. John could have sworn that
the hatter's assistant regarded the pink youth with increased deference.

Why had Uncle John sent him to Dirty Dick's? He hurried out of the
shop, fuming. Then he remembered the hammerless gun. After all, the
Manor had been _the_ house once, and it might be _the_ house again.

By this time the boys were arriving. Groups were forming. Snatches of
chatter reached John's ears. "Yes, I shot a stag, a nine-pointer. My
governor is going to have it set up for me---- What? Walked up your
grouse with dogs! We drive ours---- I had some ripping cricket, made
a century in one match---- By Jove! Did you really?----"

John passed on. These were "bloods," tremendous swells, grown men with
a titillating flavour of the world about their distinguished persons.

A minute later he was staring disconsolately at a group of his fellows
just in front of Dir----of Rutford's side door. An impulse seized him
to turn and flee. What would Uncle John say to that? So he advanced.
The boys made way politely, asking no questions. As he passed through
he caught a few eager words. "I was hoping that the brute had gone.
It _is_ a sickener, and no mistake!"

John ascended the battered, worn-out staircase, wondering who the
"brute" was. Perhaps a sort of Flashman. John knew his _Tom Brown_;
but some one had told him that bullying had ceased to be. Great
emphasis had been laid on the "brute," whoever he might be.

Upon the second-floor passage, he found his room and one of its
tenants, who nodded carelessly as John crossed the threshold.

"I'm Scaife," he said. "Are you the Lord, or the Commoner?" He
laughed, indicating a large portmanteau, labelled, "Lord Esme Kinloch."

"I'm Verney," said John.

"I've bagged the best bed," said Scaife, after a pause, "and I advise
you to bag the next best one, over there. It was mine last term."

"I don't see the beds," said John, staring about him.

Scaife pointed out what appeared to be three tall, narrow wardrobes.
The rest of the furniture included three much-battered washstands and
chests of drawers, four Windsor chairs, and a square table, covered
with innumerable inkstains and roughly-carved names.

"The beds let down," Scaife said, "and during the first school the
maids make them, and shut them up again. It is considered a joke to
crawl into another fellow's room at night, and shut him up. You find
yourself standing upon your head in the dark, cho