"Hullo, Brooke," said Chapple, "where are you off to?"

It seemed that Brooke was off to the carpenter's shop. Hence the
earnest, thoughtful expression. His mind was wrestling with certain
pieces of wood which he proposed to fashion into photograph frames.
There was always a steady demand in the school for photograph frames,
and the gifted were in the habit of turning here and there an honest
penny by means of them.

The artist soul is not always unfavourable to a gallery. Brooke said
he didn't mind if Chapple came along, only he wasn't to go rotting
about or anything. So Chapple went along.

Arrived at the carpenter's shop, Brooke was soon absorbed in his
labours. Chapple watched him for a time with the interest of a
brother-worker, for had he not tried to construct handy model
steam-engines in his day? Indeed, yes. After a while, however, the
_role_ of spectator began to pall. He wanted to _do_ something.
Wandering round the room he found a chisel, and upon the instant,
in direct contravention of the treaty respecting rotting, he sat down
and started carving his name on a smooth deal board which looked
as if nobody wanted it. The pair worked on in silence, broken only
by an occasional hard breath as the toil grew exciting. Chapple's
tongue was out and performing mystic evolutions as he carved the
letters. He felt inspired.

He was beginning the A when he was brought to earth again by the voice
of Brooke.

"You _are_ an idiot," said Brooke, complainingly. "That's