"I never walk far in these boots. Peal made 'em."
"Change 'em, can't you?"
"Right."
While he was absent, John seriously considered the propriety of taking Egerton into his confidence. Sincerely attached to Egerton, and valuing his advice, he knew, none the less, that the Caterpillar looked at everybody and everything with the eyes of a colonel in the Guards. To tell Colonel Egerton's son that one's heart was lacerated because Cæsar Desmond was playing bridge on Sunday seemed to invite jeers. And, besides, that wasn't the real reason. John felt wretched because the Sunday walk had been sacrificed to Moloch. Presently Egerton came downstairs, spick and span, but not quite so smart. The boys walked quickly, talking of cricket.
"The Demon'll get his Flannels," said Egerton. "I'm glad Lovell gave you your cap, Jonathan; you deserved it a month ago. It wasn't my fault you didn't get it at the beginning of the term."
"I'm sure of that," said John, gratefully.
"You don't look particularly bucked-up. A grin improves your face, my dear fellow."
At this John burst into explosive speech. Those beasts had got hold of Cæsar. The Caterpillar stared; he had never heard John let himself go. John's vocabulary surprised him.
"Whew-w-w!" he whistled. "Gad! Jonathan, you do pile on the agony. Cæsar's all right. Don't worry."
"He's not all right. I thought Cæsar had backbone, I——"