At half past five o’clock he went downstairs to the rooms of Mr.
Randolph, who had charge of the Upper School. Mr. Marcy, the Fifth Form
dormitory master, and Mr. Wythe, the Fourth Form dormitory master, were
also there. They were veterans, comparatively, and it was to meet them
and benefit by what they could tell him that Irving had been invited.
All three congratulated him on his good fortune in obtaining the Sixth
Form dormitory.

“The older they are, the less trouble they are,” said Wythe. “My first
year I was over at the Lower School, looking after the little kids. Half
the time they’re sick and whimpering and have to be coddled, and the
rest of the time they have to be spanked.”

“It hardly matters what age they are,” lamented Marcy, pessimistically.
“There’s bound to be a dormitory disorder once in so often.”

“What do you do in that case?” asked Irving.

“Jump hard on some one,” answered Wythe. “Try to get the leader of it,
but if you can’t get him, get somebody. Report him,—give him three
sheets.”

“That means writing Latin lines for three hours on half-holidays?”

“Yes, and six marks off in Decorum for the week. Of course they’ll come
wheedling round you, wanting to be excused; you have to use your own
discretion about that.”

“Do you have any Sixth Form classes?” asked Marcy.