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Browne’s desk had always been left empty since its late owner went. None of us had cared to appropriate it, and the sight of it day after day had fed our sorrow over his loss. It seemed to me, therefore, an act almost of disloyalty on Potter’s part towards the memory of my old chum to install himself coolly at his desk without saying a word to anybody.

“What’s he gone there for?” I inquired of Sadgrove on my left. “He’s got no–“

“Don’t talk to me!” said Sadgrove.

Sadgrove was in a temper, and I wasn’t surprised. So was I, lazy as I was. We had all stuck to Browne through the term, and it was a little too much now to find a fellow like Potter, who professed to be Browne’s friend too, stepping in this cold-blooded way into his place. Sadgrove was put up to construe, so there was no opportunity for further conversation, had we desired it.

I wasn’t surprised that Potter avoided me in the playground after school. He guessed, I supposed, what I had to say to him, and had the decency to be ashamed of himself. However, I was determined to have it out, and that evening, after preparation, went up to his study. He was there, and looked guilty enough when he saw me.

“Look here, Potter,” I began, trying to be friendly in spite of all. I got no further, for Potter, without a word, walked out of the door, leaving me standing alone in the middle of his study.

I had seen the working of a guilty conscience once or twice before at Draven’s, but never knew it to work in quite so strange a manner as it did with Potter that evening.

There was nothing for it but to give him up as a bad job, and go to bed. Which I did; and awoke next morning in a forgiving mood.

It was always a scramble at breakfast on Saturdays at Draven’s to see who could get nearest to the ham, for we sickened of the cold mutton they gave us on other days. This morning, to my gratification, I was “well up.” That is, there were only two fellows before me, so that at any rate I was good for a fair, straight slice from the middle.

“Huzza!” said I, crowding up to Williams, who was next above me. “I’ve never had anything but knuckle all this–“

Williams faced round as he heard my voice; and then, without waiting to hear the end of my sentence, got up and took a seat at the lower end of the table.

“Poor beggar’s out of sorts,” said I to myself. “Another of his bilious attacks, I suppose,” I added, moving up to his seat and addressing the proud occupant of the carver’s chair. This fellow was Harrison, whom, next to Browne, we counted the oiliest fellow at Draven’s. He could sing, and make puns, and though a long way behind Browne, was a popular, jovial companion.

He appeared not to hear my remark, but, hitching his chair a little away, began deliberately to carve a slice of ham.

He took a long time about it, and I watched him patiently till he was done. It was a prime ham, I could see, and, ashamed as I am to confess it, it made me feel amiable to all the world to find it was so.

“If they were all like this–” I began.

“There’s room here, Harrison, old man,” Williams called up the table.

Whereupon Harrison, plate in hand, went down to keep Williams company, leaving me for the first time in my life “top-hammer.”

Somehow I did not enjoy the dignity quite as much as I should have expected. I was sorry Harrison had gone, for I wanted to speak to him about Potter, and I could not help fancying, from his unusual manner, that he was put out about something, and I thought he might have told me about it instead of chumming up to Williams. However, I was hungry, and took my slice of ham and passed the dish along to the fellow next me, who sat below the two empty chairs up which I had risen.