Draven's could hardly help being amused by a fellow who one day slunk in and out among them self-consciously pale, black under the eyes, with a hacking cough and a funereal countenance, and the next blustered about defiantly and glared at every one he met.
The fact was, having despaired of making a friend, my one longing now was to make an enemy.

I would have paid all my pocket-money twice over for a quarrel or a fight with somebody.

But that was a luxury harder to get even than a friendly word.
I tried one day.
I was mooning disconsolately round the playground, when I met young Wigram, the most artless youngster in all Draven's.
"You played up well in the second fifteen on Saturday," I said, as if I had spoken to him not five minutes ago, whereas, as a matter of fact, the sound of my own voice gave me quite a shock.
"Yes," began he, falling into the snare, "I was lucky with that run up from--er--I--beg pardon--good-bye," and he bolted precipitately.
It was a mild victory as far as it went, but it did not end there, for that afternoon I came upon a group in the playground, the central figure of which was the wretched Wigram, on his knees in the act of apologising humbly all round for having been cad enough to speak to me.

It seemed a good chance for the long-wished-for quarrel, and I jumped at it.
"Let him go!" shouted I, breaking into the group and addressing the company generally.

"If any one touches him he will have to fight me!" Alas! they stared a little, and then laughed a little, and then strolled away, with Wigram among them, leaving me alone.