They met King on their way, stepping statelily and rubbing his hands.  ’I have applied,’ said he, ’for the services of an additional sub-prefect in Carton’s unlamented absence.  Your name, Winton, seems to have found favour with the powers that be, and—­and all things considered—­I am disposed to give my support to the nomination.  You are therefore a quasi-lictor.’

‘Then it didn’t count against me,’ Winton gasped as soon as they were out of hearing.

A Captain of Games can jest with a sub-prefect publicly.

‘You utter ass!’ said Mullins, and caught him by the back of his stiff neck and ran him down to the hall where the sub-prefects, who sit below the salt, made him welcome with the economical bloater-paste of mid-term.

King and little Hartopp were sparring in the Reverend John Gillett’s study at 10 P.M.—­classical versus modern as usual.

‘Character—­proportion—­background,’ snarled King.  ’That is the essence of the Humanities.’

‘Analects of Confucius,’ little Hartopp answered.

‘Time,’ said the Reverend John behind the soda-water.  ’You men oppress me.  Hartopp, what did you say to Paddy in your dormitories to-night?  Even you couldn’t have overlooked his face.’

‘But I did,’ said Hartopp calmly.  ’I wasn’t even humorous about it as some clerics might have been.  I went straight through and said naught.’

‘Poor Paddy!  Now, for my part,’ said King, ’and you know I am not lavish in my praises, I consider Winton a first-class type; absolutely first-class.’

‘Ha-ardly,’ said the Reverend John.  ’First-class of the second class, I admit.  The very best type of second class but’—­he shook his head—­’it should have been a rat.  Pater’ll never be anything more than a Colonel of Engineers.’

‘What do you base that verdict on?’ said King stiffly.

‘He came to me after prayers—­with all his conscience.’

‘Poor old Pater.  Was it the mouse?’ said little Hartopp.

’That, and what he called his uncontrollable temper, and his responsibilities as sub-prefect.’

‘And you?’

’If we had had what is vulgarly called a pi-jaw he’d have had hysterics.  So I recommended a dose of Epsom salts.  He’ll take it, too—­conscientiously.  Don’t eat me, King.  Perhaps, he’ll be a K.C.B.’

Ten o’clock struck and the Army class boys in the further studies coming to their houses after an hour’s extra work passed along the gravel path below.  Some one was chanting, to the tune of ‘White sand and grey sand,’ Dis te minorem quod geris imperas.  He stopped outside Mullins’ study.  They heard Mullins’ window slide up and then Stalky’s voice: 

’Ah!  Good-evening, Mullins, my barbarus tortor.  We’re the waits.  We have come to inquire after the local Berserk.  Is he doin’ as well as can be expected in his new caree-ah?’

‘Better than you will, in a sec, Stalky,’ Mullins grunted.