Mr. Grimes—and the two outfitting assistants in sympathy—were loudly amused.
“You’re going to High Cross School,” said Mr. Grimes, emerging from his mirth. “Firm treatment. Sound Church training. Unruly boys not objected to.”
“I didn’t know,” said Peter.
They returned to the automobile, and after a mile or so of roads and turnings stopped outside a gaunt brace of drab-coloured semi-detached villas standing back behind a patch of lawn, and having a walled enclosure to the left and an overgrown laurel shrubbery to the right. “Here’s High Cross School,” said Mr. Grimes, a statement that was rendered unnecessary by a conspicuous black and gold board that rose above the walled enclosure. They descended.
“Wonther which ithe houth,” mused Mr. Grimes, consulting his teeth, and then suddenly decided and led Peter towards the right hand of the two associated doors. “This,” said Mr. Grimes, as they waited on the doorstep, “is a real school.... No nonsense about it,” said Mr. Grimes.
Peter nodded with affected intelligence.
They were ushered by a slatternly maid-servant into the presence of a baldish man with a white, puffy face and pale grey eyes, who was wearing a university gown and seemed to be expecting them. He was standing before the fireplace in the front parlour, which had a general air of being a study. There were an untidy desk facing the window and bookshelves in the recess on either side of the fireplace. Over the mantel was a tobacco-jar bearing the arms of some college, and reminders of Mr. Mainwearing’s university achievements in the form of a college shield and Cambridge photographs.
“Well,” said Mr. Grimes, “here’s your young man,” and thrust Peter forward.
“So you’ve come to join us?” said Mr. Mainwearing with a sort of clouded amiability.
“Join what?” said Peter.