Leaving Duncliffe Hill on the left, he proceeded without hesitation through the shade, as a man goes on, night or day, in a district over which he has played as a boy. He had walked altogether about four and a half miles when he crossed the tributary of the Stour, and reached Leddenton—a little town of three or four thousand inhabitants—where he went on to the boys' school, and knocked at the door of the master's residence.
A boy pupil-teacher opened it, and to Phillotson's inquiry if Mr. Gillingham was at home, replied that he was, going at once off to his own house, and leaving Phillotson to find his way in as he could. He discovered his friend putting away some books from which he had been giving evening lessons. The light of the paraffin lamp fell on Phillotson's face—pale and wretched by contrast with his friend's, who had a cool, practical look. They had been schoolmates in boyhood, and fellow-students at Wintoncester Training-College many years before this time.
"Glad to see you, Dick! But you don't look well! Nothing the matter?"
Phillotson advanced without replying, and Gillingham closed the cupboard and pulled up beside his visitor.
"Why, you haven't been here—let me see—since you were married? I called, you know, but you were out; and, upon my word, it is such a climb after dark that I have been waiting till the days are longer before lumpering up again. I am glad you didn't wait, however."
Though well-trained and even proficient masters, they occasionally used a dialect-word of their boyhood to each other in private.
"I've come, George, to explain to you my reasons for taking a step that I am about to take, so that you, at least, will understand my motives if other people question them anywhen, as they may—indeed, certainly will.... But anything is better than the present condition of things. God forbid that you should ever have such an experience as mine!"
