"A queer fish," Roy's new friend remarked. "Quite out of water here.
Awfully stupid sending him to an English school."

"Why?" asked Roy. He was sitting up and dusting himself generally.

"Oh, because----" the boy frowned pensively at the horizon. "That takes
some explaining, if you don't know India."

"D'_you_ know India?" Roy could not keep the eagerness out of his tone.

"Rather. I was born there. North-West Frontier. My name's Desmond. We
all belong there. I was out till seven and a half, and I'll go back like
a bird directly I'm through with Marlborough."

He spoke very quietly; but under the quietness Roy guessed there was
purpose--there was fire. This boy knew exactly what he meant to do in
his grown-up life--that large, vague word crowded with exciting
possibilities. He stood there, straight as an arrow, looking out to sea;
and straight as an arrow he would make for his target when school and
college let go their hold. Something of this Roy dimly apprehended: and
his interest was tinged with envy. If they all 'belonged,' were they
Indians, he wondered; and decided not, because of Desmond's coppery
brown hair. He wanted to understand--to hear more. He almost forgot he
was at school.

"We belong too----" he ventured shyly; and Desmond turned with a
kindling eye.

"Good egg! What Province?"