got it just as I was going to dash across to school. Not much in it. Here it is, if you want to read it."
"Thanks. It'll be something to do during Math."
"Marjory wrote, too, for the first time in her life. Haven't had time to look at it yet."
"After you. Sure it isn't meant for me? She owes me a letter."
"No, it's for me all right. I'll give it you in the interval."
The arrival of the headmaster put an end to the conversation.
By a quarter to eleven Mike had begun to grow reconciled to his fate. The disappointment was still there, but it was lessened. These things are like kicks on the shin. A brief spell of agony, and then a dull pain of which we are not always conscious unless our attention is directed to it, and which in time disappears altogether. When the bell rang for the interval that morning, Mike was, as it were, sitting up and taking nourishment.
He was doing this in a literal as well as in a figurative sense when Bob entered the school shop.
Bob appeared curiously agitated. He looked round, and, seeing Mike, pushed his way towards him through the crowd. Most of those present congratulated him as he passed; and Mike noticed, with some surprise, that, in place of the blushful grin which custom demands from the man who is being congratulated on receipt of colours, there appeared on his face a worried, even an irritated look. He seemed to have something on his mind.
"Hullo," said Mike amiably. "Got that letter?"
"Yes. I'll show it you outside."
"Why not here?"
"Come on."
Mike resented the tone, but followed. Evidently something had happened to upset Bob seriously. As they went out on the gravel, somebody congratulated
