“Yes, as your master. I count on you, mind, to set a specially good example to the other boys, and back me up in every way you can. You will be able to do a great deal if you only try.”
“I’m game! Am I to be made a prefect, I say, Mark—Mr Railsford, I mean?”
“And remember,” said Mark, ignoring the question, “that we are here to work, and not to—to drive omnibuses.”
Arthur brightened up suddenly.
“You saw the race, then? Stunning spurt round the last lap, only Dig hadn’t any stay in him, and the cab had the inside berth. I say, don’t let anybody know it was Dig, will you? He’d get in rather a mess, and he’s going to put it on hard this term to make up.”
Could anything be more hopeless than the task of impressing this simple-minded youth with a sense of his duty and deportment towards the new Master of the Shell?
Railsford gave the attempt up, and the school-bell happily intervened to make a diversion.
“That’s for dinner. It’s generally at two, you know; but on opening day it’s 4.30,” said the boy. “We shall have to cut, or we shall be gated, I say.”
“Well, you must show me the way,” said Mark. “I’m ready.”
“You’ll have to wear your cap and gown, though,” replied Arthur, “or you’ll get in a row.”