_my_ board, and now you've spoilt it."

Spoilt it! Chapple liked that! Spoilt it, if you please, when he had
done a beautiful piece of carving on it!

"Well, it can't be helped now," said Brooke, philosophically. "I
suppose it's not your fault you're such an ass. Anyhow, come on now.
It's struck eight."

"It's what?" gasped Chapple.

"Struck eight. But it doesn't matter. Appleby never minds one being a
bit late for breakfast."

"Oh," said Chapple. "Oh, doesn't he!"

* * * * *

Go into Seymour's at eight sharp any morning and look down the table,
and you will see the face of G. M. Chapple--obscured every now and
then, perhaps, by a coffee cup or a slice of bread and marmalade. He
has not been late for three weeks. The spare room is now occupied by
Postlethwaite, of the Upper Fourth, whose place in Milton's dormitory
has been taken by Chapple. Milton is the head of the house, and stands
alone among the house prefects for the strenuousness of his methods in
dealing with his dormitory. Nothing in this world is certain, but it
is highly improbable that Chapple will be late again. There are
swagger-sticks.