rson was actually about to address
him, and in the old familiar style----

"Hullo!"

"Hullo!"

"I met your governor the other day."

"Did you?" John replied. His father had died when John was seven.
Obviously, a blunder in identity had created this genial smile. John
wished that his father had not died.

"Yes," pursued the smiling one, "I met him--partridge-shooting at
home--and he asked me to be on the look-out for you. It's queer you
should turn up at once, isn't it?"

"Yes," said John.

"Your governor looked awfully fit."

"Did he?" Then John added solemnly, "My governor died when I was a kid."

The other gasped; then he threw back his curly head and laughed.

"I say, I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to laugh. If you're not
Hardacre, who are you?"

"Verney. I've just come."

"Verney? That's a great Harrow name. Are you any relation to the
explorer?"

"Nephew," said John, blushing.

"Ah--you ought to have been here last Speecher.[2] We cheered him, I can
tell you. And the song was sung: the one with his name in it."

"Yes," said John. Then he added nervously, "All the same, I don't know a
soul at Harrow."

Desmond smiled. The smile assured John that his name would secure him a
cordial welcome. Desmond added abruptly, "My name, Desmond, is a Harrow
name. My father, my grandfather, my uncles, and three brothers were
here. It does make a difference. What's your house?"

"The Manor," said John, proudly.

"Dirty Dick's!" Then, seeing consternation writ large upon John's face,
he added quickly, "We call _him_ Dirty Dick, you know; but the house
is--er--one of the oldest and biggest--er--houses." He continued
hurriedly: "I'm going into Damer's next term. Damer's is always
chock-a-block, you know."

"Why is Rutford called 'Dirty Dick'?" John asked nervously. "He doesn't
_look_ dirty."

"Oh, we've licked him into a sort of shape," said Desmond. "I _believe_
he toshes now--once a month or so."

"Toshes?"

"Tubs, you know. We call a tub a 'tosh.' When Dirty Dick came here he
was unclean. He told his form--oh! the cheek of it!--that in his filthy
mind one bath a week was plenty," unconsciously the boy mimicked the
thick, rasping tones--"two, luxury, and three--superfluity! After that
he was called Dirty Dick. There's another story. They say that years ago
he went to a Turkish bath, and after a rare good scraping the man who
was scraping him--nasty job that!--found something which Dirty Dick
recogni