"What can we do?" said Mark to Jim.
"Is it Bubble or Squeak?" Jim asked.
"I d-d-don't know or care; they're vulgar b-b-beasts. Old Archie has a lock of hair. They've given away tons of it: enough to stuff a sofa."
"They can get more from the same old place," said Jim.
"Oh, it's their own," said Mark. "I hate marmalade-coloured hair—don't you?"
It was after this brief dialogue that Jim noticed a falling off of Mark's interest in his work. For the first time a copy of Iambics deserved some of the remarks which the form-master made upon them. During the next fortnight this negligence, coupled with his stutter and a temporary deafness, sent Mark to the bottom of his class. Jim asked for an explanation.
"It's old Archie. He's playing the devil with himself."
"Let him," said Jim, who was no altruist. "What's the good of worrying? We can't do anything."
"Perhaps we c-c-can," said Mark. "We must," he added.
"You have a scheme?"