"What do you want all those for, Major Peter?" I asked.
"Well, you see," said Peter, "the kids at school"—Peter now calls other boys of the same age as himself "kids," on the same principle that a West African negro who is rising in the world refers to his fellows as "niggers"—"keep on bothering me to send them things, and a fellow must send them something."
He pulled a crumpled letter, to which some chocolate was adhering with the tenacity of sealing-wax, out of his pocket. "That's from Jackson minor," he said. "Cheek, isn't it?"
I began reading the letter aloud.
Dear old Pan—You must be having a ripping time. I see your letter is headed "The Front" ...
I looked at Peter. He was blushing uncomfortably.
... so I suppose you've seen a lot. The whole school's fritefully bucked up about you, and we're one up on Fenner's....
"What's Fenner's?" I said to Peter.
"Oh, that's another school at Beckenham. They're stinkers. Put on no end of side because some smug of theirs won a schol' at Uppingham last term. But we beat them at footer."