ime with his back to the
players and his eye on the street. The boy and girl got on very well now;
they seemed frankly glad of each other, though he caught her more than
once with a large and furtive eye on him. But she seemed to enjoy her
baptism of schoolboy slang. And it was only when she began to question
him about his special vocabulary, that Baumgartner looked on for a little,
and put in his word.

"You see he still believes in his public school," said he to Phillida, in
a tone which reminded their visitor of his first breakfast in the house.

"I should think I did!" cried Pocket, and did a little loyal boasting
about the best of schools, and the best house in that school, until memory
took him by the throat and filled his eyes. It was twelve o'clock, and a
summer's Saturday. School was over for the week. Only your verses to do
in your own time, and get signed by Spearman before you went up to
dormitory on Saturday night; but meanwhile, Saturday afternoon! A match
on the Upper, where you could lie on your rug and watch the game you
couldn't play; call-over at the match; ices and lemon-drinks in a tent on
the field; and for Saturday supper anything you liked to buy, cooked for
you in the kitchen and put piping hot at your place in hall, not even for
the asking, but merely by writing your name plainly on the eggs and
leaving them on the slab outside! It was not these simple luxuries that
Pocket missed so sorely; it was the whole full life of ups and downs, and
no yesterdays and no to-morrows, that he had lost for ever since last
Saturday. The heavy midday meal came in smoking from the Italian
restaurant, and Pocket was himself again, as a boy will be; after all,
they knew about him at home by this time, their worst fears were allayed,
and in the end it would all come right. In the end he would be sitting in
his own old place at home, instead of with strangers in an unknown street;
telling them everything, instead of holding his peace; and watching even
Fred and Horace listening to every word--much as Dr. Baumgartner was
listening to something now.

What was it? Phillida was listening, too, and watching her uncle as she
listened. Pocket did both in his turn.

It was the voice of newspaper hawkers, shouting in couples, coming nearer
with their shouts. Dr. Baumgartner jumped up from the table, and ran
outside without his hat.

His promise alone prevented Pocket from following and outstripping the
doct