"It must be warm up in the gallery."

Across the further end of the hall a dais had been erected. On this
the bulk of the school sat, leaving the body of the hall to the
crowned heads, nobility, and gentry to whom Silver had referred in his
conversation with Fenn.

"It always is warm in the gallery," said Challis. "I lost about two
stone there every concert when I was a kid. We simply used to sit and
melt."

"And I tell you what," broke in Silver, "it's going to get warmer
before the end of the show. Do you notice that all Kay's house are
sitting in a lump at the back. I bet they're simply spoiling for a
row. Especially now Kay's running the concert. There's going to be a
hot time in the old town tonight--you see if there isn't. Hark at
'em."

The choir had just come to the end of a little thing of Handel's.
There was no reason to suppose that the gallery appreciated Handel.
Nevertheless, they were making a deafening noise. Clouds of dust rose
from the rhythmical stamping of many feet. The noise was loudest and
the dust thickest by the big window, beneath which sat the men from
Kay's. Things were warming up.

The gallery, with one last stamp which nearly caused the dais to
collapse, quieted down. The masters in the audience looked serious.
One or two of the visitors glanced over their shoulders with a smile.
How excited the dear boys were at the prospect of holidays! Young
blood! Young blood! Boys _would_ be boys.