"What? Never!" replied "Tiny" Desmond, who, at the age of sixteen years and three months, had attained the height of six feet one inch. "Your last term at Stockmere? You're trying to pull my leg."
"Wish I were," rejoined Colin. "But it's a fact. My governor wrote to Dr. Narfield a week ago."
"Why?" inquired Desmond, linking arms with his sturdy, athletically-built chum. "Tell me all about it. Chuck it off your chest."
It was the first day of the summer term. Stockmere was in a state of commotion that is usually associated with the commencement of a new session. There were boys promoted to higher forms, boys remaining in a state of "as you were," new boys wandering about aimlessly like strangers in a strange land, fearful the while lest by word or deed they should transgress the moral and social side of their new school-fellows. There were boys seeking old chums; boys casting about for fresh ones. Housemasters and formmasters were discussing boys; the Head and the Matron were doing likewise. In short, the topic was "Boys."
"Let's get out of this crush," continued Tiny. "Lorrimer and Perkins are cackling away in our study. You know what they are. I vote we push off up on the moors. I'll ask Collier."
The housemaster, recently placed in charge of the Upper Sixth, gave the required permission.
"Very good, Desmond," he replied in answer to Tiny's request. "Back at four, mind. How's that cough of yours, by the bye? Lost it yet?"
"Nearly, sir," replied Tiny, flushing.
"H'm, about time," rejoined Mr. Collier. "All right, carry on."
The two sixth-formers touched their caps and walked away.