The boy smiled at him and held out his hand.
"I say, shake hands. You've got pluck—my eye! I never saw such a rag!”
Peter shook hands and was speechless.
“What's your name?”
“Westcott.”
“Mine's Cardillac. It isn't spelt as it's spoken, you know. C-a-r-d-i-l-l-a-c. I'm in White's—what do you say to places next each other at table?”
“Rather.” Peter's face was crimson. “Thanks most awfully.” He stammered in his eagerness.
“Right you are—see you after chapel.” The boy moved away.
Peter said something to the infant whom he had delivered, and was considering where he might most unobtrusively wash when he was once more conscious of some one at his elbow. It was the slow boy who was smiling at him.
“I say, you're a sight. You'd better wash, you know.”
“Yes, I was just thinking of that only I didn't quite know where to go.”
“Come with me—I'll get round Mother Gill all right. She likes me. You've got some cheek. Prester and Banks Mi, and all sorts of fellows were in that crowd. You landed Prester nicely.” He chuckled. “What's your name?”
“Westcott.”
“Mine's Galleon.”
“Galleon?” Peter's eyes shone. “I say, you didn't ever have a housekeeper called Mrs. Trussit?”
“Trussit? Yes, rather, of course I remember, when I was awfully small.”
“Why, she's ours now! Then it must be your father who writes books!”
“Yes, rather. He's most awfully famous!”
Peter stopped still, his, mouth open with excitement.
Of all the amazing things! What doesn't life give you if you trust it!
II
But before it became a question of individuals there is the place to be considered. This Dawson's of twenty years age
