he individual. When
Scaife's chance came, so it was predicted, he would go through the
Damer's centre as irresistibly as a Russian battleship cuts through a
fleet of fishing-smacks.

Rutford being absent, Dumbleton, the butler, stood well to the fore. He
never missed a house-match, and no one could guess, looking at his
wooden countenance, how the game was going; for he accepted either
defeat or victory with a dignified self-restraint. A smart bit of work
provoked a bland, "Well played, sir, _very well_ played, sir!" uttered
in the same respectful tone in which he requested Lovell, let us say, to
go to Mr. Rutford's study after prayers. The fags believed that
"Dumber," who had begun his career as boot-boy at the Manor in the
glorious days of old, had given notice to leave when he learned that
Dirty Dick was about to assume command; but had been prevailed upon to
stay by the promise of an enormous salary. Nothing disturbed his
equanimity. On the previous Saturday evening, John had heated the wrong
end of the poker in No. 15, knowing that Dumber's duty constrained him
to march round the House after "lights out," to rake out any fires that
might be still burning. Snug under his counterpane, the practical joker
awaited, chuckling, a choleric word from the impassive and impeccable
butler. How did Dumber divine that the poker was unduly hot and black
with soot underneath? Who can answer that question? The fact remains
that he seized John's best Sunday trousers which were laid out on a
chair, and holding the poker with these, accomplished his task without
remark or smile. The trousers had to be sent to the tailor's to be
cleaned.

Not far from Dumber stood a group of small boys, including the unhappy
Fluff--unhappy because he was not playing, despite arduous training
(entirely to please John) and systematic coaching. His failure meant
further separation from John, whom, it will be remembered, he would have
been allowed to call by his Christian name, had he been included amongst
the Torpids. Of late, Fluff had not seen much of John, and in his dark
hours he allowed his thoughts to linger, not unpleasantly sometimes,
upon premature death and John's subsequent remorse.

Meantime, Scaife and Desmond were playing a furious game which must have
proved successful had it not been for the admirable steadiness of the
enemy. Lawrence watched their efforts with compressed lips and frowning
brows. He knew--who better?--that his cracks w