did not coincide with those of M. Gerard. Pillingshot's idea of a
French lesson was something between a pantomime rally and a scrum at
football. To him there was something wonderfully entertaining in the
process of 'barging' the end man off the edge of the form into space,
and upsetting his books over him. M. Gerard, however, had a very
undeveloped sense of humour. He warned the humorist twice, and on the
thing happening a third time, suggested that he should go into extra
lesson on the ensuing Wednesday.

So Pillingshot went, and copied out Virgil.

He emerged from the room of detention at a quarter past four. As he
came out into the grounds he espied in the middle distance somebody
being carried on a stretcher in the direction of the School House. At
the same moment Parker loomed in sight, walking swiftly towards the
School shop, his mobile features shining with the rapt expression of
one who sees much ginger-beer in the near future.

'Hullo, Parker,' said Pillingshot, 'who's the corpse?'

'What, haven't you heard?' said Parker. 'Oh, no, of course, you were in
extra. It's young Brown. He's stunned or something.'

'How did it happen?'

'That rotter, Babington, in Dacre's. Simply slamming about, you know,
getting his eye in before going in, and Brown walked slap into one of
his drives. Got him on the side of the head.'

'Much hurt?'