The bone of contention in every case is a boy, and the combat always follows certain well-defined lines.
A form-master overtakes a Housemaster hurrying to morning chapel, and inquires carelessly:
"By the way, isn't Binks tertius your boy?"
The Housemaster guardedly admits that this is so.
"Well, do you mind if I flog him?"
"Oh, come, I say, isn't that rather drastic? What has he done?"
"Nothing—not a hand's-turn—for six weeks."
"Um!" The Housemaster endeavours to look severely judicial. "Young Binks is rather an exceptional boy," he observes. (Young Binks always is.) "Are you quite sure you know him?"
The form-master, who has endured Master
Binks' society for nearly two years, and knows him only too well, laughs caustically.