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ay to the head，the main result was that you became rather a favourite than otherwise.
That was why Jill Pole was crying on that dull autumn day on the damp little path which runs between the back of the gym and the shrubbery. And she hadn’t nearly finished her cry when a boy came round the corner of the gym whistling，with his hands in his pockets. He nearly ran into her.
“Can’t you look where you’re going ？”said Jill Pole.
“All right,”said the boy，“you needn’t start—”and then he noticed her face. “I say，Pole, ”he said，“what’s up ？”
Jill only made faces，the sort you make when you’re trying to say something but find that if you speak you’ll start crying again.
“It’s them，I suppose—as usual，”said the boy grimly， digging his hands farther into his pockets.
Jill nodded. There was no need for her to say anything，even if she could have said it. They both knew.
“Now，look here,”said the boy，“there’s no good us all—”
He meant well，but he di
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