the point of exploding. His dignity had long since gone to the winds. If he dared he would have seized this Feofé by the neck and shaken him. But the young fellow's broad shoulders and smiling, easy assurance warned him that that might be dangerous. But he must assert himself. He must show this Frenchman that he was a superior, and that that must be the light in which he must view him.
"Look here," he said at length, smothering his anger, "no more of your confounded cheek. Susanne's good enough for you, so just remember. You're going to Ranleigh, and it's just as well to tell you that I shall be a prefect. Know what that means?"
Even now he hoped to impress Feofé with his magnificence. But the lad merely raised his brows enquiringly, and shrugged his shoulders still lower against the upholstery of the carriage.
"A prefect. Someone in authority. Well?"
"And to be obeyed. Just chuck that smoking."
"But," began Susanne mildly – we call him Susanne at once, seeing that that name stuck to him forthwith – "but, by the way, what's your name?"
Imagine the impertinence of such a request! A new boy actually having the temerity to coolly ask the name of one who had been three years at the school. Rawlings gasped; he mopped his damp forehead.
"Rawlings," he growled.
"Then, Rawlings, you're a prefect, yes?"
"Not yet," came the somewhat confused answer. "But I shall be this term. It'd be a confounded shame if they passed me over."
"Quite so. A confounded shame. You would be a loss to the other prefects."
Susanne took another appreciative suck at the weed, while Rawlings went hot and cold. Satire went to the depths of his being. This Feofé was covering him with derision.
"Look here," he began threateningly, "it's about time you understood who you are and what I am."
"You're a prefect, yes?" answered Susanne, not the least distressed, his little eyes twinkling, "or will be, at Ranleigh. But you are not one here, in any case. Is it not so? Therefore, Rawlings, get into another carriage if you don't like smoke, and do let us be pleasant."
Never was a man more demoralised than Rawlings. He had made an entry into the carriage with the set purpose of bullying Clive, and of letting that young gentleman see who was to be the master. The commencement of the movement had cost him five precious shillings. That was sore enough. And then, naturally enough, he had addressed himself to this new boy – and had been worsted. It goaded him to madness to see Clive grinning still.
"Well done, Susanne!" called out that worthy, delighted at the turn events had taken. "Rawlings ain't a prefect yet, and in any case we're not at Ranleigh. I say, I'm a new boy too. He lives quite close to me."
He pointed a deprecating finger at Rawlings, and crossed to join Susanne. That young man welcomed him with open arms. The twinkle in his eye brightened, while he eyed Rawlings in a manner which made that individual squirm. In fact, never was the wind taken out of anyone's sails more completely. Susanne had reduced him to silence. Thenceforth Rawlings sat screwed into the corner, regarding the landscape with a face which showed the severest displeasure, while his lips muttered and twisted angrily.
"Wait till I get 'em to Ranleigh, that's all," he was promising himself. "The first thing I do is to kick this Darrell fellow. Then Feofé shall have a turn. I'll get my own back whatever happens."
Clive was no smoker. He was sensible enough to know that it would be harmful to him just as it would be to any other fellow, and for that reason refused the cigarette Susanne offered him. He wedged himself up close to his new chum, and commenced a long and intimate conversation. Meanwhile, other boys entered the train. Some in the next compartment, from which howls of laughter sounded, some in their own. Fellows nodded curtly to Rawlings. The fat Trendall came in at one station to have a chat with him, and found his chum curiously glum and silent. He couldn't understand him at all, nor fathom the movements of the two opposite. For Susanne and Clive regarded Trendall with the smallest interest. According to all the canons of school life they should have looked askance at a fellow who had been at the school a couple of years or so. In Clive's eyes Trendall should have appeared enormous. And, no doubt, had Clive been alone in this adventure, he would have been far less uppish. But Susanne was incorrigible. If he had never been to school before, he was at least not to be frightened by what was before him. To Clive, his easy, calm assurance was refreshing. To Trendall it was inexplicable. Finding conversation lagging he took himself off at the next station, his place being taken by two big fellows, who nodded cheerfully to the occupants of the compartment.
"Hullo, Rawlings!" called one, a very tall, slim young man, on whose upper lip there was a respectable growth of downy hair. "Not dead, then?"
"No," answered that individual sourly.
"New youngsters, eh?" was the second question as the tall fellow turned to Clive and Susanne.
"Yes," answered the former. Susanne took his hat off politely.
"Help!" called Harvey, for that was the name of the youth speaking, grinning at this quaint exhibition. However, he returned the compliment by lifting his own. "We don't do that sort of thing in England," he said, quite kindly. "I shouldn't if I were you. Fellows would start rotting. I say, can you play footer and cricket?"
Susanne's eyes sparkled. "I like them both tremendously. But play, ah, that is another question. In England fellows get a chance. In France you may say that games are only beginning."
"Book him for a trial next scratch footer," exclaimed Harvey, addressing his comrade. "Look here, you two, I'm Harvey. This is Bagshaw, secretary of our Games Committee, and of everything else that's useful. He's head bottlewasher to every institution at the school, and don't you forget it. I say, how do you call yourselves?"
How different was his manner from that of Rawlings. Feofé gave his at once, while Clive was not backward. The latter took an instant liking for Harvey. Of course, he must be a tremendous fellow at the school, top of all probably. Or was he a master? He looked almost old enough. Besides, he had a moustache, quite a decent affair. As to Bagshaw, he was a delicate-looking fellow of eighteen, perhaps, with a kindly, wizened face. A calm, studious man. The scholar of the school, no doubt, but not a games player. Nor was Clive far out in his reckoning. For Harvey was head scholar, a man head and shoulders above his comrades. Good at work, keen on books and such things, a decided master at debate, he was still a first-rate man at games, and perhaps shone still more as a leader. His clean-cut figure was the observed of all observers in School matches. His had been the fortune to listen to howls of appreciation when he had carried off the hundred yards, the quarter mile and the long jump at the School sports, while one and all, his football team or his cricket eleven watched his every move and gesture, loyal observers of all his wishes.
As to Bagshaw, he was almost as popular. No one expected him to play games. It was well known that he had a weak heart, and with that, of course, no fellow could play. But his Ranleighan Gazette was a masterpiece. His poems were enthralling; while, strangely enough, this delicate-looking fellow, a scholar also, could hold the boys spellbound. When taking "prep." Bagshaw was not one to be trifled with. There was no nonsense about this delicate, ascetic fellow. He was cool, calm and commanding, and to those who had the sense, a real help in difficulties.
"Ranleigh. All change!"
The lamps at the station were lighted now. Clive tumbled out on to a platform seething with boys of every age. Boys laden with footballs and bags. Boys clad in warm overcoats, and others nobly discarding the same for the walk up to the school. Caps were lifted in recognition of one of the masters. Clive found himself doing likewise and wondering whether
