"We'll talk about it when Kinloch arrives. I wonder why his people sent him here."
John had studied some books, but not the Peerage. The great name of Kinloch was new to him, not new to Scaife, who, for a boy, knew his "Burke" too odiously well.
"Why shouldn't his people send him here?" he asked.
"Because," Scaife's tone was contemptuous, "because the Kinlochs—they're a great cricketing family—go to Eton. The duke must have some reason."
"The duke?"
"Hang it, surely you have heard of the Duke of Trent?"
"Yes," said John, humbly. "And this is his son?" He glanced at the label on the new portmanteau.
"Whose son should he be?" said Scaife. "Well, it's queer. Dukes[3] and dukes' sons come to Harrow—all the Hamiltons were here, and the FitzRoys, and the St. Maurs—but the Kinlochs, as I say, have gone to Eton. It's a rum thing—very. And why the deuce hasn't he turned up?"
The clanging of a bell brought both boys to their feet.
"Lock-up, and call-over," said Scaife. "Come on!"