“And where is he now?”
Sheepshanks made a vague gesture. “Where is all the gallant youth of England? Over there, fighting.”
“Are you sure?”
“It would be small compliment to you, J. B., if I wasn’t sure,” replied Sheepshanks with a smile. “The only undergraduates left in the University are a few unhappy youngsters rejected from the army for physical reasons. The maimed, halt and blind; also medical students hurrying through their course, and the usual contingent of Indian students who, not belonging to the fighting races of India, can find no place in the armies of Great Britain.”
“I don’t care about paralytics or doctors or Indians,” said Baltazar. “I want to know about this son of mine.”
“Crosby would tell you. He’s up. I saw him yesterday. Of course, you know he’s master now.”
“Crosby?” cried Baltazar, incredulously. “Crosby—that pragmatical owl, master of——?”
“Even as you are master of intolerance,” Sheepshanks interrupted. “Crosby has developed into a very great man, and there’s not a head of house in the University who is more beloved by his college. You’ll find him in intimate touch with half a dozen generations of undergraduates.”
“I’m learning things every minute,” said Baltazar. “So much for Crosby. I’ll go along and see him. But the boy—I suppose he has got a Christian name. What is it?”
“I forget—but I can easily find out.” Sheepshanks took The Cambridge University Calendar from a shelf. “But perhaps you’d like to look through it yourself.”