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Charteris had the journalistic taint very badly. He was always the first to get wind of any piece of School news. On this occasion he was in possession of an exclusive item. The Babe was the first person to whom he communicated it.

‘Have you heard the latest romance in high life, Babe?’ he observed, as they were leaving the court. ‘But of course you haven’t. You never do hear anything.’

‘Well?’ asked the Babe, patiently.

‘You know Dacre?’

‘I seem to have heard the name somewhere.’

‘He’s going to be married.’

‘Yes. Don’t trouble to try and look interested. You’re one of those offensive people who mind their own business and nobody else’s. Only I thought I’d tell you. Then you’ll have a remote chance of understanding my quips on the subject in next week’s Glow Worm. You laddies frae the north have to be carefully prepared for the subtler flights of wit.’

‘Thanks,’ said the Babe, placidly. ‘Good-night.’

The Headmaster intercepted the Babe a few days after he was going home after a scratch game of football. ‘MacArthur,’ said he, ‘you pass Mr Dacre’s House, do you not, on your way home? Then would you mind asking him from me to take preparation tonight? I find I shall be unable to be there.’ It was the custom at St Austin’s for the Head to preside at preparation once a week; but he performed this duty, like the celebrated Irishman, as often as he could avoid it.

The Babe accepted the commission. He was shown into the drawing-room. To his consternation, for he was not a society man, there appeared to be a species of tea-party going on. As the door opened, somebody was just finishing a remark.

‘… faculty which he displayed in such poems as “Sordello”,’ said the voice.

The Babe knew that voice.

He would have fled if he had been able, but the servant was already announcing him. Mr Dacre began to do the honours.

‘Mr MacArthur and I have met before,’ said Miss Beezley, for it was she. ‘Curiously enough, the subject which we have just been discussing is one in which he takes, I think, a great interest. I was saying, Mr MacArthur, when you came in, that few of Tennyson’s works show the poetic faculty which Browning displays in “Sordello”.’

The Babe looked helplessly at Mr Dacre.

‘I think you are taking MacArthur out of his depth there,’ said Mr Dacre. ‘Was there something you wanted to see me about, MacArthur?’

The Babe delivered his message.

‘Oh, yes, certainly,’ said Mr Dacre. ‘Shall you be passing the School House tonight? If so, you might give the Headmaster my compliments, and say I shall be delighted.’

The Babe had had no intention of going out of his way to that extent, but the chance of escape offered by the suggestion was too good to be missed. He went.

On his way he called at Merevale’s, and asked to see Charteris.

‘Look here, Charteris,’ he said, ‘you remember telling me that Dacre was going to be married?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, do you know her name by any chance?’

‘I ken it weel, ma braw Hielander. She is a Miss Beezley.’

‘Great Scott!’ said the Babe.

‘Hullo! Why, was your young heart set in that direction? You amaze and pain me, Babe. I think we’d better have a story on the subject in The Glow Worm, with you as hero and Dacre as villain. It shall end happily, of course. I’ll write it myself.’

‘You’d better,’ said the Babe, grimly. ‘Oh, I say, Charteris.’

‘Well?’

‘When I come as a boarder, I shall be a House-prefect, shan’t I, as I’m in the Sixth?’

‘Yes.’

‘And prefects have to go to breakfast and supper, and that sort of thing, pretty often with the House-beak, don’t they?’

‘Such are the facts of the case.’

‘Thanks. That’s all. Go away and do some work. Good-night.’

The cup went to Merevale’s that year. The Babe played a singularly brilliant game for them.