And he enjoyed their visits—more than anything else in the world that was still to be enjoyed. “Well, Gregson —umph—I remember you—umph—always late for everything—eh—eh? Perhaps you’ll be late in growing old —umph—like me—umph—eh?” And later, when he was alone again and Mrs. Wickett came in to clear away the tea things: “Mrs. Wickett, young Gregson called—umph—you remember him, do you? Tall boy with spectacles. Always late. Umph. Got a job with the—umph —League of Nations—where—I suppose—his— um—dilatoriness—won’t be noticeable—eh?”

And sometimes, when the bell rang for call-over, he would go to the window and look across the road and over the School fence and see, in the distance, the thin line of boys filing past the bench. New times, new names… but the old ones still remained… Jefferson, Jennings, Jolyon, Jupp, Kingsley Primus, Kingsley Secundus, Kingsley Tertius, Kingston… where are you all, where have you all gone to?… Mrs. Wickett, bring me a cup of tea just before prep, will you, please?

The post-War decade swept through with a clatter of change and maladjustments; Chips, as he lived through it, was profoundly disappointed when he looked abroad. The Ruhr, Chanak, Corfu; there was enough to be uneasy about in the world. But near him, at Brookfield, and even, in a wider sense, in England, there was something that charmed his heart because it was old —and had survived. More and more he saw the rest of the world as a vast disarrangement for which England had sacrificed enough—and perhaps too much. But he was satisfied with Brookfield. It was rooted in things that had stood the test of time and change and war. Curious, in this deeper sense, how little it HAD changed. Boys were a politer race; bullying was non-existent; there was more swearing and cheating. There was a more genuine friendliness between master and boy—less pomposity on the one side, less unctuousness on the other. One of the new masters, fresh from Oxford, even let the Sixth call him by his Christian name. Chips didn’t hold with that; indeed, he was just a little bit shocked. “He might as well —umph—sign his terminal reports—umph—‘yours affectionately’—eh—eh?” he told somebody.

During the General Strike of 1926, Brookfield boys loaded motor vans with foodstuffs. When it was all over, Chips felt stirred emotionally as he had not been since the War. Something had happened, something whose ultimate significance had yet to be reckoned. But one thing was clear: England had burned her fire in her own grate again. And when, at a Speech Day function that year, an American visitor laid stress on the vast sums that the strike had cost the country, Chips answered: “Yes, but—umph— advertisement—always IS costly.”

“Advertisement?”

“Well, wasn’t it—umph—advertisement—and very fine advertisement—too? A whole week of it—umph—and not a life lost—not a shot fired! Your country would have—umph —spilt more blood in—umph—raiding a single liquor saloon!”

Laughter… laughter… wherever he went and whatever he said, there was laughter. He had earned the reputation of being a great jester, and jests were expected of him. Whenever he rose to speak at a meeting, or even when he talked across a table, people prepared their minds and faces for the joke. They listened in a mood to be amused and it was easy to satisfy them. They laughed sometimes before he came to the point. “Old Chips was in fine form,” they would say, afterward. “Marvelous the way he can always see the funny side of things…”

After 1929, Chips did not leave Brookfield—even for Old Boys’ dinners in London. He was afraid of chills, and late nights began to tire him too much.