It was a fine day. Jeremy, waking and turning over in his bed, could see beyond and above Stokesley’s slumbering form a thin strip of pale blue sky gleaming like a sudden revelation of water behind folds of amber mist. It would be a real thumping autumn day and he was to play half for the first fifteen against The Rest that afternoon. He also had three hundred lines to do for the French master that he had not even begun, and it must be handed up completed at exactly 11.30 that same morning. He had also every chance of swapping a silver frame containing a photograph of his Aunt Amy with Phipps minor for a silver pencil, and he was to have half Raseley’s sausage for breakfast that morning in return for mathematical favours done for him on the preceding day. As he thought of all these various things he rolled round like a kitten in his bed, curling up as it was his pleasantest habit into a ball so that his toes nearly met his forehead and he was one exquisite lump of warmth. Rending through this came the harsh sound of the first bell, murmurs from other rooms, patterings down the passage, and then suddenly both Stokesley and Raikes sitting up in bed simultaneously, yawning and looking like bewildered owls. In precisely five minutes the three boys were washed, dressed and down, herding with the rest in the long cold class-room waiting for call-over. When they had answered their names they slipped across the misty playground into chapel and sat there like all their companions in a confused state of half sleep, half wakefulness, responding as it were in a dream, screaming out the hymn and then all shuffling off to breakfast again like shadows in a Japanese pageant.

It was not, in fact, until the first five minutes at breakfast, when Raseley strongly resisted the appeal for half his sausage, that Jeremy woke to the full labours of the day. Raseley was sitting almost opposite to him and he had a very nice sausage, large and fat and properly cracked in the middle. Jeremy’s sausage was a very small one, so that, whereas on other days he might have passed over the whole episode, being of a very generous nature, to-day he was compelled to insist on his rights. “I didn’t,” protested Raseley. “I said you could have half a sausage if you did the sums, and you only did two and a half.”

“I did them all,” said Jeremy stoutly. “It wasn’t my fault that that beastly fraction one was wrong. I only said I’d do them. I never said I’d do them right.”

“Well, you can jolly well come and fetch it,” said Raseley, pursuing in the circumstances the wisest plan, which was to eat his sausage as fast as he could.

“All right,” said Jeremy indifferently. “You know what you’ll get afterwards if you don’t do what you said,” and this was bold of Jeremy because he was smaller than Raseley, but he was learning already whom he might threaten and whom he might not, and he knew that Raseley was as terrified of physical pain as Aunt Amy was of a cow in a field. With very bad grace Raseley pushed the smaller half of the sausage across, and Jeremy felt that his day was well begun.

He did not know why, but he was sure that this would be a splendid day. There are days when you feel that you are under a special care of the gods and that they are arranging everything for you, background, incident, crisis, and sleep at the end in a most delightful, generous fashion. Nothing would go wrong to-day.

On the whole, human beings are divided into the two classes of those who realize when they may step out and challenge life, and those to whom one occasion is very much the same as another.

Jeremy, even when he was eight years old and had sat in his sister Helen’s chair on his birthday morning, had always realized when to step out. He was going to step out now.

The insufferable Baltimore, who was a wonderful cricketer and therefore rose to great glories in the summer term, but was no footballer at all, and equally, therefore, was less than the dust in the autumn, came with his watery eyes and froggy complexion to ask Jeremy to lend him twopence. Jeremy had at that moment threepence, but there were a number of things that he intended to do with it. Because he detested Baltimore he lent him his twopence with the air of Queen Elizabeth accepting Sir Walter Raleigh’s cloak, and got exquisite pleasure from doing so. All these little things, therefore, combined to put him in the best of spirits when, at half-past eleven, Monsieur Clemenceau (not then a name known the wide world over) requested Monsieur Cole to be kind enough to allow him to peruse the three hundred lines which should have been done several days before so admirably provided by him.

Jeremy wore the cloak of innocence, sitting in the back row of the French class with several of his dearest friends and all the class ready to support him in any direction that he might follow.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Jeremy said. “Did you say three hundred lines?”

“That is the exact amount,” said M. Clemenceau, “that I require from you immediatement.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Jeremy politely.

“I need not repeat,” said M. Clemenceau. “Three hundred lines by you at once for impertinence three days previous.”

“Why, sir, surely,” said Jeremy, “you told me that I need not do them this term because ...”

“No because,” interrupted M. Clemenceau at the top of a rather squeaky voice. “There is no because.”

“But, sir,” began Jeremy; and from all sides of the class there broke out: “Why, certainly, sir, don’t you remember——” and “Cole is quite right, sir; you said——” and “I think you’ve forgotten, sir, that——” and “It really wouldn’t be fair, sir, if——” A babel arose. As the boys very well knew, M. Clemenceau had a horror of too much noise, because Thompson was holding a class in the next room, and on two occasions that very term had sent a boy in to request that if it were possible M. Clemenceau should conduct his work a little more softly. And this had been agony for M. Clemenceau’s proud French spirit. “I will have silence,” he shrieked. “This is no one’s business but mine and the young Cole. Let no one speak until I tell them to do so. Now, Cole, where are the three hundred lines?”

There was a complete and absolute silence.

“Vill you speak or vill you not speak?” M. Clemenceau cried.

“Do you mean me, sir?” asked Jeremy very innocently.

“Of course, I mean you.”

“You said, sir, that no one was to speak until you told them to.”

“Well, I tell you now.”

Jeremy looked very injured. “I didn’t understand,” he said. “If I could explain to you quietly.”

“Well, you shall explain afterwards,” said M. Clemenceau, and Jeremy knew that he was saved because he could deal À deux with M. Clemenceau by appealing to his French heart, his sense of honour, and a number of other things, and might even, with good fortune, extract an invitation to tea, when M. Clemenceau, in his very cosy room, had a large supply of muffins and played on the flute. “Yes,” he thought to himself as they pursued up and down the class-room, sometimes ten at a time, sometimes only three or four, the intricacies of that French grammar that has to do with the pen of my aunt and the cat of my sister-in-law and “this is going to be a splendid day.”