'Impossible. It will be a tight squeeze for Sandhurst this year.'
'And all to be cut up by those vile Afghans, too,' said Dawson. ''Wouldn't think there'd be so much competition, would you?'
'Oh, that reminds me. Crandall is coming down with the Old Boys—I've asked twenty of them, but we shan't get more than a weak team. I don't know whether he'll be much use, though. He was rather knocked about, recovering poor old Duncan's body.'
'Crandall major—the Gunner?' Perowne asked.
'No, the minor—"Toffee" Crandall—in a Native Infantry regiment. He was almost before your time, Perowne.'
'The papers didn't say anything about him. We read about Fat-Sow, of course. What's Crandall done, sir?'
'I've brought over an Indian paper that his mother sent me. It was rather a—hefty, I think you say—piece of work. Shall I read it?'
The Head knew how to read. When he had finished the quarter-column of small type everybody thanked him politely.
'Good for the old Coll!' said Perowne. 'Pity he wasn't in time to save Fat-Sow, though. That's nine to us, isn't it, in the last three years?'
'Yes . . . And I took old Duncan off all games for extra-tu. five years ago this term,' said the Head. 'By the way, who do you hand over the Games to, Flint?'
'Haven't thought yet. Who'd you recommend, sir?'
