'Miss Jones,' he said, when they had reached the House, 'have you on your list of new boys a sportsman of the name of MacCow or Watson? I am also prepared to accept Sandys or Duncan. The Christian name is either Richard or Percy. There, that gives you a fairly wide field to choose from.'     

       'There's a P. V. Wilson on the list,' said the matron, after an inspection of that document.     

       'That must be the man,' said Marriott. 'Thanks very much. I suppose he hasn't arrived yet?'     

       'No, not yet. You two are the only ones so far.'     

       'Oh! Well, I suppose I shall have to see him when he does come. I'll come down for him later on.'     

       They strolled out on to the field again.     

       'In re the proposed bucking-up of the House,' said Marriott, 'it'll be rather a big job.'     

       'Rather. I should think so. We ought to have a most fearfully sporting time. It's got to be done. The Old Man talked to me like several fathers.'     

       'What did he say?'     

       'Oh, heaps of things.'     

       'I know. Did he mention amongst other things that Reynolds was the worst idiot on the face of this so-called world?'     

       'Something of the sort.'     

       'So I should think. The late Reynolds was a perfect specimen of the gelatine-backboned worm. That's not my own, but it's the only description of him that really suits. Monk and Danvers and the mob in general used to do what they liked with him. Talking of Monk, when you embark on your tour of moral agitation, I should advise you to start with him.'     

       'Yes. And Danvers. There isn't much to choose between them. It's a pity they're both such good bats. When you see a chap putting them through the slips like Monk does, you can't help thinking there must be something in him.'     

       'So there is,' said Marriott, 'and it's all bad. I bar the man. He's slimy. It's the only word for him. And he uses scent by the gallon. Thank goodness this is his last term.'     

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