"P'r'aps," rejoined the unruffled arrival. "What's more to the point, I've caught the train—see? Oh, by the by, Holcombe, here's that blessed accumulator I promised you. 'Fraid I've spilt some of the acid, but that can't be helped. Had to shove it in my pocket when I sprinted."
Holcombe took the proffered gift and, reluctantly sacrificing an advertisement paper from a recently purchased motor-journal, carefully wiped off the residue of the spilt acid, while Slogger, perfunctorily turning the lining of his pocket inside out and shaking it against the sill of the window, dismissed from his mind the possibilities of the corrosive action on his clothes.
Nigel Farrar, otherwise Slogger, was a tall, broad-shouldered youth of sixteen. His nom-de-guerre was singularly appropriate, as indeed most nicknames bestowed by one's chums in a public school usually are. He won it on the cricket field; upheld it in every sport and game in which he took part. His remark to the Moke was characteristic of his thoroughly practical manner. To attain a desired end he would, even at his present age, "force his way through a hedge of hide-bound regulations." It was on this account, and to a certain extent because he did not shine at studious work, that he did not wear a prefect's badge on his cap, although by far and away the most athletic youth at Claverdon.
Farrar and Holcombe were similar in more than one respect. Both were physically and morally strong; both were deeply interested in things mechanical and practical. They were typical examples of the modern boy. Even at an early age fairy tales would have "bored them stiff." Show them an exact model of an intricate piece of machinery they would probably pronounce it to be ripping, and almost in the same breath put forth sound theories as to how the mechanism actuated. But Farrar was rather inclined to be what is popularly described as "slap-dash." With him everything had to be done in a violent hurry, while Holcombe was slow and precise in his movements, although far in advance of the painstaking Moke, who stood an excellent chance of passing the "Civil Service Higher" provided he could speed up sufficiently to get his examination questions answered within the specified time limit.
As the train rattled and jolted on its journey the three travellers fell to discussing the still remote summer holidays.
"I'm off to Germany," announced the Moke. "The governor takes me every year, you know."
"You'll be nabbed one of these fine days, my festive, and clapped into a German prison," declared the naval cadet with the air of a man who enjoys the confidence of High Officialdom and is actually in the know.
"What for?" inquired Sylvester. "I don't run up against regulations every time I get the chance, either here or abroad," he added. "I'm not like Slogger, you know."
"Thanks for small mercies," rejoined Farrar. "As a matter of fact, Holcombe, my governor talks of taking the yacht to the Baltic. How about it? Like to come along too. Spiffing rag we can have."
"Thanks, no," replied Holcombe ungraciously. "When war with Germany breaks out I want to have a look in. It's on the cards that the Dartmouth cadets will be embarked for duty with the fleet if there's a scrap, and by that time I hope I'll have passed through Osborne."