TRANTO.  Yes?

JOHN.  It was while I was away they appointed Dad a controller.  When I heard—­I laughed.  Dad a controller!  Why, he can’t even control mother.

HILDEGARDE (without looking round).  Oh yes he can.

JOHN (pretending to start back).  Stay me with flagons! (Resuming to
Tranto.) And you’re something new here since the summer holidays.

TRANTO.  I never looked at myself in that light.  But I suppose I am rather new here.

JOHN.  Not quite new.  But you’ve made a lot of progress during the last term.

TRANTO.  That’s comforting.

JOHN.  You understand what I mean.  You were rather stiff and prim in
August—­now you aren’t a bit.

TRANTO.  Just so.  Well, I won’t ask you what you think of me, John—­you might tell me—­but what do you think of my newspaper?

JOHN. The Echo?  I don’t know what to think.  You see, we don’t read newspapers much at school.  Some of the masters do.  And a few chaps in the Fifth—­swank, of course.  But speaking generally we don’t.  Prefects don’t.  No time.

TRANTO.  How strange!  Aren’t you interested in the war?

JOHN.  Interested in the war!  Would you mind if I spoke plainly?

TRANTO.  I should love it.

JOHN.  Each time I come home I wonder more and more whether you people in London have got the slightest notion what war really is.  Fact!  At school, it’s just because we are interested in the war that we’ve no time for newspapers.

TRANTO.  How’s that?

JOHN.  How’s that?  Well, munition workshops—­with government inspectors tumbling all over us about once a week.  O.T.C. work.  Field days.  Cramming fellows for Sandhurst.  Not to mention female masters.  ‘Mistresses,’ I ought to say, perhaps.  All these things take time.

TRANTO.  I never thought of that.

JOHN.  No.  People don’t.  However, I’ve decided to read newspapers in future—­it’ll be part of my scheme.  That’s why I was reading The Echo.  Now, I should like to ask you something about this paper of yours.

TRANTO.  Yes.

JOHN.  Why do you let Hilda write those articles for you about food economy stunts in the household?

TRANTO.  Well—­(hesitating)

JOHN.  Now, I look at things practically.  When Hilda’d spent all her dress allowance and got into debt besides, about a year and a half ago, she suddenly remembered she wasn’t doing much to help the war, and so she went into the Food Ministry as a typist at thirty-five shillings a week.  Next she learnt typing.  Then she became an authority on everything.  And now she’s concocting these food articles for you.  Believe me, the girl knows nothing whatever about cookery.  She couldn’t fry a sausage for nuts.  Once the mater insisted on her doing the housekeeping—­in the holidays, too!  Stay me with flagons!