I wanted you to take tea with me. Will you—umph —sit down by the fire? Umph—I don’t think I have seen your face before. How is that?”

“I’ve only just come out of the sanatorium, sir—I’ve been there since the beginning of term with measles.”

“Ah, that accounts for it.”

Chips began his usual ritualistic blending of tea from the different caddies; luckily there was half a walnut cake with pink icing in the cupboard. He found out that the boy’s name was Linford, that he lived in Shropshire, and that he was the first of his family at Brookfield.

“You know—umph—Linford—you’ll like Brookfield —when you get used to it. It’s not half such an awful place—as you imagine. You’re a bit afraid of it—um, yes—eh? So was I, my dear boy—at first. But that was—um—a long time ago. Sixty-three years ago—umph—to be precise. When I— um—first went into Big Hall and—um—I saw all those boys—I tell you—I was quite scared. Indeed—umph —I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life. Not even when —umph—the Germans bombed us—during the War. But —umph—it didn’t last long—the scared feeling, I mean. I soon made myself—um—at home.”

“Were there a lot of other new boys that term, sir?” asked Linford shyly.

“Eh? But—God bless my soul—I wasn’t a boy at all—I was a man—a young man of twenty-two! And the next time you see a young man—a new master—taking his first prep in Big Hall —umph—just think—what it feels like!”

“But if you were twenty-two then, sir—”

“Yes? Eh?”

“You must be—very old—now, sir.”

Chips laughed quietly and steadily to himself. It was a good joke.

“Well—umph—I’m certainly—umph—no chicken.”

He laughed quietly to himself for a long time.

Then he talked of other matters, of Shropshire, of schools and school life in general, of the news in that day’s papers. “You’re growing up into— umph—a very cross sort of world, Linford. Maybe it will have got over some of its—umph—crossness—by the time you’re ready for it. Let’s hope so—umph—at any rate… Well…” And with a glance at the clock he delivered himself of his old familiar formula. “I’m —umph—sorry—you can’t stay…”

At the front door he shook hands.

“Good-bye, my boy.”

And the answer came, in a shrill treble: “Good-bye, Mr. Chips…”

Chips sat by the fire again, with those words echoing along the corridors of his mind. “Good-bye, Mr. Chips…” An old leg-pull, to make new boys think that his name was really Chips; the joke was almost traditional. He did not mind. “Good-bye, Mr. Chips…” He remembered that on the eve of his wedding day Kathie had used that same phrase, mocking him gently for the seriousness he had had in those days. He thought: Nobody would call me serious today, that’s very certain…

Suddenly the tears began to roll down his cheeks—an old man’s failing; silly, perhaps, but he couldn’t help it. He felt very tired; talking to Linford like that had quite exhausted him. But he was glad he had met Linford. Nice boy. Would do well.

Over the fog-laden air came the bell for call-over, tremulous and muffled. Chips looked at the window, graying into twilight; it was time to light up. But as soon as he began to move he felt that he couldn’t; he was too tired; and, anyhow, it didn’t matter. He leaned back in his chair. No chicken —eh, well—that was true enough. And it had been amusing about Linford.