'... Then there's Merevale--rather a decent sort--and Dacre.'

'What sort of a man is Mr Dacre?'

'Rather a rotter, I think.'

'What is a rotter, Mr MacArthur?'

'Well, I don't know how to describe it exactly. He doesn't play cricket
or anything. He's generally considered rather a crock.'

'Really! This is very interesting, Mr MacArthur. And what is a crock? I
suppose what it comes to,' she added, as the Babe did his best to find
a definition, 'is this, that you yourself dislike him.' The Babe
admitted the impeachment. Mr Dacre had a finished gift of sarcasm which
had made him writhe on several occasions, and sarcastic masters are
rarely very popular.

'Ah!' said Miss Beezley. She made frequent use of that monosyllable. It
generally gave the Babe the same sort of feeling as he had been
accustomed to experience in the happy days of his childhood when he had
been caught stealing jam.

Miss Beezley went at last, and the Babe felt like a convict who has
just received a free pardon.

One afternoon in the following term he was playing fives with
Charteris, a prefect in Merevale's House. Charteris was remarkable from
the fact that he edited and published at his own expense an unofficial