A fellow they had known at Harrow was coming through the great double doors. His face was white as a sheet and his lips blue. He was hurrying by, when Mark called him by name.
"They won't have me," he gasped. "I—I thought I was all right," he added piteously, "but I ain't."
"What's wrong?" said Mark.
"Heart. I asked 'em to tell me. They were rather decent, but I'm done. If you don't mind, I'll hook it now. No, don't come with me. I'm not as bad as that. Only it will, it may—grow worse."
He shambled away with the step of an old man. Mark's face was working with sympathy.
"How b-b-beastly!" he said. "And it m-m-might be one of us."
They passed through the doors into a larger room beyond. Here a score or more boys in all stages of dressing and undressing were dotting the floor. Near the window a big, burly man was testing the sight of a slender, round-shouldered youth. "How many fingers do I hold up?" Jim heard him say; and the unhappy youth replied: "Three!" The big man laughed grimly. "Wrong. Come a little nearer, and try again."
Jim was confoundedly pale.
"Pinch your cheeks," Mark whispered.
They were told to strip, and did so, but waited for some time, while the wind from an open window blew cold on their bare backs.