“Nunn minor.”
“Here, sir.”
“Carpenter.”
“Here, sir.”
“Rutter.”
No answer. Heriot looking up with pencil poised.
“Rutter?”
“Here, sir!”
And out slips Jan in dire confusion, to join Carpenter on the outskirts of the throng; to be cursed under Shockley’s breath; and just to miss the stare of the boy with reddish hair, who has turned a jovial face on hearing the name for the second time.
“I say, Carpenter!”