“Clavering and Thorn are prefects all right. But you are to be head. The Doctor told me so himself.”
“The deuce he did!”
“Honest. He wrote me a letter about my being here last summer while he was at Easthampfield, staying with Mr. Lawrence. He said you were there with Lawrence, and then told me that you were to be Head Prefect.”
“That’s funny. But if it’s so, why of course I’m mighty glad. As far back as I know anything about the school there have only been three Presidents of Dealonian who were not Head Prefect in their Sixth Form year. However, it means a lot of responsibility and knocks out chances of a heap of fun.”
“I guess you’re up to it,” said Finch with conviction.
“If I get it, I’ll certainly try to make good. But as a matter of fact I haven’t got it yet. Tell me how things went last year? How’s the dear old Gumshoe?”
“Same as ever. I hate him.”
“Tut, tut, my child; there’s mighty few people worth hating.”
“He is,” said Jake without a smile. “He’s a sneak.”
“Now, as a matter of fact, Jake, I don’t think he is. The Gumshoe, as I have reason to know, can be uncommonly mean, but I don’t believe for a minute that he’s a sneak. I am coming by degrees, reflection bein’ aided by merciful separation, to understand the Gumshoe’s point of view: it’s pinched and peaked, but it isn’t sneaky—he is just as disagreeable to your face as he possibly can be behind your back. He’s had a hard row to hoe, and I don’t blame him now and then for being crabbed and sour. But I reckon he takes it out in that.”