stupid name? It's
going to be a hot day. You ought to come out with the chow-chow."

"No, no," whispered a boy beside him, "chowri."

"Well, chow-chow, chowri; it's all the same," said the big lad
impatiently. "Horse-tail to whisk the flies away.--Hi! do you hear?"

"Are you speaking to me?" said the tall, very English-looking lad
addressed.

"Of course I am."

"Well, you might address me by my name."

"Well, so I did. Thames. No, I remember, Severn! What idiots your
people were to give themselves names like that!"

"Well, it's as good as Slegge anyhow," said the lad.

There was a little laugh at this, which made the owner of the latter
name turn sharply and fiercely upon the nearest boy, who shut his mouth
instantly and looked as innocent as a lamb.

"Look here," said Slegge, turning again to the lad he had addressed,
"don't you be cheeky, sir, or you'll find yourself walked down behind
the tennis-court some morning to have a first breakfast; and you won't
be the first that I have taught his place in this school."

"Oh," said the lad quietly, "you mean fighting?"

"Yes," said Slegge, thrusting out his chin, "I mean fighting. You are
new to this place, and you have been coming the stuck-up on the strength
of your father being a poor half-pay Company's colonel. Honourable East
India Company indeed! Shabby set of sham soldiers got-up to look like
the real."

The face of the boy he addressed changed colour a little, and he drew a
deep breath as he compressed his lips.

"And don't you look at me like that," continued Slegge, who was
delighted to find a large audience gathering round him to listen while
he gave one of the new boys a good setting down, "or you may find that,
after I have done with you, you won't be fit to show your ugly
mug in the row of grinning boobies staring over the wall at a
twopenny-halfpenny wild-beast show."

"I don't want to quarrel," said the lad quietly.

"Oh, don't you!" continued Slegge, with a sneering laugh. "Well,
perhaps I do, and if I do I shall just give your master one for himself
as well."

"My master," said the lad staring.

"Yes, your master, the nigger--Howdah, Squashee, or whatever he calls
himself. Here! hi! you, Aziz Singh-Song, or whatever your name is, why
don't you dress up and go and get leave from the Doctor to ride the
elephant in the procession? Your father is a mahout out there in India,
isn't he?"

The boy he addressed, who had just com