came football,
but not quite so fiercely fought as it is now; and there was Mr.
Rackwitz, the man of sweets and pastries at the corner; and another sort
of rackets in the tennis court; and for another sort of court there was
then extant a bit of ruinous Gothic in old Rutland Court, a ghostly
entrance from Charterhouse Square, some thought haunted, and long since
cleared away.

And now crossing the Square we come to No. 41, the Queen Anne fashioned
mansion where Mr. Andrew Irvine (another Reverend Master, who like all
the rest, except Churton, almost never "did duty," and when he did
manifestly could neither read, preach, not pray) had a houseful of
pupils, whereof the writer was one. That long room is full of ancient
memories of past and gone Carthusians, though it is now humiliated into
a local charity school. I remember some humorous scenes there, chiefly
owing to the master's notorious niggardliness. Andrew had some Gruyere
cheese, easily accessible to the boyish plunderers of his larder. Now we
had complained that our slabs of butter laid between the cut sides of
the rolls often were salt and strong, so one "Punsonby" (afterwards an
earl) managed to put a piece of highly-flavoured Gruyere into a roll,
and publicly at breakfast produced it before Mr. Irvine as a proof of
the bad butter provided by the unfortunate housekeeper. He was overborne
against his own convictions, by the heroic impudence of chief big boys
whom he dared not offend, and actually pretended indignation, promising
better butter in future!

For another small scholastic recollection: Andrew's Indian brother had
brought over a lot of curiosities from the East, including a rhinoceros
skin, and bows and arrows, idols, and the like, all of which were
carelessly stored away in a cellar near the larder aforesaid. Of course
the boys made a raid upon such _spolia opima_, and divers portions of
that thick hide were exhibited as Indian rubber: but Andrew never knew
that many other things vanished, and that for example Knighton used to
walk home on Saturdays with preternaturally stiff arms, an arrow
(possibly poisoned) being hid in each sleeve! some creeses also were
appropriated by others. I wonder if any Carthusian of my time survives
as the possessor of such loot.

Let me record, too, that in those evil days (for I am not one who can
think this age as "pejor avis") boys used to go, on their Monday
mornings' return from the weekly holiday, out of their wa