V. Wilson, my aunt's friend's friend's son, entered the fags' room at
four-fifteen. At four-fifteen-and-a-half, punctually, Skinner was
observed to be trying to rag him. Apparently the great Percy has no
sense of humour, for at four-seventeen he got tired of it, and hit
Skinner crisply in the right eyeball, blacking the same as per
illustration. The subsequent fight raged gorily for five minutes odd,
and then Wilson, who seems to be a professional pugilist in disguise,
landed what my informant describes as three corkers on his opponent's
proboscis. Skinner's reply was to sit down heavily on the floor, and
give him to understand that the fight was over, and that for the next
day or two his face would be closed for alterations and repairs. Wilson
thereupon harangued the company in well-chosen terms, tried to get
Skinner to shake hands, but failed, and finally took the entire crew
out to the shop, where they made pigs of themselves at his expense. I
have spoken.'

'And that's the kid you've got to look after,' said Reece, after a
pause.

'Yes,' said Marriott. 'What I maintain is that I require a kid built on
those lines to look after me. But you ought to go down and see
Skinner's eye sometime. It's a beautiful bit of work.'




[2]

INTRODUCES AN UNUSUAL UNCLE