“Had I done so, I should have reported my—­er—­suspicions.  I cannot tax my memory, Dr Mant, with having observed a symptom in any child which pointed—­er—­in that direction.  With regard to the child Jago, I was the less likely to be forewarned of such an—­er—­shall we say?—­eventuality, seeing that he is the most irregular attendant of my infant class, and, so far as my recollection serves me, his attendances during the past quarter amount to but twenty-three point four.  I leave you to judge.”

“Right—­O!  What about his attendance the week before breaking up?”

“I can look up the Register if you wish, sir.  But, speaking at off-hand, I should compute the child Josiah Jago’s attendances during the last week of July at nil, or thereabouts.  You will understand, Dr Mant, that at the very close of the school year many parents take advantage, reasoning that they will not be prosecuted during the holidays.  I may say that I have drawn the attention of the School Attendance Committee to this—­er—­propensity on the part of parents, and have asked them to grapple with it:  but, so far, without result.”

“Hallelujah!” exclaimed Dr Mant.  “Then there’s hope we may isolate the little devil. . . .  Well, so far so good.  But that wasn’t my only reason for calling.  I have to give an ambulance lecture in your schoolroom to-morrow evening:  and I came to ask if you had a wall-map or chart of the human body to help me along.  Otherwise I shall have to lug over a lot of medical books with plates and pass ’em around:  and the plates are mixed up with others. . . .  Well, you understand, they’re not everybody’s picture-gallery.  That’s to say, you can’t pass a lot of books around and say ’Don’t turn the page, or maybe you’ll get more than you bargain for. ’”

Mr Rounsell had stiffened visibly.  “I will not conceal from you, Dr Mant, that the matter on which you now approach me is—­er—­the subject on which I—­er—­privately anticipated that you had called.  I have no official knowledge of your lecturing here to-morrow—­ instructive as I am sure it will be.  The Managers have not consulted me; they have not even troubled to give me official notice.  But come inside, sir.”

Doctor Mant followed, to a little parlour lined with books; wherein the little man turned on him, white with rage.

“I have heard, by a side wind,” he foamed, “that a meeting was held, two days ago, up at the Vicarage, when it was decided that you should hold lectures in this school—­my school.  I wasn’t asked to attend. . . .  And of course you will jump to the conclusion that I am over-sensitive, huffed for my own sake.  It isn’t that! . . .  I am huffed—­maddened—­if you will—­for the sake of my calling.  For twenty years, Dr Mant, I have opened this school every morning with prayer, dismissed it with prayer every evening, and between times laboured to preach many things that all in the end come to one thing—­the