showed legitimate spirit in a charge or a tackle they snarled at him.
"Foul!"
"Dirty!"
"Play the game—'Collars.'"
"His father's only a por-tah."
Sorrell walked back with his son after the game, and a few pregnant confidences passed between them.
"Do you like playing with those boys, Kit?"
"No—I don't, pater."
"All right. We'll alter that."
For Sorrell had seen that these sons of working men hated the son of the ex-officer. They hated his face, his voice, his pride, his very good temper. They hated him for his differences, his innocent superiorities.
Hatred, a cheaply educated hatred was loose in the world.
The obvious thing was to educate the boy above it,—and if possible to make him triumphant over it. Sorrell and Kit arrived at their decision.
Mr. Launcelot Lowndes, M.A., the "head" of St. Bene dict's at Westbourne received a letter from a Captain Sorrell who appeared to be staying at the Pelican Hotel—Winstonbury. The letter had been written on the hotel notepaper, and by the hand of an educated man.
Mr. Lowndes promptly replied to it. He sent Captain Sorrell a booklet on St. Benedict's, with photos of the school playing-field, the gymnasium, the chapel, the type of dormitory that was used, and the infirmary. He gave Captain Sorrell all the necessary information as to fees, and they were heavy. The extras connected with the school games amounted to a considerable figure. St. Benedict's engaged the services of a games master who was an old Oxford "blue."
Mr. Lowndes informed Captain Sorrell that there would be a few vacancies at the beginning of the summer term.
Sorrell and his son talked it over.
"There is no reason why anyone should know, Kit, that I am an hotel porter."
