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Sitting on the side of his bed, he announced gleefully: “Tell you what it is, Peter, we’ll be a parent! A parent with a delicate kid! And we’ll write long-winded letters in scratchy, small handwriting, you know, like the masters write....”

“But,” Peter interrupted excitedly, “how are we to get the answers? It wouldn’t be any fun if we didn’t.”

“The answers,” Tod replied calmly, “will come to the post office here, where we’re living, you juggins! You bet there’ll be answers. They’re awfully keen after the oof at the good old school. Why, they scent a new boy a mile off. He shall go into old Pig-Face’s house, just to pay him out for all his beastliness to you, and I’ll pester the Head about him and his delicate chest, and all that sort of rot that parents do write, don’t you know.”

Peter gasped. “But how can he ‘go’ into anybody’s house if there isn’t a him to go?”

“What an ass you are, Peter! Was there a Thomas Libby? And how many people’s houses was he going to, pray?”

“Go on,” said Peter humbly, “go on.”