He smiled, and his chin stuck out, and his nose stuck up at an angle
familiar to those who had scaled peaks in his company. In silence, the
School awaited what he had to say, hoping that he might slate them,
which would afford an excuse for more ragging. Warde, guessing, perhaps,
the wish of the crowd, smiled more genially than before. Then, in a
loud, clear voice, he said--

"I beg pardon for being late. And I thank you for cheering me. I haven't
been cheered in the Yard since the afternoon when I got my Flannels."

A deafening roar of applause broke from the boys. Warde might be queer,
but he was a good sort, a gentleman, and, henceforward, popular with
Harrovians.

He began to call over as Lubber Sprott neared the place where Desmond
and John awaited him. The Lubber took up his position near the boys,
turning a broad back to them. He stood with his hands in his pockets,
talking to another boy as big and stupid as himself. The Lubber, it may
be added, ought to have worn "Charity" tails, but he had not applied for
permission to do so. He was fat and gross rather than tall, and
certainly too large for his clothes.

"Now," said Caesar.

John measured the distance with his eye, as Caesar thoughtfully nudged
other members of the Upper Remove. John had room for a very short run.
The Lubber was swaying backwards and forwards. John timed his kick,
which for a small boy he delivered with surprising force, so accurately
that the Lubber fell on his face. The boys looking on screamed with
laughter. The Lubber, picking himself up (John dodged into the crowd,
who received him joyfully) and glaring round, encountered the
contemptuous face of Desmond.

"Let me have a shot," said Caesar.

The Lubber advanced, spluttering with rage.

"Where is he--where is he, that infernal young Verney?"

By this time fifty boys at least were interested spectators of the
scene. Desmond stood square in the Lubber's path.

"You like to kick small boys," said Caesar, in a very loud voice. "I'm
small, half your size, why don't you kick me?"

The Lubber could have crushed the speaker by mere weight; but he
hesitated, and the harder he stared at Desmond the less he fancied the
job of kicking him. Quality confronted quantity.

"Kick me," said Desmond, "if--if you dare, you big, hulking coward and
cad!"

"Come on, Lubber, get into line!" shouted some boy.

Sprott turned slowly, glancing over his vast, fat shoulder to guard
against further as