"By Jove--it's old Sam!"
He spoke in a whisper, as if to himself.
"Yes--it's old Sam," said Ajax quickly. "You were at Harrow?"
Wilkins' eyelids fluttered; then he met our glance with a shrug of his
shoulders.
"Yes."
He stared at the portrait of Sam, the Custos of the School, the
familiar of the Yard, of the Fourth Room Form, Sam, the provider of
birches, Sam of the port wine nose.
"_We_ were at Harrow," said Ajax. "What house was yours?"
Wilkins hesitated; then he said slowly: "Tommy's."
"We were at Billy's."
Wilkins abruptly changed the subject, and soon after he left us. We
rushed to the Harrow register. Yes, in Tommy's house, some seven years
before our time, there had been a certain Theodore Vane Wilkins. Ajax,
whose imagination runs riot, began to prattle about a Dinah, a Delilah
of a Dinah, who had wrecked our schoolfellow's life. And, during the
ensuing week, Dinah was continually in his mouth. Wilkins had moved
camp, and we saw nothing of him. What we heard, however, must be set
down. Silas Upham asked us to spend Sunday at his house. At dinner I
sat next pretty little Hetty, and at once she spoke of Wilkins.
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