tails," as they were called, the swallow-tail
coat of the Upper School mercifully given to boys of the Lower School
who are too tall to wear with decency the short Eton jacket; he
possessed a trouser-press; and his "bags" were perfectly creased and
quite spotless. From tip to toe, at all seasons and in all weathers, he
looked conspicuously spick and span. Chaff provoked the solemn retort:
"One should be well groomed." He spoke impersonally, considering it bad
form to use for first person singular. Amongst the small boys he ranked
as the Petronius of the Lower School.

One day the Caterpillar said grandiloquently, "You kids will oblige me
by not shouting and yelling when you speak to me. I've a bit of a head."

"What's wrong with it?" said Fluff.

"It looks splendid _outside_," said John, in his serious voice.

The Caterpillar, detecting no cheek, answered gravely--

"Some of us had a wet night of it, last night."

"Wet?" exclaimed the innocent Fluff. "Why, all the stars were shining."

"Your brothers at Eton know what a 'wet night' means," said the
Caterpillar. "I was talking with one of the Fifth, when a fellow came in
with a flask. A gentleman ought to be able to carry a few glasses of
wine, but one is not accustomed to spirits."

"Spirits?"

"Whisky, not prussic acid, you know."

"But where do they get the whisky?" demanded John.

"Comparing it with my father's old Scotch, I should say at the
grocer's," replied the Caterpillar. "There's some drinking going on in
our house, and--and other things. One mentions it to you kids as a
warning."

"Thanks," said John.

"Not at all; you're rather decent little beggars. They" (the Fifth Form
was indicated), "they've let you alone so far, but you may have trouble
next term, so look out! And if you want advice, come to me."

Beneath his absurd pompous manner beat a kindly heart, and the small
boys divined this and were grateful. None the less the word "spirits"
frightened them. Next day John happened to find himself alone with
Caesar. Very nervously he asked the question--

"I say, do any of the big fellows at Damer's drink?"

"Drink? Drink--what?"

"Well, spirits."

Caesar snorted an indignant denial. The fellows at Damer's were above
that sort of thing. The house prided itself upon its tone. Tone
constituted Damer's glory, and was the secret of its success. John
nodded, but two days afterwards the Demon took him by the arm, twisted
it sharply, and said--