He had been sitting a long time, pencil in hand, waiting for words to
come; when suddenly there came instead the very sounds he had fled
from--the talk and laughter of boys.

They seemed horribly close, right under the jutting cliff; and their
laughter and volleys of chaff had the jeering note he knew too well.
Presently his ear caught a high-pitched voice of defiance, that broke
off and fell to whimpering--a sound that made Roy's heart beat in quick
jerks. He could not catch what they were saying, nor see what they were
doing. He did not want to see. He hated them all.

Listening--yet dreading to hear--he recognised the voice of Bennet Ma.,
known--strictly out of earshot--as Scab Major. Is any school, at any
period, quite free of the type? It sounded more like a rough than an
ill-natured rag; but the whimpering unseen victim seemed to have no kick
in him: and Roy could only sit there wondering helplessly what people
were made of who found it amusing to hurt and frighten other people, who
had done them no harm....

And now the voice of Scab Major rang out distinctly: "After _that_
exhibition, he'll jolly well salaam to the lot of us, turn about. If
he's never learnt, we'll show him how."

The word salaam enlightened Roy. Yesterday there had been a buzz of
curiosity over the belated arrival of a new boy--an
Indian--weedy-looking and noticeably dark, with a sullen mouth and
shifty eyes. Roy, though keenly interested, had not felt drawn to him;
and a new self-protective shrinking had withheld him from proferring
advances that might only embroil them both. He had never imagined the
boy's colour would tell against him. Was _that_ what it meant--making