"_This_ man?" Barham tapped his finger on the newspaper.
Otway nodded.
"The man the inquest was held on?"
"That--or the other." Otway looked around at them queerly. "I think
the other. But upon my soul I won't swear."
"The other? You mean the stranger--the man who interrupted--"
At this point Yarrell-Smith sank upon a locker. "I beg your pardon,
all of you," he moaned helplessly; "but if there's such a thing about
as First Aid--"
"Sammy had better read you this thing he's unearthed," said
Polkinghorne kindly.
Barham picked up the newspaper.
"No, you don't," Otway commanded. "Put it down. . . . If you fellows
don't mind listening, I'll tell you the story. It's about Hate; real
Hate, too; not the Bosch variety."
NIGHT THE FIRST.
JOHN FOE.
John Foe and I entered Rugby together at fourteen, and shared a study
for a year and a term. Pretty soon he climbed out of my reach and
finally attained to the Sixth. I never got beyond the Lower Fifth,
having no brains to mention. Cricket happened to be my strong point;
and when you're in the Eleven you can keep on fairly level terms with
a push man in the Sixth.
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