys near me I interpreted as a grim recognition that I had "shirked form" and did not know any better. I longed to explain that I did, and that I had not come to Low Heath as ignorant as they supposed. But it was impossible. Mr Sharpe was already in his place, and "register" had begun. Register, a ceremony with which I was destined to become painfully familiar in time, consisted in the calling over of the names of all the boys in the house, in order of place, by the minor prefect, who took his stand at the side of the master's desk for the purpose. Instead of answering "Here" or "Adsum," in the usual way, the boy whose name was called stood in his place and held up his hand. I had been so preoccupied with the lack of my six-button lavender gloves and the remarks of my two left-hand neighbours, that I had failed altogether to observe the boy on my right, who now quietly nudged me, and presented to my astonished gaze the serene and serious countenance of Dicky Brown. "What have you got your gloves on for?" inquired he, as if he had seen me daily since we parted. "It's the form. Haven't you got any? I say, you'll get in a jolly row," said I, quite delighted to be able to lord it a little over an inferior. "Why--who told you?" "Tempest." "Tempest's a regular humbug. He tried to stuff me up by making me bring a cheese-cutter cap. But I wasn't such a fool as I look." Alas! it was my turn to colour up. Had Dicky, I wondered, seen my square billycock? At that moment Tempest's name was called, and we saw our old Dux rise complacently in his seat and hold up his hand.