“Never said I was,” muttered Dan to himself, with a backward glance of regret towards his lost seclusion¹; and before the day was out he had worked his way back to it again.

 

As we were going out together, old Waterhouse passed us on the stairs: “Haven't you any sense of shame, my boy?” he asked sorrowfully, laying his hand kindly² on Dan's shoulder.

 

“Yes, sir,” answered Dan, with his frank smile; “plenty. It isn't yours, that's all.”

 

He was an excellent fighter. In the whole school of over two hundred boys, not half a dozen, and those only Upper Sixth boys—fellows who came in top hats with umbrellas, and who wouldn't out of regard to their own dignity—could have challenged him with any chance of success. Yet he fought very seldom, and then always in a bored, lazy fashion, as though he were doing it purely³ to oblige the other fellow.

 

One afternoon, just as we were about to enter Regent's Park by the wicket opposite Hanover Gate, a biggish boy, an errand boy carrying an empty basket, and supported by two smaller boys, barred our way.

 

“Can't come in here,” said the boy with the basket.

 

“Why not?” inquired Dan.

 

“'Cos if you do I shall kick you,” was the simple explanation.

 

Without a word Dan turned away, prepared to walk on to the next opening. The boy with the basket, evidently encouraged, followed us: “Now, I'm going to give you your coward's blow,” he said, stepping in front of us; “will you take it quietly?” It is a lonely way, the Outer Circle, on a winter's afternoon.

 

“I'll tell you afterwards,” said Dan, stopping short.

 

The boy gave him a slight slap on the cheek. It could not have hurt, but the indignity⁴, of course, was great. No boy of honour, according to our code, could have accepted it without

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