who was he?”
“My old head master, Bertie,” said Sippy.
“Yes, but, my dear old soul—”
“Head master of my old school.” He gazed at me in a distraught sort of way. “Good Lord! Can’t you understand the position?”
“Not by a jugful, laddie.”
Sippy sprang from his chair and took a turn or two up and down the carpet.
“How do you feel,” he said, “when you meet the head master of your old school?”
“I never do. He’s dead.”
“Well, I’ll tell you how I feel. I feel as if I were in the Lower Fourth again, and had been sent up by my form-master for creating a disturbance