right."

"I'm quite an amateur," said Dick. "Don't understand the finer shades of
the arts. Should have thought the sergeant good enough."

"_Dubito!_ Anyhow, Dick, I'll think it over; and if I think I can
make a decent show I'll have a shot. When does it come off?"

"At Aldershot? Oh!--last week in March."

"That gives me nearly two months. One can turn round in two months; and
if I'm satisfied as to my coaching I'll certainly try at Aldershot. But
what has a fellow to do on the half-holidays now? No footer, and one
might do enough practice after tea for the Heavy. I wish Kipling would
write a book every week. He is the only fellow in England who can write."

So Acton, on the half-holidays, prepared to read his novels by his
fireside. Not that he was particularly fond of toasting himself, but
because, for him, it was all he could do.

But Corker came to his rescue. The old man, after having had his back to
the wall for an age, consented to monitors being allowed to cycle by
themselves, and even to be _chaperon_ to any fags who cared to run
with them, and--important _proviso_--whom the monitors did not
object to. Otherwise the old rule of no cycling _sans_ house-master
was in force.

Acton thereupon invested in a swell machine, and he and young Bourne, or
Grim, or Wilson on the hired article, would cover no end of country
between dinner and roll call.