“Well, there’s Arthur Masters and Bob Hines, to begin with; you know them.”
“I don’t think I know Mr. Hines, do I? Who is he?”
“Oh, he was at Marlborough with me, and now keeps a boys’ school at Folkestone.”
“A nice instructor of youth, to go on an expedition of this kind,” laughed my sister.
“That’s exactly what he’s afraid of; he says if he’s caught, it’ll be the end of his business and he’ll have to break stones.”
“Then why does he go?”
“Well, you see, he’s very much in want of a gymnasium for his boys, and I’ve promised to build him one out of the swag, if he’ll join us.”
“Tempted and fallen!” said my sister. “Really, Vincent, you’re a Mephistopheles. And who else?”
“Harold Forsyth, of the Devon Borderers.”
“Is that the little man who always looks as if he was bursting out of his clothes with overeating?”