s sending out notices about something, and that
always took a long time.

Ger was rather at a loose end, but with the admirable spirit of the
adventurous for making the best of things, he decided to go forth and
see what he could see. No one was in the hall to question him as he
went out, and he made straight for the common, where something exciting
was always toward. He had forgotten to put on a coat, and the wind was
cold, so he ran along with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. His
cap was old, his suit, "a descended suit," was old, and his face,
though it was still so early in the day, was far from clean.

For once the common was almost deserted; but far away in front of the
"Shop" a thin line of khaki proclaimed the fact that some of the cadets
were drilling.

Ger loved the Shop. He had been there on several occasions,
accompanied by one or other of his grandparents, to see Grantly, and he
knew that he must not go in alone, or his brother would, as he put it,
"get in a bate." But there could be no objection to his standing at
the gate and looking in at the parade ground. He knew the porter, a
nice friendly chap who would not drive him away.

He turned off the common into the road that runs up past the Cadet
Hospital. He knew the Cadet Hospital, for once he had gone there with
Grannie to visit "a kind of cousin" who had broken his collar-bone in
the riding-school. As he passed Ger looked in at the open door. A
little crowd of rather poor-looking people stood in the entrance, among
them a boy about his own age, with a great pad of cotton-wool fastened
over his ear by a bandage.

A crowd of any sort had always an irresistible fascination for Ger. He
skipped up the path and pushed in among the waiting people to the side
of the boy with the tied-up head.

"Got a sore ear?" he murmured sympathetically.

"Wot's it to you wot I got?" was the discouraging reply.

"Well, I'm sorry, you know," said Ger with obvious sincerity.

The boy looked hard at him and grunted.

"What are you here for?" Ger whispered.

"The Myjor, 'e got to syringe it," the boy mumbled, but this time his
tone was void of offence.

"Does it hurt?"

"'E don't 'urt, not much, 'e is careful; 'e's downright afraid of
urtin' ya'. . . . An' if 'e does 'urt, it's becos 'e can't 'elp it,
an' so," here he wagged his head impressively, "ya' just doesn't let
on . . . see? Wots the matter wiv you?"

Here was a poser. Yet Ger was con