Wolf could make out, here and there among the people round him, the well-known straw-hats⁠—manufactured by Mr. Albert Smith⁠—of the boys of Ramsgard School. “They must be having a ‘half’ today,” he thought; and his mind ran upon the various queer, unathletic, unpopular boys among the rest, who must be feeling, just then, so indescribably thankful for this blessed interlude in their hateful life! The thought of the unknown, undiscovered bullies that probably existed in Ramsgard School at that very moment made him feel sick at the pit of his stomach. “I put my curse on them,” he thought. “If I have a vestige of occult power I put my curse upon them!”

A short, stocky man, with powerful wrists, driving a lively but not particularly handsome horse, passed them at that moment inside the paddock. Wolf was wondering why the voices round him were discreetly lowered as this person trolled by, when he noted that the man exchanged a familiar nod with Mr. Urquhart.