In a word, Acton determined to go to London and to take young Bourne with him, and so risk certain expulsion for both, supposing they were discovered. He had no intention of being expelled, though; for he liked the life at St. Amory's, where incense floated round him all day long, but he meant, when he had accomplished the ruin of Jack, to let Bourne senior know it. Acton gloated in advance over Phil's anger, shame, and consternation, and—this was the cream of the joke—his utter inability to do anything except keep silence and chew the bitter cud of hopeless rage against him—the man to whom he would not give the footer cap. Acton never thought of Jack's share in the matter at all, and yet he was genuinely fond of him; all he thought of was what would be Philip's hopeless rage.

Phil, of course, could say nothing to Corker, for he knew it would be hopeless. And Acton knew that Phil's pride could never bear the idea of Jack—a Bourne—being expelled from the old place. Therefore he would keep silence. I don't think I used the wrong adjective when I said it was subtle. The only question was—could he so manage that Jack would go? And Acton for good reasons was pretty certain that he could.

Jack was staidly taking a turn up and down the pavement with Grim when, on passing by Biffen's house, he heard a whistle from one of the windows, and, on looking up, he saw Acton.

"I want you, Bourne, for five minutes—if you can spare them."

"Of course he can," said Grim, sotto voce. "Aren't you a monitor? Jack, my boy, Acton wants to knight you—or something. You'll find his boots in the bottom cupboard, if you want to black 'em very much. I suppose, being only a common or garden fag, my feelings aren't to be considered for a moment. When you were—for once—talking sensibly for a Corker fag, you are called away to——"

"Cork all that frivol, old man, till you see me at tea," said Jack, moving into Biffen's yard.

When Jack was comfortably installed in a chair, Acton bolted his door, and, somewhat to young Bourne's surprise, seemed rather in a fix how to start what he had to say. The locking of the door was unusual, and this, combined with Acton's grave face and hesitating manner, made Jack a trifle uneasy. Whatever was coming?

"I say, Bourne," at last said his friend, "do you know anything about betting?"

"Betting!" said Jack, with a vivid blush. "About as much as most of the fellows know of it. Not more."

"Well, do you mind reading this?" He handed Jack a slip of paper which contained such cryptic sentences as: "Grape Shot gone wrong, though he will run. Pocket Book is the tip. If you're on Grape Shot, hedge on best terms you can get," etc.

"I understand that," said Jack, "you've—if this means you—you've backed the wrong horse."

"Exactly," said Acton. "I backed Grape Shot for the Lincolnshire Handicap, and he hasn't a ghost of a chance now. Gone wrong."

"I see," said Jack, absolutely staggered that Acton, a monitor, should tell him, a fag, that he was betting on horse-racing.

"I see, young 'un, that you seem surprised at my little flutter, but, by Jove! this will have to be my last. Do you know, Bourne, I'm in an awful hole."

"I'm very sorry to hear it," said Jack, with no end of concern.

"You see, if Pocket Book pulls the handicap off before I've time to trim my sails, I lose a lot."

"Much," said Jack, "for you?"

"Thirty pounds."

"Whew!" whistled Bourne.

"I get a good allowance from home, Bourne, but I'm bound to say thirty pounds would cripple me."

"Rather," said Jack, with a gasp.

"Of course, if the worst did come to the worst, I'd have to apply to home; but there would be, as you might guess, no end of a row about it."

"Then you must hedge," said Jack.

"That is it, exactly. I must back Pocket Book for first place. This is a sure tip—I can depend upon it."

"Then send to the fellow you bet with, and let him put you on Pocket Book."

"That is just it, Jack—the bookmaker wouldn't take a bet from me."

"Why ever not?" said Jack, mystified.

"Because I'm a minor—I'm under age."

"Then how do you manage?" said Jack.

"Why, I bet through another man."

"I see," said Jack, for this was but another edition of his own little adventures. "And that man——"

"Is Raffles," said Acton, quietly.

Jack bounced out of his chair as if he had been stung. "That beast!" he gasped.

"Raffles?" said Acton, with a slow smile. "I didn't know he was a beast."

"He is the meanest skunk alive," said Jack. He added fervently, "Acton, have no dealings with that fellow. He is an abominable sharper."

"Thanks," said Acton, with a slight grimace at Jack's advice. "But, all the same, I have to deal through Raffles."

"Then write to the fellow."

"I don't know—I've forgotten his address."

"Well, I'm hanged if I understand it!" said Jack, lost in astonishment. "If you don't know it, and your bookmaker will only bet through Raffles, you are in a hole—a marvellously deep one."

"There's only one way out—find Raffles."

"And that you can't do."

"And that I think I can do by going to London."

"Well, we're off for the holidays on Tuesday, and you can find Raffles then."

"I should be hopelessly too late if I waited till then. It would be almost ruinous to be put on to Pocket Book in a day's time. I must hedge to-night."

"To-night?" said Jack, in a complete fog. "And you haven't found Raffles!"

"No, but I think I know where to find him to-night. You know the Coon is having a match with the Battersea Beauty at the Universal Sporting Club, and Raffles is pretty sure to be there, and I must see him then."

"But that means going to London, Acton."

"Certainly."

"And Corker would expel you—even you."

"Without a doubt—if he finds out."

"There's a chance that he may."

"Certainly, but it's a mighty slender one, and in any case I mean to—I must—risk it."

"I'm awfully sorry for you."

"Now, Jack, I want you to listen to me," said Acton, very gravely, and his voice showed his genuine anxiety. "The Coon's match does not commence until eleven o'clock at night, because an awful lot of the Universal Sporters are actors and they cannot get away before that time at earliest. Now, there are two entrances for the members into the club, one in Pelican Street and the other in Ridge Street. Raffles must enter by one or the other, and there must be some one at each doorway to give him my note. I can take the one, and the question is—who will take the second doorway?"

"Not I, Acton," said Jack, in a blue funk. "Please, Acton, don't ask me."

"Jack, believe me, you were the last person I wanted to ask. I would have asked Worcester or Chalmers if it had been any good, but they would not know Raffles from Adam. It is ten thousand pities, but you are the only fellow who knows Raffles here. No one else has ever set eyes on him."

"Acton, it means expulsion," said Jack, hoarsely.

"Certainly for me if I'm caught, but, of course, I've no idea of being caught. Jack, I'm not going to ask you to come with me. I shall think no worse of you if you say you won't come, and I cannot take advantage over you to force you against your own wish, because I lent you money. Don't think so meanly of me."

"Acton," said Jack, sweating drops of terror, "it is expulsion if we're caught."

"Jack," said Acton, "have you ever known me to fail yet in anything I undertake?"

"No."

"Well, I will not fail here. If you like I'll give you my word of honour we shall not be caught, and, if by a miracle of ill-luck we should be, I shall see you through. I'll take every iota of blame on my own shoulders. You'll find yourself captain of the school one day yet."

"If I were expelled, Acton," said Jack, with intense conviction, "the pater would kill me first, and die himself afterwards; and as for Phil——"

"Jack," said Acton, "I must see the business through myself. You can't do it, I see. I must lose the L30."

Jack got up and walked up and down the room in agony.

For five minutes Acton watched his wretched prey torn to pieces by his conflicting fears—his shame of leaving Acton in the lurch, and his dread of discovery.

"Acton," said Jack at length, "I can't leave you in the lurch. I'll go with you to London."

Acton clasped Jack's hand, and said, "Jack, you are a brick. I can only say I thank you." He had landed his fish, as he knew he would.

Half an hour afterwards Jack said, almost cheerfully, for Acton had been doing his best to smooth poor Bourne's ruffled feathers—

"But how are we to go to town?"

"I've got a plan," said Acton; "but I must turn it over in my mind first. If you'll look in, young 'un, after tea, I'll tell you how we do it. I'm going to see about it now. Once again, Jack, I thank you. You do stand by a fellow when he's down on his luck."

Acton and Jack went out—the monitor to make arrangements for the escapade, and Jack to Grim's quarters, where he was due for tea, which he demolished with comparative cheerfulness, for Jack's confidence in Acton was illimitable. After he had taken the jump he was not—is not now—the kind of boy to look back.

At six young Bourne left his friend Grim among a waste of empty teacups, plates, and jam-pots, and went to Acton's room.

"I've arranged all," said that worthy. "I've seen the proprietor of the hotel down at Bring, and he's going to have a smart dog-cart and a smarter horse to do the dozen miles between here and Charing Cross ready for us at nine. He says we shall be rattled into town within the hour. So if we aren't in time to spot Raffles we are down on our luck with a vengeance. Your room is on the ground floor, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Jack, "overlooking Corker's flowerbeds."

"Well, pull up the window after supper as quietly as you can, and slip into the garden. Then scoot through the field, and you'll find me waiting for you in the hotel stables. You can pass the word to your chums in Corker's that you aren't going to be on show after supper, and then they won't be routing you out."

"My chums are mostly in Biffen's," said Jack. "Grim and Rogers, etc."

"Good omen," said Acton. "Leave your window so that you can easily shove it up when you come back, and leave your school cap behind, and bring a tweed instead. Got such an article?"

"Yes."

"How's your room lighted?"

"Oh, we have the electric. It is switched off at ten, so that the light will not give any trouble, Acton."

"Well, bolt your door, too. It seems as though the fates were fighting for us, eh, young 'un?"



CHAPTER XXI

LONDON AND BACK

At nine that night the two, as agreed upon, met at Dring in the hotel stables. There had been no mishaps.

The groom was busy putting the horse into the trap, and, when Jack saw what a really smart turn-out Acton had engaged, his fears began to occupy less of his thoughts and the pleasures of a rattling hour's spin a jolly lot more. Punctually to the minute Jack climbed up beside the driver, the place of honour, and Acton swung himself up behind; the yard doors were flung open, and the gig rattled smartly out. The hotel proprietor had not chanted the praises of his horse in vain. On the level road it laid itself out to go for all it was worth.

The pleasant music of the jingling harness and the scurrying of the wheels made as jolly a tune as Jack could wish to hear. There was a touch of frost in the air, which made the quick motion of the gig bite shrewdly on his cheeks, and made him button up his overcoat to the chin and settle his cap well over his ears. Acton threw out jokes, too, from behind, which made Jack feel no end clever to listen to them, and the driver now and then restrained his horse's "freshness" with the soothing mellow whistle which only drivers possess. The farmhouses, hayricks, and an occasional village, drifted past now to the right, now to the left, and occasionally they overhauled a leisurely belated cyclist, who at once began to take an unimportant position in the rear, his lamp growing less and less down the stretch of long white road.

Soon the houses began to come more frequently, then came the streets with their long avenues of yellow lights, and within the hour they were rolling smoothly over the wooden pavements.

"Piccadilly," said Acton. "Drop us at the top of Whitehall, will you? Then you can take the horse to the mews. Be ready for us outside Frascati's by twelve. Understand?"

"Yes, sir, at Frascati's by twelve! I know the place." A minute or two later the two swung off in Trafalgar Square, and the driver rattled away into the crowd.

Jack was delighted. "Spiffing run, Acton, eh?"

"Glad you liked it, young 'un. Now let us localize the Universal Sporting Club. I know it's about Covent Garden somewhere." Together they went up the crowded Strand, Jack enjoying every minute of the bustling walk to the Garden and imagining that he was a very much daring young desperado to be so far from his little white bunk at St. Amory's. He would have been usually fast asleep by this time.

The Universal Sporting Club was not a difficult place to find, and though all its windows were lighted up, upon its fast shut doors were two little notices: "This door will be open at 11 p.m. None but members and friends admitted."

"Well," said Acton, "we've got about twenty minutes before there's any particular need to begin our watch for Raffles, but some of the members are hanging round now. The early birds get the best perch for the show. On the whole, perhaps you'd better prowl about this door now, whilst I go round the corner and see if I can run our fox to his earth."

"All serene," said Jack. "I'll mark time out here till I see you."

Acton walked round the corner, and Jack perambulated about, peering into the faces of the idlers to see if he could spot the well-known and much-detested face of Raffles. He had (of course) no luck.

Five minutes afterwards Acton came back smiling. "Almost first fellow I ran against was Raffles, and I've given him his instructions. He'll hedge for me with the bookie within five minutes."

"So you're quite safe now, Acton?" said Jack, beaming.

"Oh, quite," said Acton, laughing. "Now, Jack, you've been no end brickish, and I'm going to treat you. Ever seen a ballet?"

"No."

"Well, you shall."

A hansom flitted slowly up to them, and Acton hailed it. "In you get, Jack. Kingdom!" said Acton to the cabby. They glided noiselessly through the lighted streets, and in a minute or so were before the "Kingdom Theatre." The two hurried up the steps, and Acton asked an attendant if the ballet were rung up yet.

"No, sir. Two stalls, sir? Certainly. Twelve and thirteen are vacant."

Jack had never seen a ballet before, and when the gorgeous ballet "Katrina" slowly passed before his eyes, and he followed the simple story which was almost interpreted by the lovely music, when every fresh scene seemed lovelier than all the rest, and fairyland was realized before his eyes, his face beamed with pleasure.

"This is ripping, Acton. Isn't Katrina lovely? Jove! I'd hunt for Raffles every blessed night if there was a 'Kingdom' to finish up with!"

His enthusiasm amused Acton.

"It is very pretty, Jack, certainly."

For nearly an hour did Jack sit entranced, and when the orchestra crashed out the last floods of melody in the finale, and when most of the audience rose to go, he trotted out with Acton in a dream.

"We'll have a little supper at Frascati's, young 'un, and then home."

Frascati's completed the enchantment of Bourne. The beauty of the supper-room, the glitter of snowy linen, of mirrors, and the inviting crash of knives, and the clink of glasses, the busy orderliness of the waiters, the laughter, chatter of the visitors, the scents, the sights and sounds, fascinated him. Acton ordered a modest little supper, and when Jack had finally pushed away his plate Acton paid the bill, and went out to find the driver. He was there, the horse almost waltzing with impatience to be off. The two swung themselves up, and in another minute they were whirling along back to St. Amory's.

The St. Amory's clock could be heard striking the half hour after one when Jack and Acton parted at the corner of Corker's garden.

"Jack," said Acton, "good night! and you need not trouble about the L7. You've done more for me than that, and I shall not forget it."

Jack, almost weeping with gratitude, said, "Good night, Acton!" in a fervent whisper, and scuttled over Corker's flower-beds. He pushed up his window and crawled through, and, seeing that all was as he had left it after supper, he undressed and jumped into bed, and in a few minutes slept the sleep of the just.

Acton had managed his re-entrance just as successfully—did he ever fail?—and the thought of Bourne's hopeless rage, when he should find out about Jack's escapade, made him sleep the sleep of the happy man. He was made that way.



CHAPTER XXII

THE PENFOLD TABLET FUND

The Easter term had been one of unadulterated discomfort for Jim Cotton. He had felt the loss of Gus's helping hand terribly, and he had not yet found another ass to "devil" for him in the way of classics or mathematics. Philips, a former understudy to Gus, was called upon, but with unsatisfactory results, and Cotton, mirabile dictu, was compelled in sheer desperation to try to do his own work. Frankly, the Fifth of St. Amory's was beyond Jim's very small attainments, classical or otherwise. He had been hoisted up to that serene height by no means honoris causa, but aetatis causa. Jim was verging on six feet, and he filled his clothes very well into the bargain, and though his scholarship was strictly junior school, the spectacle of Jim in Fourth Form Etons would have been too entrancing a sight for daily contemplation. Hence he had got his remove. Thrown over by Gus, unable to discover a second jackal for the term so far, he had been left to the tender mercy of Corker, Merishall and Co., and Jim was inclined to think that they showed no quarter to a fallen foe. Corker had been distilled venom on the particular morning with which this chapter deals on the subject of Jim's Greek. Herodotus, as translated by Jim with the help of a well-thumbed Bohn's crib, had emerged as a most unalluring mess of pottage, and Dr. Moore had picked out Bohn's plums from Jim's paste with unerring accuracy. Whilst Cotton was wishing the roof would fall down on Corker's head and kill him, the other fellows in the Fifth were enjoying the fun. Gus Todd, though, felt for his old friend more than a touch of pity, and when old Corker left Jim alone finally, Gus very cleverly kept his attention away from Jim's quarter. When Corker finally drew his toga around him and hurried out, Jim Cotton gathered together his own books and lounged heavily into the street, sick of school, books, Corker, and hating Gus with a mighty sullen hate. For Jim had remarked Gus's sprightliness in the Greek ordeal, but was not clever enough to see that Gus's performance had been only for old friendship's sake. Jim, however, put down Todd's device as mere "side," "show-off," "toadyism," and other choice things, all trotted out specially for his eyes. When he reached his room he flung his Herodotus into the nearest chair, and himself into the most comfortable one, and then beat a vicious serenade on his firegrate with the poker until dinner time.

In the evening, while Jim was moodily planted before a small pile of books, he received a visitor, no less a personage than Philips, Jim's occasional hack.

"Well," said Jim, surlily, "what do you want?"

"I'll tell you in a minute, old boy. Can I have a chair?"

"Can't you see I'm busy?" said Cotton, unamiably.

"You look like it, more or less, certainly."

"Well, I've no time for any oratory to-night, Philips, and that is all about it."

"I'll give you a leg-up for Merishall in the morning if you're decently civil."

"All right, then," said Jim, thawing instantly. "What's the matter?"

"Ever heard of Penfold?"

"No; what was the animal?"

"Well, he was the brightest and most particular star that Taylor ever had in his house; that is, until you pitched your tent among us."

"Don't rot, Philips. What has the Penfold done?"

"Made a chemical discovery which stamps him as one of the first half-dozen chemists in the world."

"Oh," said Jim, wearily; "most interestin', very."

"Here only ten years ago, and, 'pon honour, this was his very den."

"Have noticed the place to be stuffy," said Jim, with no enthusiasm, "and now that is explained. Suppose he lived with his nose in books and test-tubes?"

"And," said Philips, ignoring Jim's heavy wit, "the Fifth and Sixth Form fellows in Taylor's think we ought to take notice of it somehow."

"Now, I wouldn't," said Cotton, critically; "I'd keep a thing like that dark."

"You heathen!"

"If he'd pulled stroke at Cambridge, or anything like that——"

"We thought a tablet on the wall, or something of that sort, would meet the case. Corker's dining-hall is lined with 'em."

"Get to the point," said Jim, grimly.

"A sub. of five shillings among seniors, and half a crown among the kids, would meet the case, I think."

"And did you think I'd spring a crown for a marble tablet to a mug like Penfold?"

"Rather," said Philips.

"Well," said Jim, "life would be worth living here if it weren't for the unearthly smugging, but as it is St. Amory's is about as lively as a workhouse. I'm not forking out on this occasion. Taylor's smugs must do all that is necessary to be done."

"Well," said Philips, "all the other fellows have given in their names, bar you and Todd."

"Oh!" said Jim, with sudden interest, "you've asked Todd, have you?"

"Of course. Gus seemed rather waxy that he should be called upon. One might almost fancy he hadn't got the five shillings."

"Todd evidently is a miserable miser," said Jim, with a bitter smile at the thought of Gus's insolvent condition. "He isn't the same fellow he used to be."

"Jove, no!" said Philips; "he's come on no end this term. He's an improvement on the old Gus."

"Yes," said Jim, angrily; "the beaks have got him into their nets. But he ought to subscribe to the Penfold, when he's the biggest smug in Taylor's."

"And you ought too, Jim, since you've the biggest money-bags."

"All right," said Jim, "I'll subscribe. 'Twill look better if we all subscribe."

"You're a funny ass, Cotton. I thought I was going to draw you blank. What's the reason for your sudden change of mind?"

"I don't want to be bracketed equal with Toddy."

"That's settled, then," said Philips, who was puzzled at Jim's sudden change of front. "And now let's see to Merishall's work for the morning."

The subscriptions for a tablet in the great Penfold's honour were not hard to obtain, the upper form fellows in Taylor's dunning the rest of the house without mercy, and, to the great wonder of all, the foremost of the duns was James Cotton, Esq. The way he squeezed half-crowns out of the fags was reckoned little short of marvellous, and before the week was out every Taylor fellow had subscribed bar Gus. Jim's exertions were rewarded by the office of secretary to the Penfold Fund.

"We'll get a house list, Philips, and pin up a proper subscription list on the notice-board. The thing will look more ship-shape then. By the way, what was it the Penfold did? Is he dead?"

"You are a funny fellow, Cotton. Here you are sweating the half-crowns out of the fags and you don't know why you're doing it."

"That is just what I do know," said Jim, smiling serenely.

When the list was pinned up on the board, and opposite each fellow's name appeared the half-crown or crown he had contributed, it made a brave show. Towards the end of the list opposite the name of Todd, A.V.R., there had occurred a dismal blank thoughtfully filled by secretary Cotton with a couple of beautifully even lines ruled in staring red ink. This vivid dash of colour on the white paper gave poor Gus quite an unsolicited advertisement, and since none of the other fellows knew of Gus's circumstances, it practically put him in the pillory as a tight-fisted old screw. This result was exactly what Jim Cotton had in his mind when he fell in with the tablet scheme so enthusiastically. Pretty mean, wasn't it?

When Gus saw the staring red abomination for the first time it made him feel that he would like to pour a little boiling oil over the secretary of the fund, for to a fellow of Gus's temperament the chaffing remarks of his acquaintances and the knowing looks of the juniors made him shiver with righteous anger. He did not like being pilloried. He had desperate thoughts of going and publicly kicking Cotton, but he remembered, fortunately, that Jim would probably only make one mouthful of him. But he paced his room angrily, and except that he really meant to keep himself to his resolution of honourable poverty to the term's end he would have written home. Not to do so cost him a struggle.

There was some one else who eyed this plain manifesto of Gus's position with anger, and that was the Rev. E. Taylor himself. The house-master had not been a house-master for years for nothing, and he guessed pretty shrewdly that some one was writing off a debt with interest against Gus. The house-master made a still shrewder guess as to who this might be, for he had watched the dissolution of the partnership of Cotton and Todd with great interest.

Thus it was that Philips was called into Taylor's room for a quiet little chat on house matters. "Your idea of a memento to Penfold was an excellent one, Philips, and the house seems to have taken it up very heartily."

"Oh yes!" said Philips, naively. "The fellows have taken any amount of interest, especially Cotton."

"Cotton's is rather a case of Saul among the prophets, isn't it, Philips?"

"This sort of thing didn't quite seem his line before, sir."

"No; I never thought so myself; but it is very pleasant to make a mistake, too. I see Todd, who is the best chemist in the house, does not subscribe at all."

"Most of the fellows thought it rather strange."

"And said so, no doubt?" said the master, looking abstractedly at his finger-nails.

"H'm!" said Philips, feeling uncomfortable at this thrust. "They may have."

"You see, Philips," said Taylor, gently, "there ought to have been no quizzing of Todd, for a contribution to a matter like this ought to be entirely voluntary—most emphatically so, I think. And if Todd does not see his way to subscribe—and he is the sole judge—there ought to be no remarks whatever."

"I see, sir," said Philips, dubiously.

"I was much annoyed to see that Todd's name has been prominently before the house for the last day or so."

"You mean on the notice-board, sir?"

"Yes; I can quite see why it is. The honorary secretary has not had much experience in this clerical work before, so he has fallen into a great mistake. In fact," said the house-master, bluntly, "the secretary's taste is not to be depended on."

"I don't think Cotton meant anything——" began Philips.

"Well, perhaps not," said the Rev. E. Taylor, doubtfully; "but, in any case, will you take down the present list, and draw up a fresh one—if you think one at all necessary—with only the names of subscribers upon it? A house list should not have been used at all. Please tell Cotton I said so, and I hope he will see the fairness of it."

Philips took down the offending list, and told Cotton the house-master's opinions. Jim Cotton had not very quick feelings, but contempt can pierce the shell of a tortoise, and as Philips innocently retailed the message, the secretary of the Penfold Tablet Fund knew there was one man who held him a cad.



CHAPTER XXIII

BOURNE v. ACTON

Jack had gone to London with his patron on Thursday. On Saturday morning Acton went to Aldershot, carrying with him the hopes and good wishes of the whole of St. Amory's, and at night the school band had met him at the station. They (the band) struggled bravely—it was very windy—with "See, the Conquering Hero comes!" in front of the returned hero, who was "chaired" by frenzied Biffenites. The expected had happened. Acton had annihilated Rossal, Shrewsbury, and Harrow, and in the final had met the redoubtable Jarvis, from "Henry's holy shade." The delightful news circulated round St. Amory's that Acton had "made mincemeat" of Jarvis. He had not, but after a close battle had scrambled home first; he had won, and that was the main thing.

As Acton walked into chapel on Sunday morning with Worcester, Corker got scant attention to his sermon; the fags to a man were thinking of Acton's terrible left. The gladiator lived in an atmosphere of incense for a whole day.

As Phil Bourne was finishing breakfast on Monday morning his fag brought him his letters, and, after reading his usual one from home, he turned his attention to another one, whose envelope was dirty, and whose writing was laboriously and painfully bad amateur work.

"Rotherhithe," said Phil, looking at the post-mark. "Who are my friends from that beauty spot?"

I give the letter in all its fascinating simplicity.

"Rotherhithe, Sunday.

"Dear Sir, "I was sory as how I did not see you on thursday night when you came with Acting to Covent garden to do a small hedging in the linkinsheer handicap. I think since you did a fare settle about the gunn and pade up my little bill like a mann you would deserve the show at the "Kindumm" and the blow out at that swell tuck shop as Mister Acting said he was going to treat you to for coming with him to london. I hopes you enjoyed em and As how that stiff necked old corker your beak—won't never find out. "As you gave him the Propper slip and no Errer your beastly Chummy "Daniel Raffles."

The letter had evidently been meant for Jack, but had naturally reached Phil, since the envelope was directed to "Mr. Bourne."

Bourne, when he had struggled to the end of this literary gem, dropped the letter like a red-hot coal. Was it a hoax, or had Jack really gone up to town, as the letter said?

The "Mister Acting" made Phil's heart sink with dire forebodings.

"Go and find young Bourne, Hinton, and tell him to come here to my study at once, or as soon as he's finished breakfast."

Jack came in whistling a jolly tune; he was in full bloom, for had he not now left all his cares behind him?

"You can cut, Hinton; and, Jack, take a chair and give me an explanation of this letter."

Jack read Raffles' letter through to the bitter end, and wished he had never been born. Phil eyed his young brother, who had turned deathly white, with the horrible certainty that Jack had gone up to London.

"Then it's true?" he said.

No answer.

"Jack, I know you could speak the truth once. Look at me. Did you go to London on Thursday night?"

"Yes," said Jack, faintly.

"Did Acton take you?"

"Yes."

"You know that if Dr. Moore hears of it he will expel you."

"Yes."

"You went to oblige Acton?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever think what pater would think if he heard about this?"



Jack, as a matter of course, had thought many a time of what his father would think about the business, and when Phil in that level voice of his recalled him to this terrible point he broke down.

"Phil, do not tell pater; he'd never forgive me! Nor Corker. Cut me into ribbons if you like, only don't let me be expelled."

"Here," said Phil, "I don't want any snivelling in my room. Cut, you miserable puppy, to your own quarters, and when school is over keep to them till I come. You're a contemptible little puppy."

Jack hurried out, crunching Raffles' letter in his fist. He went straight to Acton's room, and, bursting in whilst Acton was drinking his last cup of coffee, blurted out the dismal news. Jack was almost hysterical in his rage against Raffles.

"Acton, I believe that filthy blackmailer meant Phil to get that letter: he wanted to round on me and get me into trouble. Oh!" said Jack, in a very explosion of futile rage, "if I could only pound his ugly face into a jelly."

"Well, perhaps you'll have that pleasure one day, Jack. I hope so, anyhow. Now, straight, Jack, you need not be frightened of your brother saying a word. He could never risk Corker hearing of it, for he could not bear the chance of expulsion, so he'll lie low as far as Corker is concerned, take my word for it. He may hand you over to your father, but that, too, I doubt. He may give you a thrashing himself, which I fancy he will."

"I don't mind that," said Jack. "I deserve something."

"No, you don't, old man; and I'm fearfully sorry that I've got you into this hole. But your brother will certainly interview me."

"I suppose so," said Jack, thoughtfully, even in his rage and shame. "I hope there is no row between you;" for the idea of an open quarrel between Phil and Acton made Jack rather qualmish.

"You'd better cut now, Jack, and lie low till you find out when the hurricane is going to commence."

Jack went away, and as the door closed softly behind him Acton smiled sweetly.

"Well, Raffles has managed it nicely, and carried out my orders to the strokings of the t's. He is quite a genius in a low kind of way. And now I'm ready for Philip Bourne, Esq. I bet I'm a sight more comfortable than he is." Which was very true.

I, of course, knew nothing of all these occurrences at the time, and the first intimation I had that anything was wrong was when Phil Bourne came into my room and gave me a plain unvarnished account, sans comment, of Acton's and young Bourne's foolery in London.

"I'm awfully glad, old man, that I am able to tell you this, because, although you're Captain of the school, you can't do anything, since Acton is a monitor."

(It is an unwritten law at St. Amory's that one monitor can never, under any circumstances, "peach" upon another.)

"Well, I'm jolly glad too, Bourne, since your brother's in it."

"What has to be done to Acton? Jack, of course, was only a tool in his hands."

"Oh, of course. It is perfectly certain that our friend engineered the whole business up to and including the letter, which was meant for you."

"Do you really think that?" said Phil.

"I'm as certain of it as I can be of anything that I don't actually know to be true."

"Why did he do it?"

"Do you feel anything about this, old man?"

"I feel in the bluest funk that I can remember."

"Then, that's why."

"You see, I cannot put my ringer on the brute."

"He has you in a cleft stick. Who knows that better than Acton?"

"I'm going to thrash Jack, the little idiot. I distinctly told him to give Acton a wide berth."

"Jack, of course, is an idiot; but Acton is the fellow that wants the thrashing."

Phil pondered over this for fully five minutes.

"You're right, old man, and I'll give—I'll try to give—him the thrashing he deserves."

"Big biz," said I. "You say you aren't as good as Hodgson; Hodgson isn't in the same street as Acton; ergo, you aren't in the same parish."

"That's your beastly logic, Carr. Does a good cause count for nothing?"

"Not for much, when you're dealing with sharps."

"I see you've inherited your pater's law books. The school goes home to-morrow, doesn't it? Well, my Lord Chief Justice, in what relation do you stand towards the school to-morrow? Are you Captain?"

"No," said I, in my best legal manner. "There is no school to-morrow—ergo, there cannot be a captain of a non-existent thing. To-morrow is a dies non as far as I'm concerned. Why this thirst for knowledge, Phil?"

"Because I want you to be my second against Acton, and I didn't want your captaincy to aid or abet me in a thing which is against rules."

"I see," said I, warmly, "and I will sink the rules and all the rest, and trust to a little rough justice being done on an arrant scamp."

"Thanks," said Phil. "With you as second and a good cause, I ought to teach Acton a little genuine lesson."

"I'd rather trust in a good straight left."

"All right, then. I'll see Acton now, and bring him to the point."

"Do, and let me have the result."

Phil swung off in that cool, level-headed fashion which is peculiarly his own. He had thought the matter out thoroughly in that five minutes' brown study, and now that he had put his hand to the plough he would not look back. I liked the set shoulders and his even step down the corridor. Surely something must reach Acton now! He walked down the street, turned in at Biffen's yard, and mounted up to Acton's room. He knocked firmly on the partly open door, and when he heard Acton's "Come in," walked solidly in.

Acton smiled amiably when he saw his visitor, and, with his half-foreign politeness, drew out a chair.

"No, thanks," said Phil, icily; "but, if you've no objection, I'd like to close your door. May I?"

"By all means."

"My opinion of you, Acton——"

"Why trouble about that, Bourne; I know it.".

——"is that you're an unmitigated cad."

"Gently, friend, gently," said Acton, half getting up.

"You, by your foul play, have disfigured poor Aspinall for life——"

"Bourne, you're a monomaniac on that subject. I've had the pleasure of telling you once before that you were a liar."

"And you did not get your 'footer' cap for it, which seems such a paltry punishment for so villainous a crime."

"That is stale, stale," said Acton, coolly.

"You entice my brother to London, which means expulsion for him if it is found out by Dr. Moore."

"I believe that's the rule."

"The expulsion of Jack would bring disgrace on an honest name in the school and give pain to an honest gentleman——"

"The pity o' 't," said Acton, with a sneer.

"And so, since you, by a kind of malicious fate, seem to escape all proper punishment——"

"You should be a parson, Bourne."

"I'm going to try to give you your deserts myself."

"An avenging angel. Oh, ye gods!"

"Do you mind turning out at the old milling ground at seven sharp to-morrow morning?"

"The mornings are chilly," said Acton, with a snigger. "Besides, I don't really see what pressing obligation I'm under to turn out at that time for the poor pleasure of knocking you down."

"I never thought you were a coward."

"How charitable!"

"But we must bring you to book somehow. Will you fight—now?"

Before he had time to avoid the blow Phil had struck him lightly on the face. For one half second a veritable devil peeped out of Acton's eyes as he sprung at Phil. But Phil quickly backed, and said coolly, "No—no, sir! Let us do the thing decently and in order. You can try to do all you wish to-morrow morning very much at your ease. I apologize for striking you in your own room, but necessity, you know——"

"Bourne, you'll regret that blow!"

"Never," said Phil, emphatically, and with cutting contempt. "I have asked Carr to second me. I dare say Vercoe would do the same for you. He has the merit of being a perfectly straightforward fellow, and since he does not go home like the rest to-morrow——"

"Thanks. Vercoe will do excellently. He is a friend of yours, too!"

"I'm glad to say he is."

"Well, you may now be pretty certain there will be no foul play, whatever else may follow. I'll teach you wisdom on your front teeth."

"I dare say," said Phil, as he coolly stalked out, and left Acton curled up on his chair, like a cobra balancing for its stroke.



CHAPTER XXIV

A RENEWED FRIENDSHIP

One morning Gus was much astonished to receive a letter containing a blank sheet of notepaper enfolding a postal order for L1. This was properly filled in, payable to A.V.R. Todd at St. Amory's Post-office, but there was not the slightest clue as to the sender. Gus looked at the blue and white slip in an ecstasy of astonishment. Now, Gus knew that no one was aware of his bankrupt exchequer save Cotton, and he knew that Jim was not likely to have said anything about it for one or two very good reasons, and would now keep it darker than ever. If it were known that Gus had been practically pilloried for being penniless by the fellow who had lifted his cash, Cotton would have heard a few fancy remarks on his own conduct which would have made his ears tingle. Gus pondered over this problem of the sender until he felt giddy, but he finally came to the conclusion that Cotton had regretted his polite attentions to an old friend, and had sent the order as a kind of amende honorable. Gus instantly regretted the fervent wishes about the boiling oil and the public kicking for Jim Cotton, and he also determined to go and thank his old patron for what he was sure was his anonymous gift.

So, after breakfast, he cashed the order and, with pockets heavier with coin than they had been for some time, he went to Jim Cotton's room. Jim received him with an odd mixture of anger and shame, and when Gus handed over to him two half-crowns, Cotton in some confusion, told him to hand them over to Philips, who had initiated the subscription for the Penfold tablet.

"Thought you were the secretary?" said Gus.

"No! I'm out of the boat now. Philips is the man," said Cotton, sulkily.

"And, by the way, Jim, it wasn't half bad of you to send me that order. It was no end brickish, especially after I had left you more or less in the lurch."

"What order?" said Jim, looking curiously at Gus.

"What's the good of trying to pass it off like that, old man? It could only be you."

"I don't know what you're driving at. You seem to be talking rot," said Cotton, angrily, for he fancied that Gus was fooling him in some way.

"Well, I've got an order for L1 this morning, envelope stamped St. Amory, and it could only come from some one who knew I was stumped, and you're the only fellow who knew that, unless, indeed, you've been kind enough to tell some of the fellows."

"I've told no one; and anyway, I didn't send the order."

"Oh, rot!"

"Thanks! I don't tell lies as a rule, and I say I know nothing whatever about your order. I think you'd better cut now, instead of wasting my time with this rotten foolery."

"You didn't send it?" said Gus, finally, with more than a dash of irritation in his voice at the continued boorishness of Cotton.

"No, I tell you! Shall I get a foghorn and let you have it that way?"

"Then, look here, Cotton. If you didn't send it, your underscoring of my name on the house list because I couldn't subscribe was the act of an arrant cad."

Cotton winced at Gus's concise definition, but he said, "Oh, get out, you fool!"

"Fool, or not," said Gus, becoming more angry every moment as he thought of his wrongs, "I'm not an underbred loafer who cleans a fellow out of his cash and then rounds on him because he can't pay his way. Why, a Whitechapel guttersnipe——"

"Can't appreciate the allusion," said Jim; "I've never been to Whitechapel. But anyhow, Todd, there's the door. I think you had really better go."

"Not till I've said you're the biggest bounder in St. Amory's."

"Now you've said it you really must go, or I'll throw you out!"

Gus was too taken up with his own passion to notice that Cotton was also at about the limit of his patience, and that Jim's lips had set into a grim and ugly sneer. Todd was furiously trying to find some clinching expression which would quite define Jim's conduct, when that gentleman took one stride forward and caught him by the collar. The grip, the very touch of Cotton's fingers maddened Gus beyond all bearing. His anger broke loose from all control; he wrenched himself out of Cotton's grasp and passionately struck him on the mouth.

Cotton turned grey with passion as bitter as Todd's and repaid Gus's blow with interest. Gus dropped to the floor, bleeding villainously. Cotton thereupon jerked him to his feet, and threw him out of the room.

Gus picked himself up from the corridor floor and went to his own room, his face as white as a sheet and his heart as black as ink. What Gus suffered from his passion, his shame, his hatred, and the pain of his old friend's blow, for the next few hours words will not tell. He attended morning school, his head in a whirl of thought. Cotton was there too, and, could looks have killed, Jim Cotton would not have been in the land of the living for very long. When Merishall went, Gus waited until all the form had filed out, and, still dizzy and sick, he wearily followed suit and turned in at his own door. As Gus came into the room some one rose up and faced round to meet him, and Todd found himself once more face to face with Cotton.

Now, the blow which had tumbled down Gus so heartily had, so to speak, tumbled down the striker in his own mind just as thoroughly. Jim Cotton's mind was not a subtle one, but the minute after he had floored Gus and shut the door on him, his better mind told him distinctly that he was a cad. Why? Because when he struck Gus the feeling was as though he had struck a cripple. Gus had doubled up under the weight of his hand as though he had been a leaf. Cotton dimly felt that for a fellow of his build and weight to let Gus have the full benefit of both was not fair. "That is how it must feel, I suppose, to strike a girl. My fist seems unclean," he said, in huge disgust. "I'd give Todd his three sovs. back if I could recall that blow. I wish I'd left the fool alone, and anyhow, it's my opinion I don't shine much in our little squabble. Todd has been playing the man since his Perry cropper, and I've been playing the cad just because he was once useful to me and I did not want to let him go." Cotton devoted the next few hours to a little honest unselfish thinking, and the result was that he came pretty near to despising himself. "I'll go and apologize to Gus, and if he shies the poker at my head I'm hanged if I dodge it."

That is why Gus was received in his own room by the fellow who had so lately knocked him down. Gus stared at Jim, his swollen lip trembling with anger and his eyes blazing with indignation.

"I say, Gus, old man, I am an utter out-and-out cad, and I've come to apologize."

Gus murmured something indistinctly.

"When I knocked you down I did the most blackguardly thing that even I have ever done, and, you may believe me or not, I am now about disgusted with myself. I felt that there was only one thing that I could do, and that was to apologize."

Jim was so obviously cut up by remorse that Gus thereupon buried the hatchet. He did not throw the poker at Jim's head, and you may be surprised to hear—or you may not—that Gus and Jim Cotton took their after-dinner coffee at Hooper's, as in the old time. The conversation was staccato at first, but interesting.

"But who sent the order?" said Gus.

"Dunno, really; but I could almost bet my boots that Taylor is the criminal."

"Taylor! What does he know of my affairs?"

"Well, that beastly house list with your red raw agony column made him most suspicious, and I believe he knows to a hair exactly how big a cad I've been."

"Go on, old man; leave that."

"He sucked Philips dry about the Penfold tombstone, and although he said nothing to me personally, Philips gave me to understand that I'm not in favour with the parson. Taylor is the man who's provided your sub. for the Penfold, take my word for it."

"He's not half such a bad fellow, Jim."

"No," said Jim, with an uneasy laugh; "Taylor's all right, but he'll make me squirm when he has the chance."

The friendship of Cotton and Todd was thus renewed and cemented—with Gus's bluest blood. Gus gave Jim some good advice about the schools, which made Jim feel a bit dubious.

"Chuck your Bohn's cribs and your keys under the grate, and show up your own work."

"Footle, you mean, Gus."

"All right, footle, then. I know all our own private personal beaks would rather have a fellow's own work, if of fair quality, than all the weirdest screeds from any crib whatsoever."

Jim made the experiment, very gingerly, be it said, but did show up his own work, and from Corker to Merishall all the beaks were civil to him. Gus's reputation as a prophet was established, for Corker himself seemed pleased with the Cottonian version of Herodotus.

"Rather rough in parts, Cotton," said the old man, beaming on the shrinking Jim; "but at least you've not been ploughing Herodotus with the help of your old ass, Bohn."

Jim's effort, however, came too late to affect in any degree his position in the Fifth. When the lists of the Easter term were published, Cotton was the last, deservedly, of the form, but A.V.R. Todd was the seventh. This was an eye-opener to many in the form, but the result sent Gus into the seventh heaven of delight. Taylor came specially into Todd's modest sanctum to congratulate him, and Corker sent an extra special letter to Todd senior, saying all manner of sweet things about Gus. He put the highest mark of his favour upon the delighted Gus by asking him to dinner—a very great honour, but a dreadful ordeal. Gus was wonderfully nervous as he commenced his soup. How do I know? Well, I had been asked, I believe, to give the bewildered Gus a little countenance. Gus went home, a day or two later, to the bosom of his family, where he was treated with the utmost honour. He redeemed the watch from the jeweller, and fulfilled his own promise to that worthy man. All through the holidays he basked in the smiles of his proud father, and rode that gentleman's pedigree hack. Corker's highest mark of appreciation was to give you a dinner; with Gus's father it was to let you ride his own horse.



CHAPTER XXV

A LITTLE ROUGH JUSTICE

Quietly and without any fuss the few details were arranged, and next morning four of us filtered down to the old milling ground, on whose green sod so many wrongs had been righted in the old times, and where I sincerely hoped Phil would yet redress, however imperfectly, another.

Of course, we all know fisticuffs are not what they were; for every strenuous mill of to-day there used to be fifty in the old days, and the green turf which formerly was the scene of terrific combats between fellows of the Upper School now only quaked under the martial hoof of, say, Rogers, the prize fag of Biffen's, and Poulett, the champion egg poacher of Corker's, and other humble followers of the "fancy." Milling as an institution in the schools may write up "Ichabod" above its gates.

I tossed with Vercoe for corners, and when I won, I chose the favourite corner, the one King had when he fought Sellers with a broken wrist, and beat him, too; which Cooper had when he stood up to Miller for one whole half-holiday, and though beaten three or four times over, never knew it, and won in the end, which mills and the causes thereof, if some one would write about them, would make capital reading. Anyhow, it is a lucky corner, from the legends connected with it, and I thought we should need any luck that might be knocking about so early in the morning.

Phil was as cool and calm as though he were going to gently tund a small fag for shirking. Acton was outwardly calm, but inwardly seething with hate, rage, and blood-thirstiness. His proud soul lusted for the opportunity to repay the flick on the face he had received from Phil, with interest. I watched the sparkling fire in his eye, the unaffected eagerness for the fray in his pose, and thought that even Acton had not quite the skill to cater for such a large and lusty appetite. Vercoe and I set our watches, and agreed to call time together, and then we moved each to our corner. Phil peeled as quietly as though he were going to bed, Acton with feverish haste, which perhaps was his foreign blood working out; beside Acton's swift, impulsive movements Phil's leisurely arrangements seemed sluggish indeed.

"Time!" said Vercoe and I in chorus, and I added in an undertone to my man, "Go in and win."

It was obvious from the start that Phil was not as good a man as Acton as far as skill was concerned, but when it came to well-knit strength there was no doubt that Phil had the pull. Acton's eagerness was a disadvantage against one so cool as Bourne. In the very first round, Acton, in his overwhelming desire to knock Phil out in as short a space as possible, neglected every ordinary precaution, and, after a spirited rally, Phil broke through Acton's slovenly guard, and sent him spinning into Vercoe's arms. We called time together, and to my intense satisfaction the first round resulted in our favour.

After that, thoroughly steadied by Phil's gentle reminder, Acton dropped all looseness, and began to treat Phil with the greatest respect, never taking any risks, but working in a scientific fashion, which poor Phil found hard enough to parry, and when he could not do that, hard enough to bear. But he never faltered; he took all that Acton could give him in imperturbable good temper, working in his dogged fashion as though he were absolutely confident of winning in the long run, and as disregarding present inconveniences because they were expected, and because the ultimate reward would repay all a hundred-fold.

There was also something else I noticed. Acton did not do so much damage as he ought to have done, and I found him constantly "short," but when Phil did score there was the unmistakable ring of a telling blow. I was puzzled in my mind why Acton was so "short," but I think now it was because he had never done anything but with gloves on, and fisticuffs, which were more or less familiar with Phil, were unknown to him. They don't fight, I believe, in France or Germany with Nature's weapons, but occasional turn-ups with the farmers' sons and the canal men had, of course, fallen to Phil's share.

On each occasion that Phil got home, Acton answered with a vicious spurt which did not do much good, but only tired him, and at the end of the seventh round I was astonished to think that Phil had stood the racket so well. Phil's lips were puffy, and one eye was visibly swelling, and he had other minor marks of Acton's attention, but he was in excellent condition still. Acton was damaged above a bit, and Phil's first-round reminder showed plainly on his cheek.

Acton began to think that unless he could make Phil dance to a quicker tune pretty soon, he himself would be limping round the corner of defeat, for he was very tired. When we called them up for the eighth round, he had evidently determined to force the fighting. Much as I disliked Acton, I could not but admire his splendid skill; he bottled up Phil time and again, feinted, ducked, rallied, swung out in the nick of time, planted hard telling blows, and was withal as hard to corner as a sunbeam. As I sponged Phil at the end of the eighth I felt that three more rounds as per last sample would shake even him, so I said, "Try, old man, for one straight drive if he gives you a ghost of a chance. Don't try tapping."

Acton came up smiling; in a twinkling he had Phil at sea by his trickiness, and was scoring furiously. Then, for the first time, Phil backed, shortly and sharply. Acton sprang forward for victory, and a huge lunge should have given Phil his quietus, but it was dreadfully short, and stung rather than hurt. Phil recovered the next moment, and was on the watch again cool and cautious as ever. Then Acton, following an artless feint which drew Phil as easily as a child, ducked the blow and darted beneath his guard. I gave Phil up for lost. How it happened, though I was watching carefully, I cannot say, but Acton seemed to slither or stumble on the turf as he rushed in, and for one second he was at Phil's mercy.

At that very instant Phil's arm flashed out, and with a blow which would have felled an ox, he caught Acton between the eyes. Acton dropped to the ground like a bludgeoned dog.

Phil, like a gentleman, backed a yard or so away, waiting for Acton to get up again, but he made no sign. Vercoe and I then counted him out with all due formality, and Phil had won at the very moment he was about to be beaten. We did our best for Acton, who was unconscious, and, just when we began to despair of bringing him round, he opened his eyes with the usual vacant stare. In a minute he recovered his thoughts, and said eagerly, "Then I've won."

"Not quite," said Vercoe, grimly. "You've jolly well lost."

Acton tottered to his feet blind with rage—diabolic rage—but hate and fury couldn't give him strength to stand. Vercoe gently caught him, and laid him quietly on his back, and sponged his face where the awful force of Phil's blow was becoming plainer every moment.

He compressed his lips with rage and pain, and looked at Phil with such a look of deadly hatred that Vercoe was disgusted.

"Now come, Acton. You've fought well, and, by Jove! you ought to lose well. Bourne fought like a gentleman, and you've been beaten fairly. What is the good of bearing any malice?"

"Look here, Acton," said Phil, "I'm jolly glad I've thrashed you, but all is over now. Here's my hand, and we'll let bygones be bygones."

"Never!" said Acton. "I'll get even with you yet."

"So be it," said Bourne; and he turned away, and got into his coat, leaving Vercoe and Acton on the field of battle. "Don't care to mention it, old man," he said to me as we got to his room, "all the same, I thought I was a gone coon just when I knocked the fellow out."

I went for my holidays that morning, and Acton, escorted by Vercoe, got into the same train. He was white and almost scared looking at his defeat, but there was on his face still that unfading expression of unsatisfied hate and lust for revenge. I buried my face in my paper in utter disgust.

So you see Acton departed from St. Amory's at the beginning of the Easter holidays in a slightly different mood from that which he enjoyed at Christmas, when the young Biffenites had cheered him till they were hoarse and he was out of hearing.

Toby was almost beside himself with consternation when Bourne and Vercoe turned up at the Courts in the afternoon.

"Your 'ands, Mr. Bourne, and your eye! What have you been a-doing of?"

"I have had the painful necessity to thrash a cad, Toby."

"But you did thrash him, sir?"

"I fancy so," said Bourne, grimly.

Jack went home in the evening a sadder and wiser boy. When he saw his brother's closed eye and swollen lip, and the angry patches on his cheeks, he was cut to the heart; he took his thrashing like a man, and, when all was over, felt he loved and respected his brother more than ever. "What a beastly little pig I've been," he said to himself.

Vercoe and Bourne were the victorious finalists at Kensington in the rackets. It was, as the papers aptly remarked, "Quite a coincidence that Bourne's right eye was beautifully and variously decorated in honour of the occasion."

I don't expect many finalists, at rackets anyhow, turn up with black eyes.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE MADNESS OF W.E. GRIM

Grim and Wilson had come back to St. Amory's firmly convinced that Biffen's was the most glorious house that had ever existed, and that it would do—thanks to Acton, Worcester, and the dervishes—great things when the cricket housers came round.

"Grimmy," said Wilson, "you'll have to try to get into the team this year. You would last, if your batting hadn't been so rotten."

"All right, old man; don't rub that in too often."

"You put in a lot of extra practice at one of those bottom nets, Grimmy, and you'll find Worcester'll shove you in first choice, almost, this go."

"Serene. Shall we try to raise a bottle of cherries now," said Grim, lazily, lounging from net to net. "It's heaps too soon to think of housers yet."

"You conceited ass, Grimmy! Not for you. Your batting is too awful."

"Don't worry now. Oceans of time, I tell you. We'll try some cherries, eh?"

The pair strolled lazily off the field, and made several purchases in the preserved fruit line, and then adjourned to their common room for refreshment.

But, as time went on, Grim did not fall in with Wilson's arrangements quite as enthusiastically as that single-hearted Biffenite would have liked him to. A fortnight passed, and Grim had only put in the regulation practice at the nets to Wilson's intense disgust, and the time that should have been devoted to extra cricket was "wasted," according to that ardent Biffenite, in doing, of all things, needlessly elaborate translations for Merishall.

"Whatever is the good of getting the very word the beak wants, Grimmy. I always translate Carmen—a song. Does it matter a cherry-stone that it sometimes means a charm? What good does it do you, you idiot? It only means that Merishall is harder on us. Think of your friends, Grimmy, do. If I didn't know you were a bit cracked, I'd say your performance was undiluted 'smugging.'"

"Cork that frivol, do," said Grim, who was stretched full length on the grass and gazing skywards with a rapt expression in his eyes, "and look over there. How beautiful it is!"

"How beautiful what is?" asked Wilson, astonished.

"The sunset, you ass!"

"I don't see anything special about it," said Wilson. "An ordinary affair!"

"Ordinary affair! Ugh, you idiot. Look at those lovely colours mingling one with another, those light fleecy clouds floating in a purple sea, that beautiful tint in the woods yonder, that—that—"

"Steady, Grim. Take time," said Wilson, squirming away from his chum.

"Wilson, you haven't any soul for beauty. A sunset is the loveliest sight on earth, you duffer."

"Didn't know a sunset ever was on earth," said Wilson, sarcastically.

"Is that funny?"

"All serene, Grimmy," said Wilson, elaborately agreeing with his friend as a mother might with a sick child. "Matter of fact, it is rather fine. Not unlike a Zingari blazer, eh?"

"Zingari blazer!"

"Exactly like. And that pink on the trees would do for the Westminster shirts."

"Blazers and shirts," cried Grim, in disgust. "Oh! get out."

"Let's get in, Grimmy, instead. You'd better see the doctor. 'Pon honour, you aren't well."

"I can't help it," said W.E. Grim, resignedly, "if you haven't any soul. Yes, I'll come. I've got Merishall's work."

There was a coolness that night between the two friends as they sat at the opposite sides of their common table doing their work for Merishall, and Wilson was determined to find out what was disturbing their accustomed peace. He had soon done his modicum of prose and forthwith broached matters.

"Let's have this business out, Grim. It will do you a lot of harm if you keep it in."

"The fact is——" began Grim, hesitating.

"Allez! houp-la!" said Wilson, encouragingly.

"I'm going in strong for poetry."

For reply Wilson laughed as though his life depended on the effort, and Grim turned a rich rosy hue. Wilson finally blurted out—

"Grim, you're an utter idiot."

"What do you think about it?"

"Nothing."

"I thought it would surprise you."

"It has, but nothing you do ever will again. Lord, Grimmy, was it for this you chucked cricket and your chance of the house eleven?" Wilson exploded again, uproariously. "I'll tell Rogers and Jack Bourne. You a poet!"

"Why shouldn't I be, you silly cuckoo?"

"Why, you haven't got the cut of a poet, for one thing, and for another, I believe, next to your mother, the thing you like best in the world is a good dinner." Wilson waxed eloquent on Grim's defects from a poet's standpoint. "Your hair is as stiff as any hair-brush; you can't deny you're short and a trifle beefy; and was ever a poet made out of your material and fighting weight?"

"That isn't criticism," said Grim, angrily.

"No," said Wilson, bitterly. "I don't pretend to that. They are a few surface observations only. Just tell this to Rogers or even Cherry, and watch 'em curl."

Wilson and Grim went to bed that night pretty cool towards each other, but in the morning Grim was obstinately bent on being the poet as he was the next week and the week after that. He wrestled with poetry morning, noon, and night, and he made himself a horrible nuisance to his old cronies. Wilson complained bitterly about their study being "simply fizzing with poetry." Grim sprang a poem or a sonnet, or a tribute or some other forsaken variety of poetry, on pretty well everything about the place. He "did" the dawn and worked round to the sunset. He had a little shy at the church and the tombstones, and wrote about the horse pond's "placid wave." He did four sonnets on the school, looking from north, south, east and west, and let himself go in fine style about the school captain's batting. He sent this to Phil, and Phil passed the disquisition on to me; it was very funny indeed. Not a single thing was safe from his poetry, and he cut what he could of cricket to write "tributes."

He had a lively time from his own particular knot of friends and enemies, and they jollied him to an extent that, perhaps, reached high-water mark, when Grim found one morning on his table a dozen thoughtful addresses of lunatic asylums, and specimens of the writing of mad people, culled from a popular magazine. But Grim recked not, and persevered. He turned out, as became a budding poet, weird screeds from Ovid, Virgil, and Horace—Bohn's cribs were simple to his tangled stuff—and Merishall beamed wreathed smiles upon him, and told him he was "catching the spirit of the original." After this patent, distinct leg-up from Merishall, Grim took the bit between his teeth and went careering up and down the plains of poesy until the lights were cut off.

Wilson bore with his chum for a month, and then finally delivered his ultimatum.

"If you're still a poet at midsummer, I'm going to cut, and dig with Rogers or Cherry. This den isn't big enough for you, me, and the 'original spirits' you wing every night. I'm off to the nets. Coming? No? Jove! Grimmy, what nightmares you must take to bed with you every night."

But the kindly Fates had the keeping of the chums' friendship in their safe keeping, and I haven't observed yet, that Grim and Wilson are less friendly than they used to be. This consummation is owing to Miss Varley. This young lady, aetat XIV, or thereabouts, was responsible for the reclamation of Grim. What the whole posse of his acquaintances with their blandishments and threats could not effect in the space of a month, she did within four and twenty hours. I cannot account for this, except on the supposition that little girls with long yellow hair and pretty brown eyes, and a perambulating blush, create mighty earthquakes in the breasts of rowdy fags. Miss Hilda Elsie Varley, being Biffen's niece, had taken the house under her protection, was more rabidly Biffenite than even Rogers, adored Acton, reverenced Worcester, and appreciated Chalmers, but despised fags who weren't "training-on" for one of her houses' various elevens. Her sentiments on these matters were mysteriously but accurately known amongst Biffenite juniors.

Grim finally turned his poetical talents upon this young lady. I am not quite certain why he delayed so long. Perhaps he had waited until his gift of song had matured so that the offering might be worthy of the shrine, or perhaps because he had exhausted all other exalted subjects for his muse, but anyhow, he sent Miss Varley an ode on her birthday. This day was pretty generally known amongst Biffen's fags.

When he had finished he read it to Wilson, who unbent from his antagonistic attitude towards poetry when he heard the subject of the verse.

"After all, Grimmy, it doesn't sound more rotten than Virgil, and it is rather swagger to say that Biffen's is to Hilda what Samnos was to Juno. It's a jolly lot more, though."

Grim had cheerfully compared Miss Hilda to the queenly Juno, and said that if she would give Biffen's her protection, the house would give the other houses "fits" when the housers came round again; then he put in something about her hair, unconsciously cribbed from Ovid; and something about her walk—this I tracked to Horace; and wound up the whole farrago by saying he was ready to be her door-mat and to shield her from the furies, etc., which, I think, Grim genuinely evolved out of his own effervescing breast. The ode was properly posted by the poet himself, and even Wilson felt genuinely interested in the result. As for Grim, he was so jolly anxious that he could not tackle any more poems, but divided his time between ices at Hooper's and loafing round the letter-rack for Hilda's answer.

A day or so later Wilson was busy translating for Merishall—carefully putting "songs" whenever he spotted "carmina"—when he heard Grim flying upstairs, and when the poet had smashed into the room, he held up a letter.

"It's come," he gasped.

Wilson laid down his pen and said, "Wait till you're cool, and then read it out."

This is the letter in extenso:—

"Biffen's, Wednesday.

"DEAR GRIM, "I don't think you'll ever be a poet, at least not a great one. I believe I could give you the Latin for most of the lines you have written: they are so dreadfully like the translations of my school-books, and it isn't very flattering when one has to put up with second-hand compliments several thousand years old, is it? But I am very glad that you think my good opinion of any value to Biffen's, for I should dearly like to see our house top of the school this year, and how can it be when one, who ought to be in the House Eleven, gives up all his time to writing 'poetry' instead of playing cricket? I hope you will not be very vexed with me for writing this, but I know you would prefer me to be "Yours very sincerely, "HILDA E. VARLEY.

"P.S.—If I see you admiring the sunsets or the rose-bushes when you ought to be at the nets, I know I shall titter ... even if Miss Langton be with me. "H.E.V."

Grim struggled through this to the bitter end. Wilson made the very roof echo with his howls of unqualified delight, but Grim's face was uncommonly like that sunset he admired so much.

"This is a sickener," he gasped.

"Jove! Grim, you've wanted one long enough," said Wilson, holding his aching sides.

"Crumbs! One would think she was old enough to be my mother."

"That's a way they have, when they're not feeling quite the thing. No wonder, poor girl."

"Look here, Wilson, keep this dark. I'm not going to write any more poetry. I've been thinking that, ever since I sent Hilda the ode. I don't think it's quite the real article."

"No," said Wilson, consolingly; "only original-spirit catching."

"A lot you know about it, old man," said Grim, hotly.

"Granted, Grimmy; but Hilda twigged the fraud, quick enough."

"Well, I'm going to burn it all, right off."

They did. I believe I am doing Grim no injustice when I say he looks less a poet, and acts up to his looks, than any junior in St. Amory's.

Two nights after the receipt of this fateful letter Grim was industriously practising Ranjitsinghi's famous glance at a snug, quiet net, when Miss Varley, accompanied by Miss Cornelia Langton, her governess, went past the nets. Miss Langton told Hilda afterwards that she ought not to speak to hard-working cricketers and distract them in their game. Hilda, I don't think, minded this little wigging, and Grim never went without a friendly nod as he turned from cutting Wilson into the nets, if Miss Hilda Elsie Varley went by.



CHAPTER XXVII

CONCERNING TODD AND COTTON

Knowing Acton's pride—his overwhelming pride—I never expected to see him back at St. Amory's. I expected that he would almost have moved heaven and earth and got himself taken off the school books and gone to complete his education somewhere else rather than come back to the old place where he had had such a signal thrashing. But, of course, he knew jolly well that we four had our tongues tied, and that the knowledge of his defeat was, so to speak, strictly private property; and that is why, I am pretty sure, he turned up again.

He strolled up and down the High, arm-in-arm with Worcester, in high good humour, on the day we returned; but when I turned the corner and came upon him vis-a-vis he gave me a long, level, steady look of hatred, which told me that he had nursed his wrath to keep it warm. His look made me thoughtful. Young Jack Bourne, too, came sailing along—a breezy miniature copy of Phil, his brother—but when he caught sight of his former patron he blushed like a girl and scuttled into the first available yard.



He was not particularly anxious to meet Acton, for Phil, in the holidays, had given Jack a pretty correct inkling of Acton's character, and he began to see—in fact, he did see—that Raffles and the shooting and the billiards, and the hocus pocus of "hedging on Grape Shot," and the trip to London, etc., was only one involved, elaborate plot to strike at Phil. Jack now fully realized that he had played a very innocent fly to Acton's consummate spider, and he now, when there wasn't any very pressing necessity, determined to give the spider's parlour a very wide berth indeed. Acton saw Jack's little manoeuvre, and smiled gently. He was genuinely fond of Jack, but young Bourne had served his purpose; and now, thought Acton, philosophically, "Jack looks upon me as a monster of iniquity, and he won't cultivate my acquaintance." And Phil? Well, Phil regarded the incident as "closed," and paid no heed to his enemy's bitter looks, but divided his attention between his books and cricket, keeping, perhaps unnecessarily, a bright outlook upon Master Jack.

Todd had come back to St. Amory's in a very different frame of mind from that in which he had returned after the Perry fiasco. His three weeks' holiday had been no end enjoyable; and now, besides a coin or two in his pocket, he had a clean, crisp note in his purse. As he stepped out of the train at the station, the burly figure of Jim Cotton hove in sight, and an eleven-inch palm clapped Gus on the back.

"Hallo! old man. How goes it?"

"Oh!" said Gus, coughing; "I'm all right, Jim, and your biceps seem in their usual working order."

"They are, Gus. I've got a cab out here; we'll go on together."

"Rather! I must find some one to see to the traps, though."

"I've commandeered young Grim," said Jim, "and he'll see to them."

"Provident beggar! Here you are, Grim. Put mine into Taylor's cart, and here's a shilling for you."

Grim, who felt rather injured at being lagged by Cotton so early in the term, just at the moment, too, when he had caught sight of Wilson staggering along with a heavy hat-box, etc., seized Jim's and Gus's effects. Todd's modest douceur, however, took off the rough edge of his displeasure.

After tea, Cotton and Todd strolled about, and finally came to anchor behind the nets, where some of the Sixth were already at practice.

"Phil Bourne's good for a hundred at Lord's," said Jim, critically, watching Phil's clean, crisp cutting with interest.

"There's Acton out, too."

"Raw," said Jim. "Biffen's beauty has never been taught to hold his bat, that is evident. Footer is more his line, I take it."

"Are you going to have a try for the eleven, Jim, this year?"

"I'll see how things shape. If Phil Bourne gives me the hint that I have a chance, I'll take it, of course."

"Will he give Acton the hint, think you?"

"I shouldn't say so," said Jim, as Acton's stumps waltzed out of the ground for the fourth time. "He can't play slows for toffee."

"Rum affair about the footer cap," said Gus.

"Rather so. But I believe Phil Bourne is as straight as a die. I'm not so sure of Acton, though. I fancy there's something to be explained about the cap. By the way, Gus, are you going to loaf about this term as usual? Taylor's house side really does want bigger fellows than it's got."

"No!" said Gus. "I'm no good at cricket, nor croquet, nor any other game; nor do I really care a song about them. All the same, I'm not going to loaf."

"What is the idea?" said Jim, curiously.

"I'm going to have a shot for the history medal, and I mean to crawl up into the first three in the Fifth."

"And you'll do 'em, Toddy," said Jim, admiringly. "You're not quite such an ass as you once were."

"Well, I'll work evenly and regularly, and, perhaps, pull off one or other of them."

"I go, you know, at midsummer. Then I'm to cram somewhere for the Army. Taylor's been advising a treble dose of mathematics, and I think I'll oblige him this time."

"Taylor's not half a bad fellow," said Gus.

"Oh, you're a monomaniac on that subject, Gus! Once you felt ill if you met Taylor or Corker on your pavement."

Jim Cotton was right. Gus was now a vastly different fellow from the shiftless, lazy, elusive Gus of old; he worked evenly and steadily onward, and, in consequence, his name danced delightfully near the top of the weekly form-lists of the Fifth Form. He, however, did not sap everlastingly, but on half holidays lounged luxuriantly on the school benches, watching the cricket going on in the bright sunshine, or he would take his rod and have an afternoon among the perch in the Lodestone, that apology for a stream. Fishing was Gus's ideal of athleticism; the exercise was gentle, and you sometimes had half a dozen perch for your trouble. Gus argued there was nothing to show for an eight hours' fag at cricket in a broiling sun.



CHAPTER XXVIII

ACTON'S LAST MOVE

Phil's unpopularity had somewhat abated, for his victory in the rackets had given him a good leg up in the estimation of his fellows; but still there was the uneasy feeling that in the matter of the "footer" cap his conduct was shady, or at least dubious.

I was awfully sorry to see this, for I myself was leaving at midsummer, and in my own mind I had always looked upon Phil to take up the captaincy. He would have made, in my opinion, the beau ideal of a captain, for he was a gentleman, a scholar, and an athlete. But the other monitors, or at least many of them, did not look upon Phil with enthusiasm, and his election for the captaincy did not now seem the sure thing it had done a few months before.

At St. Amory's the monitors elect a captain, and Corker confirms the appointment if he thinks their choice suitable, but he insists that he must be well up in the Sixth, and not a mere athlete.

Now, Phil's ambition was to be Captain of St. Amory's, as his father had been before him, and when the home authorities finally decided that I was to go to Cambridge in the Michaelmas term; Phil hoped and desired to step into my shoes. He had one great lever to move the fellows in his favour, he was much the best cricketer in the school and deservedly Captain of the Eleven, and, besides that, was one of the best all-round fellows in Sixth Form work. But Phil did not in the least hint that the captaincy was his soul's desire; he determined to merit it, and then leave the matter in the hands of the school. So, from the very beginning of the term, he read hard and played hard, and he left his mark on the class lists and the scoring-board in very unmistakable fashion.

And now Acton came like an evil genius on the scene. In a word, he had determined that if he could in any way baulk poor Phil's ambition, he would. If by his means he could put Phil out of the running for the captaincy it should be done. If he could succeed, this success would make up and to spare for his two former defeats. Therefore, warily and cautiously, he set to work.

Acton himself was not much of a cricketer; the game was not, as it were, second nature to him, as it was to Phil, but he was a very smart field—cover was his position—and he could slog heavily, and often with success. He threw himself heartily into the game, and crept rapidly up the ladder of improvement, until Biffen's whispered that their shining light stood a good chance of getting into the Eleven. "That is," said Biffen's crowd, "if Bourne will run straight and give a good man his flannels. But after the 'footer' fraud, what can one expect?" I heard of this, and straightway told Phil.

"Oh, they need not fear. If Acton deserves his flannels, he will get them. I've nothing whatever against his cricket."

Acton learned this, and instantly his new-found zeal for cricket slackened considerably.

"Oh!" said he to himself, "I can't blister you there, Bourne, eh? I can't pose as the deserving cricketer kept out of the Eleven by a jealous cad of a captain, eh? So I'll try another tack to keep you in evil odour, Mr. Bourne."

Acton did not turn up at the nets that night, and when Worcester noticed this, Acton calmly sailed on his new tack.

"What's the good of sweating away at the nets, Dick? I'll not get my flannels in any case."

"Oh yes, you will. Bourne has said he's got nothing against your cricket."

"And you believe that, Dick?" said Acton, with a whistle of contemptuous incredulity.

"I do," said Dick. "But you are not exactly quite the flier at cricket that you are at 'footer,' so you can't afford to slack up now."

"I've got private knowledge," said Acton, with a filthy lie, "that I won't get 'em in any case, so I shall not try."

Dick was considerably upset by this, and Acton's sudden stoppage of practice after an intense beginning made his lie seem a good imitation of truth, and gave Worcester food for bitter thoughts against Phil. Acton worked "the-no-good-to-try" dodge carefully and artistically; he never actually said his lie openly, or Phil would have nailed it to the counter, but, like a second Iago, he dropped little barbed insinuations here, little double-edged sayings there, until Biffenites to a man believed there would be a repetition of the "footer" cap over again, and the school generally drifted back to aloofness as far as Phil was concerned.

Acton laid himself out to be excessively friendly with the monitors, and just as he entered into their good graces, Phil drifted out of them—in fact, to be friendly with Acton was the same thing as being cool towards Bourne. Phil made splendid scores Saturday after Saturday, but the enthusiasm which his fine play should have called out was wanting.

"Why don't you cheer your captain, Tom?" I overheard a father say to his young hopeful.

"No fear!" said the frenzied Biffenite. "Bourne is a beast!"

In fact, the only one who seemed to derive any pleasure from Bourne's prowess in the field was Acton himself. He used to sit near the flag-staff, and when Phil made his splendid late cut, whose applause was so generous as his? whose joy so great? Acton's manoeuvres were on the highest artistic levels, I can assure you, and in the eyes of the fellows generally, his was a case of persecuted forgiving virtue. Acton, too, kept in old Corker's good books, and his achievements in the way of classics made the old master beam upon him with his keen blue eye.

I saw with dismay how persistently unpopular Phil remained, and I heard the charms of Acton sung daily by monitor after monitor, until I saw that Acton had captured the whole body bar Phil's own staunch friends, Baines, Roberts, and Vercoe. And then it dawned upon me that Acton was making a bid for the captaincy himself, and when I had convinced myself that this was his object, I felt angrier than I can remember. I thereupon wrote to Aspinall, gave him a full, true, and particular account of Acton's campaign against Phil, and asked him to release me—and Phil—from our promise of secrecy regarding the football-match accident. His reply comforted me, and I knew that, come what might, I had a thunderbolt in my pocket in Aspinall's letter, which could knock Acton off the Captain's chair if he tried for that blissful seat.

I told him so, to save trouble later on, and he heard me out with a far from pretty sneer, which, however, did not quite conceal his chagrin. But though I made sure of his being out of the hunt, I could not make sure of Phil being elected, and in a short time Mivart was mentioned casually as the likeliest fellow to take my place. I have nothing whatever to say against Mivart; he was a good fellow, but he was not quite up to Phil's level.

Phil knew of these subterranean workings of his enemy, but he was too proud a fellow to try and make any headway against the mining.

"If they elect Mivart they will elect a good man, that is all, though I'd give a lot, old man, to take your place."

Thus things went on until Lord's came and ended in the usual draw. Phil's selection of the Eleven was in every way satisfactory, and his score for first wicket had made St. Amory's safe from defeat, but, despite all, his unpopularity was pronounced.

The election was going to take place in a week, and Mivart, thanks to Acton's careful "nursing," was evidently going to romp home in the election with something like a sixteen to four majority. Vercoe determined to propose Phil, and Baines was only too delighted to second it; but Phil's cronies had no more hope of his success than Phil had himself.



CHAPTER XXIX

WHY BIFFEN'S LOST

After the Lord's match there were two burning subjects of conversation: Who should be captain in my place? and which house should be the cock house at cricket? Every house captain looked with dread upon the house of Corker, great alike at cricket and footer, and it was agreed that very probably Phil Bourne would once more lead his men on to victory. Biffen's house did not stand much chance, for there was no superlative Acton at cricket; but it was, indeed, mainly through his efforts that Biffen's was as good as it was. You may remember that Acton had taken under his patronage those dark-skinned dervishes, Singh Ram and Runjit Mehtah. They were unquestionably the best pair of fellows in the school in strictly gymnastic work; and when summer came they showed that they would, sooner or later, do something startling with the bat. The Biffenite captain, Dick Worcester, did not altogether relish their proficiency. "It's just my luck to have my eleven filled up with niggers," he observed to Acton in half-humourous disgust; but Biffenites pinned their faith on Worcester, the dervishes, and Acton, and, to the huge delight of Grim, Rogers, Wilson, Thurston, and other enthusiastic junior Biffenites, the resurrected house survived the first two rounds.

The third round they were to meet Taylor's lot, a good house, and the hopes of Grim and Co. were tinged with considerable doubt.

On the particular afternoon when this important match was to be played, Todd had strolled off to the Lodestone stream, laden with all the necessary tackle for the slaying of a few innocent perch. The year's final lists of the forms were due also in the evening on the various notice-boards.

Gus had redeemed his promise made at the beginning of the term, and had worked hard for a prominent position on the list, and his attempt to capture the history medal had been, he thought, fairly satisfactory. He would soon know his fate, however, in both directions. Meanwhile, to allay his anxiety as to the results, he had unpatriotically given the cricket-fields a wide berth, and thus deprived Taylor's of the privilege of his cheer in the house match. He and Cotton had an invitation to dine with Taylor that evening, so, after telling Jim his programme for the afternoon, he had trudged down the lane which Jack Bourne knew so well.

The afternoon was hot: the one-o'clock sun made Gus think that perhaps there was more cruelty than usual in luring the fishes out of the cool waters of the Lodestone; but, nevertheless, he philosophically baited his hook, and cast forth. The sport was not exciting, and by-and-by Gus found himself wondering, not why the fish were so shy, but whence came the faint, delicate perfume of cigars, which undoubtedly reached his nostrils? The Lodestone Farm was a quarter of a mile away, and obviously the scent could not travel thus far, and since Gus was alone on the banks of the stream, running sluggishly towards the moat, the constant whiffs of cigars reaching him seemed somewhat mysterious. Gus looked again carefully, but could see no one, and yet there was undoubtedly some one smoking very near him.

"Well, it is odd," said Gus, for the nth time sniffing the "tainted breeze." Curiosity piqued the fisher to trace the mystery. He reconnoitred carefully, and presently fancied he could hear the faint murmur of voices. This proceeded from the boat-house, wherein Hill moored the moat punt. "I'll just make a reconnaissance in force," said Gus, putting down his rod. Arrived at the punt-house, Gus peeped in through the slightly open door, and discovered no less important personages than Runjit Mehtah and "Burnt Lamb." The two dervishes were lolling luxuriantly on the punt cushions, each smoking a fine fat cigar, and the combined efforts of the two gave quite an Oriental air of magnificence to the ramshackle boat-house.

"Hallo!" said Gus. "What the deuce are you doing?"

The cigars nearly fell from the mouth of each of the smokers as Gus appeared on the scene, but when the smokers made out Todd's face through the haze, Mehtah said, with much relief—

"Oh, talking."

"That isn't quite a true bill," said Gus. "Your Flora Fina de Cabbagios keep the fish from biting."

"Have one," said Burnt Lamb, hospitably offering Todd a cigar.

"No thanks. Is this punt-house your usual lounge?"

"Sometimes," said Mehtah. "We can't do without our smoke, and we can't do it, you know, at the school."

"No, that you jolly well can't, my dusky Othello. But aren't you two booked for the Houser's this afternoon? I thought you were the backbone of Biffen's."

"The match is not for an hour yet," said Lamb.

"Oh yes," said Mehtah, "we're going to sit on your house this afternoon, Todd."

At this most interesting point of the conversation the door of the punt-house was violently slammed to, and Gus was propelled forward clean into the punt and received hurriedly into the unexpectant arms of Burnt Lamb. Before any of the three could understand what had happened there was a hurried fumbling with the staple and pin of the punt-house door from the outside, and then an equally hurried retreat of footsteps.

"Well, I'm hanged!" said Gus, after he had picked himself up and tried the door. "We're locked in."

Young Rogers and Wilson, who had done this fell deed, hoped there was no doubt about the locking. This couple of ornaments had immediately after dinner snatched their caps and ran on past the Lodestone Farm for a particular purpose. They had found a yellowhammer's nest a day or so before, containing one solitary egg, and their hurried run was for the purpose of seeing if there was any increase, and if so—well, the usual result. They were anxious to get back to the cricket-field in time to shout and generally give their house a leg-up when the Houser with Taylor's commenced, and their friend Grim had strict orders to bag them each seats, front row, in the pavilion. They had been busy blowing eggs for pretty well twenty minutes, and, as they were lazily returning schoolwards, they caught sight of Gus watching his float.

"There's Gus Todd trying to hook tiddlers," said Rogers.

"Shy a stone," suggested Wilson, "and wake 'em up."

"Rot! There's no cover."

"It's only Todd," said Wilson. "What's the odds?"

"Yes, but not quite the old ass. Better get home."

Keeping well out of sight, the two cronies had watched with curiosity Todd's manoeuvres as he tried to run the cigar-smokers to earth. When Gus entered the punt-house, a bright idea struck Wilson.

"Say, Rogers, remember Toddy locking us in the laboratory last term? Two hundred Virgil."

"Ah!" said Rogers, catching the meaning of Wilson's remark instanter; "if we only could cork him up there for the afternoon! That would pay him out for Merishall's call-over lines."

"We'll chance it," said Wilson. "If we can't do it, well, we didn't know Gussy was in—eh?"

"Rather! That is the exact fable we'll serve out to Todd, if necessary."

Breaking cover, the young Biffenites had secured the door of the punt-house without any difficulty, and then had run for dear life.

"Golly!" said Rogers, pulling up when well out of sight of the boat-house; "we did that rather neat, eh? Hanged if Toddy wasn't smoking like a chimney. Did you twig his weed?"

"Regular stench," said Wilson. "Toddy will have to swim out through the front way, or howl for help. The punt is sure to be locked."

"He'll have to take a header off the punt into the moat, and that isn't crystal, exactly."

"Six yards of mud is about the figure," said Wilson, almost hysterically.

"I say, old man, if we'd only been able to bottle up Jim Cotton along with his chum! What price Biffen's for the Houser, then?"

"If" said Wilson, wistfully. "Wouldn't the dervishes walk into Taylor's bowling, if Bully wasn't there to sling them in?"

"Never mind," said Rogers, hardly daring to contemplate the ravishing prospect of Taylor's house without Cotton, "the dervishes are sure to come out strong this afternoon. Let 'em once get their eye in, and either of 'em is good enough for a hundred."

The two young Biffenites found the faithful Grim holding the fort in the front bench of the pavilion against the ardent assaults of some Taylorian juniors, who could not see what Grim wanted with three seats. The fellows of the two houses were rapidly lining up for the match, and Dick Worcester had sent to Biffen's making affectionate inquiries for the dervishes. By-and-by, word was brought to Worcester that the two were not to be found in the neighbourhood; and a further hurried search by anxious Biffenites, headed by Rogers and Wilson, had a like result.