In spite of his forebodings nothing more untoward befell him that morning than a cut over the cowering shoulders for being late, as he crept to the bottom of his class. He reached leave, the ten minutes’ run at twelve o'clock, without misadventure. Perhaps it was this unwonted good fortune that made him boastful, when he crouched near the pump among his cronies, sitting on his hunkers with his back to the wall. Half a dozen boys were about him, and Swipey Broon was in front, making mud pellets in a trickle from the pump.