day, as I was standing by my locker, I got hit in the eye with a board (crust of bread) by a fellow, and it hurt me very much and almost made me cry with anger; it seemed so unfair. But, when I got up into my room and thought about it a little, I didn't mind much. For, when Leslie dies, no one will ever speak about him again or be sorry for him, but, when I am dead, people will often speak about me and be sorry for me and like me. It's very nice to think of people liking you when you're dead, I think. . . .'
I sat looking into the lower sky, not remembering Bruce. But all at once I heard him talking in a strange voice, and started and looked at him.
He saw me looking at him and jumped up, before I noticed what his face was like.
'You're a rum little beggar!' he said. Then sat down again, and went on:
'Do you tell everyone all this sort of thing?'
'No, I've never told anyone of it before, I don't think. Why should I?'
He blew softly through his lips:
'Ph-o-o . . . Fellows do. Do you know Clayton?'
'No.'—I shook my head.
'Or . . . Gildea?'
'Well . . . a few days ago I was writing lines in my study after second lesson, and he came round for some ink, and we talked a little then. That's all I know of him.'
A pause.
Then he:
'Take my advice, and have nothing to do with Gildea'
Another pause.
'Why?' asked I. 'He's rather a nice fellow, isn't he?'
'Because . . . He'll do you no good.'
'I don't twig that, quite.'
'It's no matter,' he said. 'You'll find plenty of things you can't twig, I expect, before you are a great man.—Now you had better be starting back,' he added, getting up, 'or you'll be late for call-over.'
He took out his watch and stood looking at the face for a little.
