"I think it's Timothy Bunting," said Bob. "And I want to go to Oxford to find out if he's there. Baker says—"
"Do you discuss these matters with Baker?" demanded his grandmother, haughtily.
"He knows a great deal about the world," said Bob, "and about Bunting, you know. Baker says—"
"You may go to Oxford," cried Titania, "and I will go to bed and stay there. I am a most unhappy woman, and Goring does not care!"
So Bob went to Oxford all by himself, and called upon an undergraduate who had just come up from Harrow, one of the schools which Bob had been requested to leave on account of pugilism. Jack Harcourt was four years Bob's senior, but could not fight so well in spite of that, and there was much more equality between them than would seem possible at first sight. But then it is almost impossible to feel very much superior to a boy who has knocked you absolutely senseless, as Bob did Harcourt. And Bob was one of those boys who make all the world equal. He was familiar with princes, and said "Baker says" to cabinet ministers. And if his uncle didn't marry, he was bound to be a duke. Dukes are very important people, somehow, and the fact that Bob never showed any side was much in his favour over and above that important fact.
"I say, is there a man up here called Bunting?" asked Bob.
And Harcourt, after consulting a calendar, said there was.
"Timothy Bunting?" asked Bob, jumping as if he were shot.
"Thomas," said Harcourt.
"Oh, he'd say Thomas, I dare say," said Bob. And he told Harcourt all about it.