"A prefect. Someone in authority. Well?"
"And to be obeyed. Just chuck that smoking."
"But," began Susanne mildly—we call him Susanne at once, seeing that that name stuck to him forthwith—"but, by the way, what's your name?"
Imagine the impertinence of such a request! A new boy actually having the temerity to coolly ask the name of one who had been three years at the school. Rawlings gasped; he mopped his damp forehead.
"Rawlings," he growled.
"Then, Rawlings, you're a prefect, yes?"
"Not yet," came the somewhat confused answer. "But I shall be this term. It'd be a confounded shame if they passed me over."
"Quite so. A confounded shame. You would be a loss to the other prefects."
Susanne took another appreciative suck at the weed, while Rawlings went hot and cold. Satire went to the depths of his being. This Feofé was covering him with derision.
"Look here," he began threateningly, "it's about time you understood who you are and what I am."