But the Scab was off like the wind:  and the rest, startled by a voice from nowhere, hurriedly followed suit.

Roy, raising himself on his hands, gave a convulsive wriggle of joy—­that changed midway, into a backward jerk ... too late!

The crumbling edge was giving way under his hands, under his body.  No time for terror.  His jerk gave the finishing touch....

Down he went—­over and over; his Sunday hat bouncing gaily on before; nothing to clutch anywhere; but by good luck, no stones——­

The thought flashed through him, “I’m killed!” And five seconds later he rolled—­breathless and sputtering—­to the feet of the two remaining boys, who had sprung back just in time to escape the dusty avalanche.

There he lay—­shaken and stupefied—­his eyes and mouth full of sand; and his pockets and boots and the inside of his shirt.  Nothing seemed to be broken.  And he wasn’t killed!

Some one was flicking the sand from his face; and he opened his eyes to find the deliverer kneeling beside him, amazed and concerned.

“I say, that was a pretty average tumble!  What sort of a lark were you up to?  Are you hurt?”

“Only bumped a bit,” Roy panted, still out of breath.  “I spec’ it startled you.  I’m sorry.”

The bareheaded one laughed.  “You startled the Scab’s minions a jolly sight more.  Cleared the course!  And a rare good riddance—­eh, Chandranath?”

To that friendly appeal the Indian boy vouchsafed a muttered assent.  He stood a little apart, looking sullen, irresolute, and thoroughly uncomfortable, the marks of tears still on his face.

“Thanks veree much.  I am going now,” he blurted out abruptly; and Roy felt quite cross with him.  Pity had evaporated.  But the other boy’s good-humour seemed unassailable.

“If you’re not in a frantic hurry, we can go back together.”

Chandranath shook his head.  “I don’t wish—­to go back.  I would rather—­be by myself.”

“As you please.  Those cads won’t bother you again.”

“If they do—­I will kill them.”

He made that surprising announcement in a fierce whisper.  It was the voice of another race.

And the English boy’s answer was equally true to type.  “Right you are. 
Give me fair warning and I’ll lend a hand.”

Chandranath stared blankly.  “But—­they are of your country,” he said; and turning, walked off in the opposite direction.

“A queer fish,” Roy’s new friend remarked.  “Quite out of water here.  Awfully stupid sending him to an English school.”

“Why?” asked Roy.  He was sitting up and dusting himself generally.

“Oh, because——­” the boy frowned pensively at the horizon.  “That takes some explaining, if you don’t know India.”

“D’you know India?” Roy could not keep the eagerness out of his tone.

“Rather.  I was born there.  North-West Frontier.  My name’s Desmond.  We all belong there.  I was out till seven and a half, and I’ll go back like a bird directly I’m through with Marlborough.”