scended. How far Cards might have helped him here it is difficult to say. Cards had, in his apparently casual contempt of that school world, a remarkably competent sense of the direction in which straws were blowing. That most certainly Peter had not, being inclined, at this stage of things, to go straight for the thing that he saw and to leave the outskirts of the subject to look after themselves. And here Bobby Galleon was of no use to him, being as blundering and near-sighted and simple as a boy could very well be. Moreover his implicit trust in the perfection of that hero, Peter, did not help clarity of vision. He was never aware of the causes of things and only dimly noticed effects, but he was unflinchingly faithful.
“The primrose path” was, of course, open to Peter. He was popular enough, at the beginning of that Autumn term, to do anything, and, had he followed the “closed-eyes” policy of his predecessor, smiling pleasantly upon all crime and even gently with his own authority “lending a hand,” all would have been well. There were boys with strangely simple names, simple for such criminals—Barton, Jerrard, Watson, West, Underbill—who were old-established hands at their own especial games, and they saw no reason at all for disturbance. “Young Westcott had better not come meddling here,” they muttered darkly, having discerned already a tendency on his part to show disapproval. Nothing happened during the first term—no concrete incident—but Peter had stepped, by the end of it, from an exultant popularity to an actual distrust and suspicion. The football season had not been very successful and Peter had not the graces and charm of a leader. He distrusted the revelation of enthusiasm because he was himself so enthusiastic and his silence was mistaken for coldness. He hated the criminals with the simple names and showed them that he hated them and they in their turn, skilfully and with some very genuine humour, persuaded the school that he cut a very poor figure.
At the absurd concert that closed the Autumn term (Mr. Barbour, red-nosed and bulging shirt-front, hilariously in the chair) Peter knew that he had lost his throne. He had Bobby—there was no one else—and in a sudden bitterness and scorn at the fickle colour of that esteem that he had
