"Heads," cried the poet, and heads it proved to be.
The poet wiped his forehead, after which the colonel grasped his hand.
"Write and tell me how he gets on," he said. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you—to all of you."
"No, of course not—that is, it's nothing you know—only too delighted to have the dear boy," stammered the poet. "Er—does he—can he undress himself and—and all that, you know?"
The colonel laughed.
"Why, he's thirteen," he cried.
A little later we took our departure.
In a shadowy part of the drive the poet pulled my sleeve.
"Can boys of that age undress themselves and brush their own teeth, do you suppose?" he asked.
"I believe so," I answered.