y.

"You run on, Jonathan," said Desmond.

"Why?"

"I'm going to carry this kid up the hill."

"I'll help."

"No--hook it, you ass."

"I won't hook it."

Between them they carried the child as far as the Speech-room, where a
policeman accepted a shilling, and gave in return a positive assurance
that he would see woman and child to their destination. When the boys
were alone, John said--

"Caesar----"

"Well?"

"What a fellow you are! I wouldn't have thought of that. It was
splendid."

"Ob, shut up." There was a slight pause, then Caesar said defiantly,
"I thought of carrying that kid; but I wouldn't have done it, unless
I'd known that every boy was safe in Chapel. I couldn't have faced the
chaff. And--you could."

They were punished for cutting Chapel, because Caesar refused to give
the reason which would have saved them.

"I'd have told the truth," he admitted to John, "if I could have
shouldered that kid with the Manorites looking on."

John agreed that this was an excellent and a Caesarean (he coined the
adjective on this occasion) reason.

Among the Fifth Form boys of the Manor was a big coarse-looking youth
of the name of Beaumont-Greene. Everybody called him Beaumont-Greene
in full, because upon his first appearance at Bill he had stopped the
line of boys by refusing to answer to the name of Greene.

"My name," said he, in a shrill pipe, "is Beaumont-Greene, and we spell
the Greene with a final 'e'."

Beaumont-Greene was a type of boy, unhappily, too common at all Public
Schools. He had no feeling whatever for Harrow, save that it was a
place where it behoved a boy to escape punishment if he could, and to
run, hot foot, towards anything which would yield pleasure to his body.
He was known to the Manorites as a funk at footer, and a prodigious
consumer of "food" at the Creameries. His father, having accumulated a
large fortune in manufacturing what was advertised in most of the
public prints as the "Imperishable, Seamless, Whale-skin Boot," gave
his son plenty of money. As a Lower Boy, Beaumont-Greene had but a
sorry time of it. Somebody discovered that he was what Gilbert once
described as an "imperfect ablutioner." The Caterpillar made a point
of telling new boys the nature of the punishment meted out to the
unclean. He had assisted at the "toshing" of Beaumont-Greene.

"A nasty job," the Caterpillar would remark, looking at his own
speckless finger-nails; "but it had to b