“To see if we could run, you fool!”
“Well, I ran faster than you, anyhow,” was the scandalous retort.
“Look here, Har—Minor, if you go on talking like this, you’ll get yourself kicked all round Coll. An’ you mustn’t stand like you did when a Prefect’s talkin’ to you.”
The Minor’s eyes opened with awe. “I thought it was only one of the masters,” said he.
“Masters! It was Mullins—Head o’ Games. You are a putrid young ass!”
By what seemed pure chance, Mr. Brownell ran into the School Chaplain, the Reverend John Gillette, beating up against the soft, September rain that no native ever troubled to wear a coat for.
“I was trying to catch you after lunch,” the latter began. “I wanted to show you our objects of local interest.”
“Thank you! I’ve seen all I want,” Mr. Brownell answered. “Gillette, is there anything about me which suggests the Congenital Dupe?”
“It’s early to say, yet,” the Chaplain answered. “Who’ve you been meeting?”
“A youth called Mullins, I believe.” And, indeed, there was Potiphar, ground-ash, pipe, and all, quarter-decking serenely below the Pebble-ridge.