“No, the minor—‘Toffee’ Crandall—in a native infantry regiment. He was almost before your time, Perowne.”
“The papers didn’t say anything about him. We read about Fat-Sow, of course. What’s Crandall done, sir?”
“I’ve brought over an Indian paper that his mother sent me. It was rather a—hefty, I think you say—piece of work. Shall I read it?” The Head knew how to read. When he had finished the quarter-column of close type everybody thanked him politely.
“Good for the old Coll.!” said Perowne. “Pity he wasn’t in time to save Fat-Sow, though. That’s nine to us, isn’t it, in the last three years?”
“Yes... And I took old Duncan off all games for extra-tu five years ago this term,” said the Head. “By the way, who do you hand over the Games to, Flint?”
“Haven’t thought yet. Who’d you recommend, sir?”
“No, thank you. I’ve heard it casually hinted behind my back that the Prooshan Bates is a downy bird, but he isn’t going to make himself responsible for a new Head of the Games. Settle it among yourselves. Good-night.”
“And that’s the man,” said Flint, when the door shut, “that you want to bother with a dame’s school row.”
“I was only pullin’ your fat leg,” Perowne returned, hastily. “You’re so easy to draw, Flint.”
“Well, never mind that. The Head’s knocked the First Fifteen to bits, and we’ve got to pick up the pieces, or the Old Boys will have a walk-over. Let’s promote all the Second Fifteen and make Big Side play up. There’s heaps of talent somewhere that we can polish up between now and the match.”