im that this was one of those occasions on which one has to show a
Red Indian fortitude and stifle one's private feelings.

"Congratulate you, Bob," he said awkwardly.

"Thanks awfully," said Bob, with equal awkwardness. Trevor moved on,
delicately. This was no place for him. Bob's face was looking like a
stuffed frog's, which was Bob's way of trying to appear unconcerned
and at his ease, while Mike seemed as if at any moment he might burst
into tears. Spectators are not wanted at these awkward interviews.

There was a short silence.

"Jolly glad you've got it," said Mike.

"I believe there's a mistake. I swear I heard Burgess say to Spence----"

"He changed his mind probably. No reason why he shouldn't."

"Well, it's jolly rummy."

Bob endeavoured to find consolation.

"Anyhow, you'll have three years in the first. You're a cert. for next
year."

"Hope so," said Mike, with such manifest lack of enthusiasm that Bob
abandoned this line of argument. When one has missed one's colours,
next year seems a very, very long way off.

They moved slowly through the cloisters, neither speaking, and up the
stairs that led to the Great Hall. Each was gratefully conscious of
the fact that prayers would be beginning in another minute, putting an
end to an uncomfortable situation.

"Heard from home lately?" inquired Mike.

Bob snatched gladly at the subject.

"Got a letter from mother this morning. I showed you the last one,
didn't I? I've only just had time to skim through this one, as the
post was late, and I only got it just as I was going to dash across to
school. Not much in it. Here it is, if you want to read it."

"Thanks. It'll be something to do during Math."

"Marjory wrote, too, for the first time in her life. Haven't had time
to look at it yet."

"After you. Sure it isn't meant for me? She owes me a letter."

"No, it's for me all right. I'll give it you in the interval."

The arrival of the headmaster put an end to the conversation.

* * * * *

By a quarter to eleven Mike had begun to grow reconciled to his fate.
The disappointment was still there, but it was lessened. These things
are like kicks on the shin. A brief spell of agony, and then a dull
pain of which we are not always conscious unless our attention is
directed to it, and which in time disappears altogether. When the bell
rang for the interval that morning, Mike was, as it were, sitting up
and taking nourish