"Jim and I as children played together, Best of chums for many years were we; I had no luck—was, alas! a Jonah; Jim, my chum, was lucky as could be. Oh, lucky Jim! How I envied him!

"Years rolled by, and death took Jim away, boys, Left his widow, and she married me; Now we're married oft I think of Jim, boys, Sleeping in that churchyard by the sea. Oh, lucky Jim! How I envy him!"

As the words followed on there was a suggestion of oddity in that awful voice singing a comic song, and there were a few suppressed laughs at the idea. As the song progressed, the utter dreary weariness of the voice, and the rather funny words, compelled the fellows to laugh in uncontrollable bursts; but still Acton never turned a hair. When he arrived at the churchyard lines there was one universal howl of delight. Brown stopped dead at the end of the second last line, and Acton stopped dead too. Instantly all the fellows became as mute as fish. The singer straightened himself up, looked round the room with a mocking smile while one might count a dozen, and then winked to Brown, who recommenced softly on the piano. Then Acton sang slowly and deliberately—sang with a voice as clear and as tunable as a silver bell—

"Oh, lucky Jim! How I envy him!"

His croak was a pretence—he had hoaxed us all! Before we recovered from our stupefaction he had vanished. The school clamoured for his return, but though they cheered for three minutes on end Acton did not reappear, and Brown struck up "God save the Queen!" Biffen's concert was at an end!

Grim held a five minutes' meeting among the Biffenites before bed.

"There's never been a fellow like Acton in St. Amory's. He goes away at nine to-morrow. The Great Midland are going to stop their express to pick up St. Amory fellows, and Acton goes up to his place by that. I vote we all go in a body to the station and cheer him off. We keep it dark, of course." This staccato oration was agreed to with acclamation, and Biffenites went to bed happy.

On the morrow Acton strolled into the station and espied the Biffenites, who were scattered up and down the platform with careful carelessness. The train came in, and at once the juniors crowded en masse round the carriage in which Acton had secured a corner seat, and stood talking to Grim, who was in fine feather.

At that very moment Phil Bourne and young Jack Bourne bustled into the station. An idea struck Rogers, and he said to all his chums, "Here's Bourne, you fellows; let him know we see him."

The fags were delighted, and when Bourne entered the carriage next Acton's there was a long-drawn-out hoot for his especial benefit.

"Another," said Rogers, whereat more soulful groans.

"The last," said Rogers, and Bourne took his seat to a chorus of hisses and tortured howls. He smiled a little and opened his paper, while the people in the carriage looked curiously at him.

The guard's whistle went and Acton sprang in. "Good-bye."

As the train moved, Grim said, "Three cheers for Acton!"

"Hip, hip, hurrah! Hip, hip, hurrah!"

"A groan for Bourne!" Acton smiled good naturedly to his henchmen. As he glided past he said to himself softly, "And yet I have not quite hoed all my row out either, Bourne. Wait, my friend, wait!"



CHAPTER X

THE YOUNG BROTHER

When St. Amory's reassembled after the holidays Acton found himself firmly established in the good graces of the fellows, and, indeed, he was not far from being the most popular fellow in the place, but poor Phil was looked coldly upon by those who had been his chiefest friends, and, by those who knew little of him, he passed for a jealous bounder. Acton played up to his cards in beautiful style, and acted the forgiving innocent splendidly; but Phil, who was only a very honest fellow, did not play anything to speak of. Those who gave him the cold shoulder once never had a second chance of showing it him, for Phil was no end proud; but he had still one or two friends, who condoned his passing of Acton for the "footer" cap on the ground of "insufficient information" thereon. Roberts and Baines and Vercoe were not a bad trio to have for friends either. Acton was now in the Sixth, and a monitor.

His main idea was to keep Bourne in the bad books of the school until such time as he could direct their ill-favour into channels favourable to himself and unfavourable for Phil. A lucky chance seemed to open to him an easy method of striking at Bourne, and Acton almost hugged himself with joy at his windfall.

About a week after the holidays Acton had been skating on the Marsh, and as he was returning he came across Jack Bourne engaged in a desperate fight with a young yokel. There was a small crowd of loafers, who were delighted at this little turn up, and were loud in their advice to the fellow to give "the young swell a good hiding."

This little crowd, as I said, caught Acton's eye, and when he perceived that one of the fighters was a St. Amory fellow, he hurried up to see what was the little game.

Young Bourne was getting the worst of it. The yokel was a year or two older, was taller, and stones heavier. It was an unequal fight. Bourne was standing up to his man pluckily, and, thanks to the "agricultural" style of the clodhopper, was not taking nearly so much harm as he should have done. He was, however, pretty low down in the mouth, for there was not a friendly eye to encourage him, nor a friendly shout to back him up. On the contrary, the mob howled with delight as their man got "home," and encouraged him: "Gow it, Dick! Knock the stuffin' out of 'im!"

Acton had not been noticed, but he thrust himself into the mob, and said, "Stand back, you little beggars, or I'll massacre the lot of you. Give the boy room, you filthy pigs!" The "pigs" scuttled back, and for the first time Bourne really had fair play.

Acton took out his watch and assumed the direction of the fight.

"Time!" he shouted out. "You fellow, that's your corner, and if you stir out of it before I give the word I'll thrash you within an inch of your life. This will be ours, Bourne." He strode in between the two, and pushed the yokel among his friends, whilst he dragged Bourne a little apart.

"Thanks awfully, Acton. That beast knocked me off the path into the snow-heap when he saw I was one of the school. I struck him, but he's a big handful."

"Don't talk, Bourne," said Acton, grimly. "It's only wasting breath. Keep cool, man, and you will pull it off yet."

Thanks to Acton's encouragement, young Bourne worked along ever so much better, so that when time was called he had taken no damage practically, but had scored a little on his own account.

"Sit down on my coat. You're doing famously. Whatever you do, don't let him swing you one in the face. You'll be snuffed out if you do. Keep him out at any cost, and try an upper cut after he swings. Waste no time after he's missed."

But although young Bourne scored no end in the next few rounds by following Acton's advice, his good efforts seemed wasted. The lout's face was as hard as a butcher's block. Acton saw that Bourne was visibly tiring, and that it was an almost foregone conclusion that in the end he would be beaten. He could hardly stall off the fellow's attack.

After the seventh round Acton saw that he must put all to the touch, or Bourne would lose. "Listen carefully, young 'un. You're jolly game, and that's a fact, but there's no good hammering on the fool's face—he can't feel. You must try another trick. It's the last in your box, too, Bourne, so make no mistake. St. Amory's for ever! When he swings, duck. Don't try to ward him off—he'll beat you down. Then, for all you're worth, drive home with your left on the jaw. On the jaw for all you're worth. You've seen the sergeant do it dozens of times in the gym. Keep cool, and look when you hit—on the very peak. Understand?"

"Rather!" said Jack, coolly but wearily.

"Time!"

The yokel came on in all the pride of his beefy strength, for ha knew that he was going to finish the "swell" this round. He swung. Bourne ducked, and then, quick as lightning, the lad closed in, and, with the last ounce he had in him, drove his left on the jaw. He was true to a hair.

"Habet!" shouted Acton. "Don't give him time, Jack. Send him down if you can."

Bourne's "point" had the usual effect; the lout's head swam, he felt sick and sorry, and could not even ward off Jack's blows. He backed, Jack scoring like mad all the time, and when Acton finally called "time!" he dropped on to the ground blubbing. The fellow's eye was visibly swelling, his lips were cut, and his nose bled villainously.



"The pig bleeds," said Acton, cheerfully. "You have him now, Bourne; he's too sick to have an ounce of fight left in him. Time!"

The next round wasn't a round really; it was a procession, with Bourne, as fresh as paint from his success, following up the other blubbing with rage, pain, and sickness. Before Acton called, the fellow dropped to the ground and howled dismally.

"Get your coat, Jack, and then come here. He's done. Stand back, you others."

Jack came back.

"Now, you pig, get up and apologize to this gentleman for having knocked him into the snow-heap. I suppose your pig's eyes couldn't see he was only half your size." Acton got hold of the fellow by the collar and jerked him to his feet. "Apologize."

The fellow would not understand; he snivelled obstinately, and struggled aimlessly in Acton's grasp.

"Apologize."

"I wown't."

"Good," said Acton, grimly. With his flat hand he gave the fellow a thundering cuff which sent him sprawling. Acton then caught him by the scruff of his neck and threw him headlong into the snow-heap.

"Come along, Bourne," he said, with a smile. "You have fought a good fight this day, and no mistake. That fellow will have a fit the next and every time he sees the smallest St. Amory's fag's cap."

"I say, Acton, you're an awful brick to back me up like that."

"Don't mention it, Bourne. Come and have some tea with me, and I'll pour oil into your wounds, or at any rate, I'll paint 'em."

So young Bourne had tea with Acton, and his host went out afterwards to Dann's the chemist's and brought back a camel's-hair brush and some lotion. Thanks to this, Jack's scars appeared as very honourable wounds indeed.

From that day Jack thought Acton the finest fellow in St. Amory's.

"He did not spread-eagle that fool," he said to himself, "but let me have the glory of pounding the ugly brute into jelly, and made me go in and win when I was ready to give in to the cad. Why did not Phil give him his cap? There's something rotten somewhere."

As for Acton, as I said before, he regarded this little incident as a treasure trove upon which he could draw almost unlimitedly in his campaign against Bourne. "I'll strike at Bourne, senr., through his young brother. I'll train him up in the way he should go, and when our unspeakable prig of a Philip sees what a beautiful article young Jack finally emerges, he'll wish he'd left me alone. Jack, my boy, I'm sorry, but I'm going to make you a bad boy, just to give your elder brother something to think about. You're going to become a terrible monster of iniquity, just to shock your reverend brother."

Acton took not the smallest interest in the usual Easter Term games. Footer was only played occasionally, but there was one blessing, the fellows need not play the usual Thursday Old Game. As for cross-country running, paper chases, et hoc genus omne, Acton refused to have anything to do with them. "That sort," he said to Dick Worcester, "isn't in the same street with footer."

"Why not try and lift the Public School Heavy at Aldershot?" suggested Worcester.

"There's Hodgson in for it, Dick."

"A good man; but if you would only apply yourself seriously to the business I'd back you. You're a good weight, and got a longer reach than Hodgson."

"There's Bourne, too."

"Personally, I believe Phil is only pacing Hodgson to take him along quicker."

"It's an awful fag, and I believe Eton have got the Heavy safe and sure this year. A cousin of mine there says that their pet, Jarvis, would walk right through the best man we've ever turned out."

"Oh, that's their usual brag!"

"Personally, I don't think so. They have got a young Bermondsey professor—who is up to all the latest dodges—to coach. Our sergeant is a bit old-fashioned—good, but old-fashioned. Does not do enough with his right."

"I'm quite an amateur," said Dick. "Don't understand the finer shades of the arts. Should have thought the sergeant good enough."

"Dubito! Anyhow, Dick, I'll think it over; and if I think I can make a decent show I'll have a shot. When does it come off?"

"At Aldershot? Oh!—last week in March."

"That gives me nearly two months. One can turn round in two months; and if I'm satisfied as to my coaching I'll certainly try at Aldershot. But what has a fellow to do on the half-holidays now? No footer, and one might do enough practice after tea for the Heavy. I wish Kipling would write a book every week. He is the only fellow in England who can write."

So Acton, on the half-holidays, prepared to read his novels by his fireside. Not that he was particularly fond of toasting himself, but because, for him, it was all he could do.

But Corker came to his rescue. The old man, after having had his back to the wall for an age, consented to monitors being allowed to cycle by themselves, and even to be chaperon to any fags who cared to run with them, and—important proviso—whom the monitors did not object to. Otherwise the old rule of no cycling sans house-master was in force.

Acton thereupon invested in a swell machine, and he and young Bourne, or Grim, or Wilson on the hired article, would cover no end of country between dinner and roll call.

By-and-by Phil noticed that his brother was getting pretty thick with Acton.

"Rather thick with Acton, Jack? I don't think he'll do you any good."

"He has, anyhow, Phil."

"How?"

Jack explained.

"I'm glad you licked the animal, young 'un; but, all the same, I wish some other fellow had seen you through."

"I don't!" said Jack, hotly.

"I wonder," said Phil, dryly, "what is the great attraction which a Sixth Form fellow sees in a fag? Above all, a fag of the name of Bourne?"

"Fact is, I don't see it myself," said Jack, shortly. "Better ask him."

"No, I don't think I shall. All the same, I would not dog Acton's footsteps quite so much."

"He's a monitor."

"Who'll make you useful. Take my word for it."

"We'll see."

"Oh! Certainly we shall."

Jack was thoroughly unhinged by his brother's dry bantering tone, and said hotly—

"I cannot understand, Phil, why he didn't get his cap. He deserved it."

"There's no need for you to understand it, young 'un."

"My opinion is——"

"Not worth the breath you're going to waste."

"It's considered a shame pretty generally."

"I've heard so; but, still, that does not alter matters. However, I did not want to talk politics with you, Jack. Don't put your innocent little toes into any scrape—that is all I wanted to tell you. Here is half a crown for you to buy butterscotch, and while you're sucking it think over what I've said. What! Little boys given up toffee? Then I'd better say good night, Jack." Jack went out pretty sore.

About a week or so after this, Acton and young Bourne sped down to the old Lodestone Farm, and as they pedalled in at the gate young Hill, the farmer's son, said to Acton—

"The man's been here since twelve, sir."

"That's all right," said Acton. "Has he got the stable ready?"

"He's been putting it to rights the last hour."

"I say, Bourne," said Acton, turning to Jack, "ever heard of the Alabama Coon?"

"The fellow who won that fight in Holland? The prize-fighter?"

"The very same."

"Rather!"

"Well, I've engaged him to give me a few lessons here. I'm going to try for the Heavy at Aldershot. Like to see the fun?"

"Rather!"

"Then come along."

Together they went into the stable, and therein found "The Coon," a coal-black negro, busily shovelling sand upon the floor, smoking an enormous cigar the while.

"Making ready the cockpit," said Acton to Jack, who was staring open-eyed at the worker. "Lusty looking animal, eh?"

"My aunt!" said Jack.

"Hallo, Coon, you're about ready!"

"Yaas, sir," said the negro. "I'm almost through."

"Brought the mittens with you, too?"

"Yaas, sir, I have the feather beds."

"Then when you've peeled we'll start."

The Coon put down his spade and slipped behind a stall.

"You see, young 'un, the sergeant at the gym is a good old hand, but he is an old hand, so to speak—hasn't got the polish. Seeing that at Aldershot they tie us down to a very few rounds, if St. Amory's have to make any show at all they must get all the points they can first round or so. That's why I've got the Coon down here. He is the most scientific boxer we have."

"The figure will be pretty stiff, Acton, eh?"

"No matter about that if I can beat Jarvis. By the way, Bourne, you need not say anything about this to any one. I have particular reasons for keeping this quiet."

"All serene. I'm mum, of course."

"Thanks. You watch the Coon, and you'll pick up no end of wrinkles."

The Coon came out from behind the stall dressed in a vest, trousers, and thin boots; his black arms were bare, and he had exchanged his cigar for a straw, which he chewed vigorously. Acton changed his shoes and took off his coat, and the lesson began.

Acton's opinion of the Coon's knowledge was, in Jack's mind, absolutely corroborated by the display. His marvellous parrying of Acton's attentions; his short step inwards, which invariably followed a mis-hit by Acton; his baits to lure his opponent to deliver himself a gift into his hands; his incredible ducking and lightning returns, held Bourne fascinated. Everything was done so easily, so lithely, so lightly, and so surely, that Jack gasped in admiration. Acton in the hands of the nigger was a lamb indeed.

"This is an eye-opener," said Jack. "I'll try that left feint on Rogers, the cocky ass!"

The negro stopped now and then to show Acton where and how to avail himself of opportunities; and Acton, who was in grim earnest, applied himself whole-heartedly to the business in hand, and, in consequence, as Jack afterwards told us, "you could almost hear old Acton travelling on the right road."

After about half an hour of instruction, Acton said—

"That is enough of jawing for the afternoon, Coon. Let us have three rounds to finish up with. Take the time, young 'un."

Jack, with immense pride, took out his watch and prepared to act as timekeeper.

"Better take it easily first two, sir, and put in all you know for the last. A little hurricane in the third round is my advice."

Jack had an ecstatic ten minutes, the final round putting him in the seventh heaven of enjoyment.

"All I could make out was Acton's white arms mixed with Alabama's black ones, and the sand flying in all directions. Stunning isn't the word for it!"

As Acton and young Bourne pedalled leisurely home for roll call, Jack said—

"I think Jarvis' chance of collaring the Heavy for his place is a trifle 'rocky.'"

"I hope so."

"Crumbs! How Alabama does get home!"



CHAPTER XI

TODD PAYS THE BILL

Another youth had come back to St. Amory's with resolutions as fixed and steady, though more legitimate than Acton's. Augustus Vernon Robert Todd returned to school with pockets more scantily lined than ever from the parental source, with his mind constantly fixed on the conversation which he had had with his house-master on that awful concluding day last term, and his chin still thrust out valiantly. Gus's square chin meant an undeviating attention to serious study, and Gus, armed cap-a-pie, against all his old friends.

For Todd had taken his precautions. His watch—a gold one, "jewelled in numberless holes," as its owner pathetically remarked—had been left with the family jeweller for three bright golden sovereigns, an eight-and-six brass turnip, which went jolly well, although its tick was a trifle vigorous under Gus's pillow, and an agreement. This document, drawn up by himself, Gus regarded as a very masterpiece of business-like acumen. Gus could have his gold watch back again within the year by paying three sovereigns, and buying the brass turnip for half a sovereign, the profit accruing on this latter transaction being, as Gus explained proudly, the jeweller's percentage on the loan. The family jeweller had informed Gus casually that he couldn't keep a wife and growing family on such percentages, but to oblige, etc.

Todd received Mr. James Cotton blandly and politely, and Jim, in his heavy way, mistook this airiness for non-paying symptoms on Gus's part.

"Had a good time, old cock, during the holidays?"

"Beastly," said Gus.

"Governor rusty?"

"No end. Been making the will again, and leaving me out."

"Perry fiasco, eh?"

"Yes, and other things."

"Well, I hope you can pay up all you owe me, old chap."

"Oh yes!" said Gus. "I said I would keep my word, although you were so good as to have your doubts."

"All right, glad you can manage it."

"Here you are," said Gus, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing up his coins. "Three three for that rotten bet, and the other fifteen bob I owed you. It's all there."

Cotton opened his eyes.

"You said the governor was rusty, Gus?"

"So he was, beastly; but I can pay you all the same."

"Well," said Cotton, after a little awkward pause, "I don't want to clean you out quite, so pay half now and the rest next term. Would that suit you better, Gus?"

"Thanks, I don't mind," said Gus, airily. "Here's half, then."

Cotton left his friend's room considerably puzzled, but when he came next night with his books for his old jackal's attentions as before, he was more than puzzled, for Gus said—

"Can give you half an hour, Jim."

"We won't be able to screw up enough for Merishall in that time, old man."

"Then you'll have to do the rest yourself, Jim. I'm not going to piffle about any more."

"Oh, don't be an ass, Gus! I've heard that footle before," said Cotton, with his heavy selfishness.

"Not quite, for this time I mean what I say."

"Oh no, you don't!"

"Oh yes, I do!"

"You wouldn't leave a fellow in the lurch like this, after all I—"

"I was left in the lurch last term, Jim, dear, and I'd rather you had a taste of it this go. Do you remember when old Corker was savaging me before all the school!"

The ghost of a smile flitted over Cotton's lips as he said—

"Rather!"

"The entire school, from the meanest fag up to Carr, was laughing at me, and, by Jove! Jim, your laugh was the loudest and longest."

"It was your tips I was thinking of, and Corker's frothing through your list of names," said Cotton, apologetically.

"All right," said Todd, acidly. "If you had left me alone I wouldn't have wanted those tips, and as for my names, I did not christen myself. If you want half an hour to shake out your work roughly I'll do it, but I can't do more, Jim, honour bright."

"I don't want that!" said Cotton, angrily, gathering up his books.

"Am deucedly glad you don't. And here, Jim, is the other half of the money. Since I'm not obliging you in any way, why should you me?"

"You're logical, Todd, at any rate," said Jim, with half a sneer.

"Didn't know you could spot logic when you heard it, Cotton," said Gus, with an equal amount of acid, and yet good-naturedly too.

"I suppose I clean you out?"

"You do. I've got a shilling to look at when you've taken up that heap."

"Is that your last word?"

"It is, but there's no need to quarrel—we're as we were before I began to take your hire, Jim."

"Not quite," said Cotton, who was hit by Gus's decision. "I'll leave you to your odd shilling and your forsaken tips."

He stumped off to his own room, and called Todd pet names till bedtime. What made Cotton so angry was that, deep down in his own mind, he knew that Gus was about to do a sensible and a manly thing, and just because he himself was going to suffer by it he had not moral courage enough to speak out openly his better mind.

But Gus, smiling at Cotton's bad temper, took out his books, drew up a scheme for study, bolted his door, and commenced to work. He slacked off when the bell went half an hour before lights out, and spent the time left him in boring a hole in his solitary shilling. He then slipped it on his watch-guard, prepared boldly to face a term of ten weeks without a stiver.



CHAPTER XII

RAFFLES OF ROTHERHITHE

Twice a week, on half-holidays, Acton and Bourne ran over to the farm, to find the Coon waiting for them in the stable, smoking an enormous cigar as usual, and reading sporting papers on the corn-chest. Young Hill, the farmer's son, generally put in an appearance when the boxing was about over, and to Jack's utter disgust, plainly showed that he would rather that Jack was anywhere else than with Acton when the gloves had been laid aside. He seemed to have some business with Acton concerning which he evidently did not want Jack to hear a single syllable.

Jack did not quite see at first that he was one too many after the boxing was over, and that Hill, at any rate, did not mean there should be a fourth to the deliberations of himself, Acton, and the Coon. Jack, however, soon tumbled that he was de trop, and the minute young Hill came in Jack would stalk solemnly and formally out of the stable and kick up his heels in the farmyard until such time as Acton should be ready for the run to school.

Jack certainly did not like this cavalier treatment, but found it rather a bore pottering about the yard, "looking at the beastly ducks;" but Acton was so profusely apologetic when he did come out that Jack generally smoothed his ruffled plumes and pedalled home at peace with himself and all the world.

"The fact is, Jack," said Acton, "young Hill has arranged for me to have the stable for our practice, for old Hill himself was rather against it, and as he has a prejudice against St. Amory fellows generally, but especially when they're of the Junior School—some of your tribe scuttled his punt for him on the moat, didn't you?—I thought you would not mind humouring the man's amiabilities. The Coon and he talk rot—sporting rot—and it would only bore you to listen to it."

Jack said, "It does not matter in the least. I'd as soon look at the ducks as listen to Hill. It's a bit infra dig., though, that he should object."

As a matter of fact, young Hill received letters for Acton which dealt with many things, the burden of most of them being "betting," and the other sweet things of the sporting shop. Acton was, as you will have seen, not the very green innocent who would come to much harm in this lovely form of diversion.



About a fortnight after the visits to the Lodestone had commenced, the Coon brought down with him a long-legged, thin-faced, horsey-looking individual, who introduced himself to Bourne as Raffles of Rotherhithe, and who laid himself out to be excessively friendly to Jack. He took, evidently, quite a professional interest in the sparring, and told Acton that "his left was quite a colourable imitation of the Coon's."

"Not colourable, anyhow," said Acton, with a wink at Jack.

"What do you think, sir, of Alabama's 'blind hook'?"

Jack, who had not the remotest idea what a "blind hook" was, said it "was simply stunning."

"Exactly my idea, sir. I see you know above a bit about the noble art."

Raffles, as he would have said in his own special slang, worked the "friendly lay" so well upon Jack, that that young gentleman was captured to the last gun; you can do an awful lot of execution by deferring to the opinion of a young man of sixteen, or thereabouts, as to the merit of relying exclusively on the left.

When the sparring was over, Raffles shuffled out with Jack into the yard and whistled. A little yellow, ear-torn dog bustled out of some shed and trotted demurely by Mr. Raffles' right boot.

"See that dog, Mr. Bourne?"

"By the way, Raffles, how did you know my name was Bourne?" asked Jack.

"Mr. Acting mentioned that it was so. No offence, I hope, sir?"

"Oh no!" said Jack.

"Mr. Acting mentioned to me as how Warmint might amuse you."

"Warmint! What the deuce is that?"

"Why, the dawg."

"Well, it's a pretty ugly brute anyhow, Raffles."

"It is so; it's the colour—yellow is a mean colour. But he's a terror to go."

"Where?" said Jack, uncivilly; for the man's manner, a mixture of familiarity and servility, had begun to pall on Jack's taste.

"Why, there ain't a better, quicker, neater dawg in all London after the rats than Warmint. He holds the record south the Thames."

"Is there a record then for rat killing? How is it done?"

"Turn a sack o' long tails on to the floor and let the dawg among them. He works against time, of course."

"Have the rats any chance of getting away?"

"No fear."

"Ugh!" said Jack, looking at the mongrel with intense disgust.

"Is time for twenty—but I say, Mr. Bourne, if you like I'll bring a bag o' rats down, and you can see for yourself. While the other gentleman, Mr. Acting, is with the Coon, we can bring it off in the barn."

"Man alive, no!" said Jack, with another spasm of disgust; "but if you've any other plans, Raffles, of killing an hour or so whilst Hill makes speeches, trot 'em out. I'm sick of pottering round his yard like an idiot. Are you coming with the Coon again?"

"Pretty well every time. What do you say to a little game of billiards?"

"Where?" said Jack.

"Nice little 'ouse near 'ere, I know."

"No fear! That's clean against the rules. Besides, who wants to knock balls about with a sticky cue on a torn billiard cloth, where the whole place reeks of beer and stale tobacco? No, thanks!"

"Young gents used not to set so much store by rules when I was a lad."

"We've changed since then, Raffles," said Jack, drily.

"A little shooting?"

"What?"

"Sparrers?" suggested Raffles, off-hand.

"Rot!"

"Bunnies?"

"That's better, Raffles. If you can get me half an hour with Hill's rabbits, I'd risk that. Of course, there'd be a row if it was known. Acton won't inquire, I fancy, who's shooting?"

"Mr. Acton won't, Mr. Bourne; he's a gentleman."

"He's a monitor, though, Raffles, which is a different sort of animal."

Raffles of Rotherhithe did not appear to think that Acton's being a monitor was a clinching argument barring young Bourne's sport. Perhaps he had private reasons for his opinions. Anyhow, he glibly promised to have a breech-loader and a ferret for young Bourne on the morrow.

"And old Hill? They're his rabbits, you know."

"That will be all right. Take Dan Raffles' word for it."

"Now look here, Raffles; I'll give you sixpence for every rabbit I shoot, and I'll pay you for the cartridges. You'll keep all the rabbits, but you will lend me the gun."

"Very good, sir," said Raffles, smartly.

"And, Raffles," said Jack, eyeing over that individual with a curious mixture of amusement and dislike, "you needn't be too beastly friendly and chummy. I'm going to pay you for what you do, and don't fancy I'm going an inch further than I feel inclined. I'm paying the piper, and I'm going to choose all the tunes."

"Orl right," said Raffles, considerably taken aback by the ultimatum. "I'll not be friendlier than I can 'elp."

"Don't," said Jack.



CHAPTER XIII

"EASY IS THE DOWNWARD ROAD"

Aided by Raffles of Rotherhithe, young Bourne went royally through half the rules of the school. He called the tune to that extent. In the first place, one may believe that when he called in the aid of that horsey gentleman he had no further idea in his head than that of passing away those dull half-hours which Hill inflicted upon him.

But, like many a wiser man, young Bourne found it was easier to conjure up a spirit than to lay one, and, having once accepted the aid of Raffles, he found it beyond his power to dispense with it, despite his brave word. So, unheedful of his brother's advice, he not merely put his innocent feet into the stream of forbidden pleasures, but waded in whole-heartedly up to the chin.

Raffles, as promised, turned up on the next occasion provided with a ferret and a gun, and all difficulties were smoothed over with the farmer. Thus Jack Bourne took his post as the noble British sportsman just behind the Lodestone Moat, whilst Raffles, with his ferret, worked the bank, which was honey-combed with rabbit-holes. As the rabbits scurried out before the ferret, Jack blazed away noisily, and occasionally he had the pleasure of seeing a rabbit turning a somersault as it made its last bound. Certainly, Jack was not a dead shot, but when he contemplated the slain lying stark on the flanks of the bank, he felt the throaty joy of the slaughtering British schoolboy. He counted out to his worthy henchman four sixpences for the four slain with all the pride of the elephant-hunter paying his beaters yards of brass wire and calico. Raffles was properly grateful, of course.

Then, as their acquaintance progressed, there were little competitions between Jack and Raffles at artificial pigeon-shooting, Raffles having fixed up the apparatus, and Jack, from the twenty-five yards' mark, occasionally winged his clay pigeon. It was very good sport in Jack's opinion. Further, that little "'ouse" which Raffles knew of also soon made the acquaintance of Jack, and he and Raffles on rainy afternoons snatched the fearful joys of hasty "hundreds up" or "fifties up," just as time allowed, Jack did not find the cue quite so sticky nor the charms of stale tobacco quite so unlovely as he had expected. The landlord, who marked for the two worthies, told our young gentleman that he had "a pretty 'and for the long jenny," and Jack felt he could not do less than order a little of his favourite beverage in return for his good opinion. And thus as ever. Under the expert tuition of Raffles, Jack became a little more of a "man" every day, and a little less of a decent fellow. He smoked, he could call for a "small port" in quite an off-hand fashion, he had played "shell out" with loafers at the little "'ouse," and he began to know a little more of betting, "gee-gees," and other kindred matters, than an average young fellow should know.

"Facilis descensus Averni"—you know the old tag.

By insensible gradations Jack Bourne found himself with a ruin of broken rules behind him, and still tied to the chariot-wheels of Raffles, who dragged him wherever he would. Jack's pockets, too, began to feel the drain, but luckily—or unluckily, if you look at it properly—he was rather flush this term, and as he had more than the usual allowance, he was not so short as he might have been.

One thing bothered Jack, though he did not exactly put the idea that worried him into words. There was not much fun really in this shooting, billiards, etc., since Jack broke all the rules alone. Now, if Poulett, or Wilson, or Rogers, or Grim had been with him, that would have been jolly. Besides that, since he could give his old chums so precious little of his time, and had perforce to head them off when they offered to bear him company on half-holidays, they called him many choice names.

"I hear they sample all the public-houses between here and Westcote," said Rogers. "Look what a dissipated eye Mr. Bourne's got."

"Yours will soon be groggy, Rogers, my pet, though you are cock of your beastly water-lilies." After Sharpe's memorable poem, Biffen's house were always "water-lillies" to the rest of St. Amory's.

"Ah?" said Poulett, "Jack carries Acton's notes to some yellow-haired dolly down at Westcote. She gives him milk whilst he's waiting for the answer."

"Go and poach eggs, Poulett."

"Don't do anything too mean, dear Jack, so that you'll make us blush for you."

"Keep Acton out of mischief, Jack, remember he's only a poor forsaken monitor. Show him the ropes."

"Good-bye, you chaps," said Jack, hopping on his bike, "here's Acton coming." The two would then pedal the well-known road to the Lodestone, and the elevating company of the Coon and Raffles.

"Don't let Raffles bore you, young 'un," said Acton to Bourne one day as the owner of Warmint hove in sight. "Make him useful, but keep out of mischief."

Jack, had he thought about the matter, might have reasonably asked Acton how he could make Raffles useful and yet keep out of mischief, but the Coon appearing at the stable-door in all the glory of a fur-lined coat, with a foot of fur round the collar and half a foot round the sleeves, and a bigger cigar than ever in his mouth, drove Jack's thoughts in another direction.

Acton had really made marvellous progress under the Coon's coaching, and as Jack watched the usual concluding three rounds, he was puzzled in his own mind as to who could hold a candle up to his friend. This particular afternoon was to be the final appearance of the Coon, who was going to figure shortly as principal in some contest at Covent Garden, and Jack determined to miss no opportunity of catching the last wrinkles of the great professor's skill. Therefore, instead of sallying out as usual halfway through the performance in the stable, he sat on the corn-chest until Hill came in.

"Good-bye, Coon! Hope you come off all right in your turn-up."

"Good-bye, sir! Hope I'll train you when you start for the Heavy."

"I'll give you the chance if I do. Come along, Raffles."

When they were outside, Jack said, "By the way, Raffles, this will be your last appearance down here too, eh?"

"I suppose so," said Raffles, "unless you make it worth my while to come down entirely on your account."

"H'm, no," said Jack. "I'm deucedly short now, and when I've paid for the last fifty cartridges, and the last rabbits, I'll be still shorter."

"Let it stand over, sir."

"No," said Jack. "I've had the fun, and I'll pay, of course. Let's have a last dozen pigeons at the twenty-five yards' rise."

Secretly, Jack was rather glad that Raffles' role of entertainer was finished; for his stolen pleasures had lost a considerable part of their original sweetness, and their cost was heavy. It would be quite a change, too, to get back to Grim and the others, and be the ordinary common sort of fellow again.

Raffles went and wound up the throwing apparatus, and set the clay pigeon on the rest. Jack took his breech-loader, raised it to the shoulder, and said, "Ready!" Raffles pulled the string, the dummy bird rocketed up, and Jack pressed the trigger.

For one second afterwards Jack did not rightly know what had happened. There was a blinding flash before his eyes, a something tore off his cap, and something stung his cheeks like spirts of scalding water. His left hand felt numb and dead. This all happened in the fraction of a moment.

Jack looked at the gun in stupid wonder. The breech was clean blown out! With a groan of horror, he dropped the gun. He realized that he had escaped death by a miracle. He put up his right hand to his face, which felt on fire, and stared blankly at Raffles.

That worthy was scared out of his wits; but when he saw Jack was more or less alive, he managed to jerk out—

"That was a squeak, young shaver! Hurt any?"

"Don't know," said Jack, blankly.

Raffles anxiously examined him, and it was with no end of relief he said—

"Clean bill, sir—bar those flecks of powder on your cheek. Considering—well you're—we're—lucky."

"Rather," said Jack, dizzily. "That's my cap isn't it?"

Yards away was Jack's cap, and Raffles brought it. His face was white—white above a bit. There was a clean cut through the brim, and a neat, straightforward tear-out of an inch or so of the front just above the crest.

"Well," said Raffles, looking narrowly at that business-like damage. "All I can say is you're lucky."

"Lucky! Yes," said Jack. "I suppose I'd better go. Let's have the thing. An inch lower down, and I'd have had that piece of barrel in my head—or through it. It wants thinking over."

"I suppose, sir, you're going to——"

"Oh, the cash you mean! Eh?"

"Yes, that was my meaning."

"Your cash will be all right, man. Come down for it on Friday—can't you?"

"How if I can't, young shaver?" said Raffles of Rotherhithe.

"Then do without it! Anyhow, I'm going now—I'm too sick."

"All right," said Raffles, sulkily. "On Thursday."

Jack, without another word, stumbled across the fields into the farmyard, and luckily found Acton ready for home. He shakily dropped into his saddle; and, with a mind pretty busy, he tailed wearily after Acton to St. Amory's.



CHAPTER XIV

IN THE STABLE

After tea that day Acton went down to the farm solus, not having, as you will presently see, any need of Jack's company, even if Bourne had felt any desire to accompany him, which he didn't.

The monitor tinkled his bell, and in answer to the ringing, Raffles lounged out of a barn, the inseparable Warmint trotting at his master's heels.

"Suppose we'd better go into the stable, Raffles."

The odour of the Coon's afternoon cigar still hung about the place, and the stable was half dark, but as Acton had an idea that his conversation with Raffles would not be a short one, and the night was rather cold, they went in.

"Fire away, Raffles. Start at the beginning."

"Very good, sir," said Raffles, seating himself on the corn-chest. "Agreeable to instructions received from Mr. Acting——"

"Acton," suggested that gentleman.

"Acting—I said so, didn't I? Very well! Agreeable to instructions received from you, sir, I prepared——"

"Don't be so beastly legal, you ass!"

"Let a cove tell 'is tale 'is own way, sir. We'll get on better like that. As I was going to say, following your tip, I prepared to show that young shaver, Bourne, a few things which as you told me he ought not to know of, and to do a few things which you told me he ought not to do—in fact, to put him on the way of breakin' every blessed rule that that beak of your school 'as drawn up for the guidance of the youth and the beauties under 'is 'and. What's the name of the beak, sir?"

"Oh, Moore!" said Acton, impatiently.

"The young shaver spoke of 'im different."

"Corker, perhaps," said Acton.

"That's it," continued Raffles. "Well, Corker 'asn't got a thoroughbred greenhorn in Bourne, Mr. Acting."

"No. Young Bourne's head is on his shoulders, more or less. Get on."

"Well, we opened the ball with a little bunny-shootin', for he couldn't stand Warmint's workin' among the rats. He shoots moderate straight, so I doctored his cartridges, or he'd have cleared out the bank. Not more than two in the half-dozen, sir. And then he couldn't understand it. What might Corker say to the bunnies, sir?"

"Oh, a thrashing, perhaps, and a stringing up for the rest of the term."

"We went to the Blue Cow on wet days. Billiards, beer, and 'baccy, Mr. Acting, was the true bill there. What's the law on those fancy articles?"

"A thrashing for first course, and et ceteras which you wouldn't understand."

"Well, he's earned 'em. We couldn't do any betting on the horses, since the Lincolnshire Handicap is not in sight yet, but he fluttered a little on the Sporting Club matches; and he was lucky—more than ordinary."

"You didn't wing him there, then?"

"Nothing to speak of. He may have dropped half a sov. altogether, but I doubt it."

"Then, Raffles, you're a fool. Do you think I brought you down here to be moral instructor to young Bourne, you grey old badger? Couldn't you bag an innocent of sixteen or so? Besides, what the deuce do you mean by tipping me the wink as Bourne and I used to get on our 'bikes'? You always did it, and I thought you were winding up the youngster hand over hand."

"Them winks," said Raffles, diplomatically, "was meant to show that I was moving—moving slow, but sure. You've observed, Mr. Acting, yourself, as 'ow the young shaver had a head on 'is shoulders."

"Yes, but I didn't bargain for yours being off your shoulders."

"Well, what with bunnies, cartridges, and the Blue Cow, and the other extras, he is about cleaned out now."

"Cleaned out!" said Acton, with intense irritation. "That's not what I wanted. I told you distinctly that I must have him five pounds deep at the least. How can I engineer my schemes if my sharpers can't cut? You'll look blue, Raffles, when I settle your account, take my word for it."

"Not quite so quick off the mark, Mr. Acting. What do you value this piece of ironmongery at?"

Raffles fished up the gun which had burst in Jack's hands that afternoon from behind the corn-chest, and held it up to the light.

"A burst gun!" said Acton. "It's worth throwing away; no more."

"It was worth this morning, say fifteen bob, before Bourne blew its ribs out."

"Jove!" said Acton, "let me handle the thing." He looked at the torn breech, and whistled with involuntary horror. "Much of a squeak, Raffles?"

"Touch and go, sir. He'll never be nearer pegging out than he was this afternoon; for he scraped the gates of his family buryin'-place, in a manner of speakin.' It went clean through his hat—rim and crown."

"Did he know his luck?"

"Nobody better."

"He looked more than average queer as we trotted home. I thought he was digesting your little bill, Raffles."

"No; he only owes me a matter of shillin's. But I could say that I ticketed the gun at L5 or L6, when the old shooter wasn't worth——"

"Fifteen bob," said Acton, looking at the worn barrel.

"See where I have—where you have—the youngster tied neatly up? He owes me—or you—seven, eight, nine pounds, or any fancy figure I—or you— like to mention for that old piece of iron there."

"Raffles, we're in luck! Luck has served me better than all your downy work."

"It has," said that bright specimen of humanity, regretfully. "I can't pretend that I'd any hand in the blowing out of them blessed barrels."

"All right, Raffles; don't weep. You'd have done it, of course, if you'd thought about it," said Acton, with a curious sneer; "but this is my plan—as far as you're concerned. When young Bourne comes, you're to ask for L7 10s. And you're to be an adamantine Jew; you're to have the money instanter, or there'll be a rumpus."

"I twig. Make it seven guineas, though," said Raffles, generously.

"Seven guineas! So be it. You can suggest that, unless you get the cash, you would see Moore."

"Corker, D.D.? I'm on."

"Or Bourne, senior."

"The shaver's brother. I'm tumbling to the dodge."

"Bourne will curl up at this."

"Naturally."

"But you're still the blood-thirsty Jew."

"Moses, and Aaron, and the rest."

"You'll suggest at last that I be tackled for a loan."

"And you'll lend it him!" said Raffles, with an unspeakable leer.

"The business wants careful handling, remember. Young Bourne will think twice about borrowing, and, perhaps, if he could keep me out of it, would stand your racket, or Corker's either. So drive him lightly."

"You'll see him on the borrowing tack to-morrow, Mr. Acting."

"And the rest is my business."

"Where do I come in?"

"You can cleave to the seven guineas—if you earn 'em."

"Seven pounds ten, Mr. Acting."

"Seven pound seven, Mr. Raffles. Your own proposal."

"Orl right," said Raffles, resignedly. "I think I know them ropes."

"Good!" said Acton. "Then you can scuttle now to Rotherhithe, or where the deuce else you like. I'm off."

Acton wheeled out his bicycle and melted into the gathering dark, and his jackal lurched off to the station and reached Rotherhithe to dream of his seven guineas which he was going to get. Raffles felt sure of those seven guineas.



CHAPTER XV

GRIM'S SUSPICIONS

As I said before, Jack Bourne, after the first bloom of his forbidden pleasures had worn off, rather repented of the Raffles' connection, and would gladly have exchanged it for the old, easy, open, and above-board society of his chums. Grim, Rogers, Wilson, Poulett, etc., were, on their side, rather sore at Jack's continual desertion of them and their causes. They had just seen him pedalling easily after Acton, throwing them a rather mirthless joke as he ran past, and they had, naturally, held a council to consider matters.

"Wherever can the beggar get to is what I want to know," said Wilson.

"Can any one tell me what he wants with Acton?" said Grim.

"I think that it's Acton that wants him," said Rogers. "Come to think of it, Grimmy, you're Acton's man. Why doesn't he lag you?"

"Grimmy's not to be trusted. He'd read the billet-doux"

"I don't believe that there's any notes, Wilson," said Grim, impressively, "in this business. It's something deeper than that."

"What's the mystery, Mr. Grimmy Sherlock Combs?"

"Poachin'," said Grim, solemnly.

"What!" exclaimed the other, with breathless interest.

"Dunno, quite," said Grim; "but that young ass dropped a cartridge from his pocket the other day."

"There's nothing to poach here, Grimmy."

"There's Pettigrew's pheasants," said Grim, mysteriously.

"But you don't shoot them in March."

"We don't, Poulett, but poachers do."

"Tisn't likely that Acton——"

"Well, don't know," said Rogers, reflectively. "He's lived so long in France, where they shoot robins and nightingales, that he'll not know."

"But Bourne would."

"That's why he looks so blue. He does know, and it preys on his mind."

W.E. Grim's pathetic picture of young Bourne turned out-of-season poacher against his will by an inexorable Acton didn't seem quite to fill the bill.

"Grimmy, you're an absolute idiot. That poachin' dodge won't do. Perhaps, after all, they only bike round generally."

"What about that cartridge?" said Grim.

The little knot of cronies discussed the matter for a good half-hour, Grim holding tenaciously to a poaching theory—pheasants or rabbits—the others scouting the idea as next door to the absurd.

"Look here," said Wilson, brilliantly, "we'll track the pair to their earth to-morrow. If they're after birds or bunnies I'll stand tea all round at Hooper's."

"All right," said Grim. "I'd like to know about that cartridge."

On the morrow the suspicious band quietly trotted out after dinner from St. Amory's, dressed ostensibly for a run down Westcote way. Once down the hill they lay well out in the fields, keeping a sharp watch through the hedges for their quarry. When they saw two well-known figures, feet on the rest, coasting merrily down and head for Westcote, they all drew a long breath and girded up their loins for the race.

"With luck and the short cuts," said Grim, stepping out, "we may just see 'em sneak into Pettigrew's woods."

"And we've got a mile in hand too," said Wilson.

The cronies ran tightly together, nursing their wind and keeping well screened from eyeshot from the road, not that either Acton, or Bourne dreamed that their afternoon's run was being dogged by anyone. From their numerous short cuts the scouts were necessarily out of view from the road, but they marked the two cyclists from point to point and themselves headed up hill and down dale straight for Westcote. They felt pretty well winded by now, as they stood panting in a breezy spinney, watching for the appearance of their quarry on the brown road beneath them.

"There they are," gasped Wilson, pretty blown.

"There's only one," said Rogers, "and it is that young owl Bourne, too. He's shed Acton."

"Perhaps he's punctured," suggested Grim; "anyhow, we hang on to Jack."

Rather puzzled at the non-appearance of Acton, they kept the first-comer well in view as he pedalled hard for Westcote.

"That's Jack right enough," said Rogers; "and we'll have to leg it or he'll slip us. Jove! he's captured a wheel with a vengeance. Hear it hum."

The quartette strung down the hill full pelt, but when they got to the bottom the cyclist was a good hundred yards ahead. His pursuers came to a dead stop.

"May as well go home now," said Grim, in great disgust. "We can't dog him now, and anyhow it isn't Pettigrew's pheasants that Jack's after: he's gone past the woods. What a bone-shaker he's captured. Hear the spokes rattlin'."

"Not so quick, Grimmy. He's wheeling into that little Westcote inn. We'll run him down now."

The rider had indeed dismounted nearly a quarter mile ahead, and instantly the Amorians were stringing down the road again. Before the door of the little inn they found a bicycle propped up drunkenly against the wall, and the Amorians, pumped though they were, had breath enough left to explode over Bourne's machine. It was a "solid" of pre-diamond-frame days, guiltless of enamel or plating, and handle-bars of width generous enough for a Dutch herring-boat's bow.

"There's no false pride about Jack," said Grim, gloating over the weird mount. "Whatever is he doing in here?"

"Liquid refreshment," said Rogers between a gulp and a gasp. "Oh, Jack, was it for this and this that you gave us the go-by?"

"This place doesn't seem Jack's form somehow," said Wilson, looking doubtfully up and down the little inn.

"Ring him out, Wilson," said Grim. "His little game's up now, and we can rag him for an age over this."

"Let's try his mount first, Grimmy." Rogers wheeled out the machine and, after hopping twenty yards, "found" the saddle. To mount it was one thing, to ride it was evidently a matter of liberal education beyond the attainments of a junior Amorian, for, as Rogers attempted a modest sweep round, the machine collapsed, and he was sprawling on his back, the bicycle rattling about his ears. Then—it seemed automatically to the gasping Amorians—a sturdy youth rushed out of the inn flourishing a half-emptied glass of beer in one hand, and he seized the struggling Rogers by the scruff of the neck with the other. Rogers was unceremoniously jerked to his feet before he quite realized what it was all about. One or two men lounged out of the inn, and surveyed the scene dispassionately, and the landlord pushed his way forward.

"Wot's the matter?"

"Matter!" gasped the youth, tightening his hold on Rogers' collar and waving his glass dramatically.

"This young shaver was going to nick my bike. I seen him."

"I wasn't, you fool——" began Rogers, who did not like the man's knuckles in his neck.

"Fool am I, you little ugly thief? Worn't you a-scorchin' down the road w'it? I see you."

The other Amorians curled up with laughter at the way things were mixing up, and at the last exquisite joke.

"Jove, Rogers, to think you meant to steal it!" burbled Poulett.

"Leave loose of my collar, you idiot," said Rogers, squirming in the man's grasp; "I tell you it's all a mistake."

"That's all my h'eye. I see you sneak it, and it'll be a month for you. Sneaking bikes is awful! Mistake be blowed."

"Oh! explain, some of you," said Rogers, frantically, "before I—Grim, tell the lunatic."

The Amorians were beyond mere laughter now, but the landlord had wit enough to see that there was some mistake somewhere, and he finally persuaded the owner of the bicycle to moderate his attentions to the exasperated Rogers. Grim recovered sufficiently to lift some of the suspicions from that ill-used youth.

"We thought you were a friend of ours—back view only and at a distance, you know—but you're not very like him, really, in the face. His name's Bourne."

"Mine's 'Arris," said the bicycle owner, angrily.

"A very nice name, too;" said Grim, soothingly. "You'd better see what's the damage to the machine for we must be trotting back to St. Amory's."

Mr. Harris spun the pedals and tried the wheels.

"It's shook up considerable, that's wot it is."

"All right," said Grim, hastily. "Here's a shilling. Give it a drink of beer."

This was a wretched joke really, but it brightened the face of Mr. Harris considerably when he heard it, and the loafers departed from their dispassionate attitude, and became quite friendly. The landlord went in to draw beer.

A minute afterwards the quartette was heading back for St. Amory's as hard as it could go, and whenever a halt was called for breath, three of the cronies collapsed on the earth, and howled at Rogers, who could not see the joke.

Over a quiet little tea, after call-over, at Hooper's Rogers explained fully his views.

"No, I'm not going to do any more detective work. We missed Acton and Bourne beautifully; they don't go to Westcote, and Grimmy's idea about poachin' 's rotten. He may be Acton's messenger-boy or the rider of a decent pneumatic, but I'm going to let him go his own way."

When, afterwards, they rubbed embrocation into their wearied limbs, the rest agreed with Rogers.

"But, yet," said Grim, "I'd like to know about that cartridge too."



CHAPTER XVI

TODD "FINDS HIMSELF"

Todd had found out all the unpainted beauty of public-school life without pocket money, and discovered that existence was just possible. A shilling on your watchchain and a shilling's worth of stamps admit of no luxuries, and Todd, through his impecuniosity, even if he had wished, could not have done anything else but work. Taylor's house was supposed to provide a fairly liberal table, but Gus really did miss his after-dinner cup of coffee at Hooper's, and not many fellows would regard long letters to and from home as being the summum bonum of the week. Yet Todd had come to regard his mamma's letters—four-paged gossip about his sisters, his brothers, the horses, and the dogs—in the light of luxuries.

Consequently, with nothing to distract him, Gus really did work. His standing in the Fifth sensibly increased. Merishall did not make elaborate jokes on his Latin, and Corker not once let fall the warning eye-glass preparatory to savaging him for his Greek, formerly called so by a courtesy title. There was a world of difference between his old haphazard slip-slop and his present honest attempts in the ways of scholarship.

The half-holidays, though, dragged dreadfully, for Gus was one of those fellows who have no natural aptitude for games, and he had a theory that he did not care a straw about them either. Being in the Fifth he could, of course, suit himself what he did with his halfers. Sometimes, in very desperation, he would lounge down to the Acres, and wander forlornly from goal post to goal post, and sometimes he spent the afternoon amusing himself—with Lancaster's express approval—in the laboratory, and so effaced previous bad impressions from the science master's mind. Gus, however, was honest enough with himself to own that he would rather have had an aimless stroll with Cotton than any amount of footer-gazing or "bottle-washing." But Cotton had definitely thrown him over; they did not nod when they met, and Jim was very careful not to see Gus walking in solitary state in the roadway.

Todd was moodily looking out of his window one halfer, and discontentedly wondering how he could exist till he should switch on the electric for the evening grind, when a not unfamiliar knock sounded on the door. Gus faced round wonderingly, and opened the door. The house-master dropped into the chair which Todd hastily drew out for him.

"I thought I should catch you in, Todd. Nothing on, have you?"

"No, sir," said Todd.

"No particular engagement for this afternoon."

"No, sir," said Gus, with a half sigh merging into a half smile, "though I did think of going down to the Acres, and looking at the footer."

"I'm glad of that," said Taylor, as though he really were. "I promised to referee this afternoon—Hargon's v. Sharpe's—but I want to cry off now. Neuralgia, Todd, is simply torturing me this moment, and refereeing wouldn't improve it. Do you mind taking my place? Do please say 'No' if you'd rather not."

"Very sorry, sir," said Gus, referring to the neuralgia. "Referee!"

"Yes," said Taylor, with a ghost of a smile at Todd's astonishment.

"Certainly, I will, sir—I mean I'll take your place. But the fellows will gasp when I step into the arena."

"Thank you, Todd. Why will they gasp?"

"Footer isn't my line, sir."

"Hasn't been, Todd. Anyhow, they'll be delighted when you whistle them up."

"I hope they'll be delighted when I've finished, sir," said Gus, doubtfully.

"One side won't, of course," said Taylor, cheerfully. "That is natural, and the usual thing. Do you know, I never played football, but I like refereeing immensely. Positive it's the best thing after playing, and I know that a really first-class referee is a very rare fowl. Of course it's the off-side rule and, etc."

Taylor delivered himself of a little homily on the subject of refereeing. He was enthusiastic almost to the point of forgetting his neuralgia, and Todd got quite interested in the theme so earnestly handled. He had not thought there was much fun in it until the house-master unfolded its possibilities, but he took over the whistle fairly sanguine.

"I'll do my best, sir," said Gus, in conclusion; "and if they stone me off the Acres——"

"I'll bury my reputation as a prophet under the missiles."

In one thing Todd was certainly right. When he found Hargon's v. Sharpe's pitch and told the assembled twenty-two—rather diffidently, I must own—that he was the deputy referee, they did gasp.

"Show us your whistle, Gus," said Higgins, Hargon's captain, doubtfully.

Gus held it up, with a genial and childlike smile.

"Got the rules in your pocket, too, I suppose."

"I have," said Todd—"for reference. But I know now, Higgins, that goal-keepers cannot take more than two steps with the ball, and——"

Sharpe's lot guffawed at Todd's neat little thrust at Higgins's little failing as a goal-keeper.

"But don't you worry, Hig; I'll see you through all right. Three-quarter each way, I suppose?"

Todd gave his whole mind to the refereeing, and soon warmed to business. He found that there was heaps more fun in it than he had bargained for, and as he was a sharp, quick, and clever youth he came out of the ordeal with flying colours. He made mistakes, naturally, but momentous issues depended on none of them, and he felt he had not done so badly when Higgins, at half-time, spoke to him as one in authority to another. But Palmer, the captain of Sharpe's lot—the beaten side—put the coping stone to a pleasant afternoon by asking Gus to referee for them against Merishall's. Gus walked off the field a happy man.

From that afternoon Todd had no excuse for loafing away any halfer. His services as referee were in demand, not merely as a matter of utility, but of preference. Taylor, who had watched rather anxiously Todd's progress, smiled easily at the success of his understudy.

"I say," said Bourne to me, "what's come over Todd? Blessed if that usual ass didn't handle the Fifth v. Sixth to-day simply beautifully. When you're lynched, Gus will fill your shoes completely. Talks so-so, too. Who's improving him?"

I acted on Phil's advice, and Todd and I parcelled out the outstanding fixtures between us. Then Todd became one of the best-known fellows in the school, and strolled up the hill with Worcester, Acton, Vercoe, and other heroes as to the manner born. The old, lazy, shallow, shifty, shiftless Gus was drifting into the background every day.

Then Todd gave us a final shock. I was hurrying down the High when a constable asked me if I could tell him "where a young gentleman named Todd lived."

"I'm passing by his house," said I, more than a trifle puzzled as to what the police might want with Gus. "Hope it isn't house-breaking, constable?"

"No, sir," said he, laughing. "It is a matter of ice-breakin'."

I expect I looked mystified.

"Mr. Todd, sir, fished out of the water just below the Low Locks a common ordinary drunk, Robins—a bargee. That was yesterday afternoon, and this morning the superintendent sends me to see how he is."

I looked more blankly ignorant than before.

"He's kept it dark, I see, sir. There isn't a bigger fool alive than Robins when he's drunk—which he mostly—what is—and he acted yesterday up to the usual form of drunks. He would go on the ice just below the locks, when it would hardly bear a sparrer, let alone a drunk Robin, and he naturally goes under before he'd gone a dozen yards. Mr. Todd went for him without, I fancy, considering the risks. He broke the ice up to that forsaken Robins, and waded in after him. When we got there he was up to his neck in water, and he'd got the fool by the collar; then we pulled 'em both out. Mind, up to his chin in that frozen water! We thought Robins was a goner from cold when we landed 'im, and asked Mr. Todd's name as bein' likely to be required at the inquest. But, bless you, sir, Robins pulled through all right; that sort generally does."

"Was there any one to help Todd, when he went for the fellow?"

"No, sir; he just waded in and took his chance. I wouldn't—at least not for an ord'nary drunk. Mr. Todd just ran home as he was: said the sprint would warm him to rights. How is he?"

"Got a vile cold; he was barking pretty well all chapel."

"And Robins," said the policeman, in disgust, "doesn't own up to a snuffle. This Mr. Todd's house, sir?"

"Yes. I'd just ask to see Mr. Taylor, the house-master, first. I fancy he'll be pleased to see you."

The constable's plain, unvarnished tale gave the Rev. E. Taylor as pleasant a ten minutes as he had enjoyed for some time, and he passed on the worthy man to the butler with instructions as to "something hot." Then he rapped on Todd's door.

Decidedly the ship Agustus Vernon Robert Todd "had found herself."



CHAPTER XVII

RAFFLES' BILL

It was with hearty thankfulness at the idea of being finally rid of Raffles that Jack walked over to the "Lodestone" by himself on the Thursday, jingling his last few shillings in his pockets. Raffles was waiting for him in the stables, and he was very friendly and familiar, which always annoyed Jack immensely.

"Glad you're in time, sir, and to 'ear the dibs a-rattlin' in your pockets."

"Because they'll rattle in yours, soon, I suppose. I make out I owe you about ten shillings, Raffles."

"'Ow do you make that out, Mr. Bourne?"

"Rabbits, cartridges, and dummy pigeons. I'm about right, I fancy?"

"Right as far as they go."

"As far as they go, of course—not farther. Then here you are."

"And the gun," said Raffles, calmly, looking into vacancy, and not seeing Jack's coins—"leastwise, wot was a gun."

"Am I to pay for that filthy article?" said Jack, angrily. "Why, it nearly blew my brains out!"

"'As'e to pay for that breech-loader gun?" said Raffles, laughing softly as at some good joke. "Why, of course you have."

"My opinion is, Raffles, that that gun was rotten. It wasn't worth a sovereign. I don't believe it was ever fit to shoot with, now."

"Of course, now," said Raffles, with a sneer. "Now, when you've got to pay for it."

"I don't know so much about 'have got to pay for it' at all. That grin of yours doesn't improve your looks, Raffles," said Jack, who was rather nettled by Raffles' sneer.

"Well, my bantam cock," said Raffles, savagely, "I only 'opes as this 'ere bill won't spoil yours. And let me tell you, young shaver, I want the money."

Jack calmly took the piece of note-paper which Raffles hurriedly fished out of his pocket, and flourished dramatically before Bourne. There was a touching simplicity about Raffles' bill-making that would in ordinary times have made Jack split with laughter, but, naturally, at the present time he did not feel in a very jovial frame of mind. Hence he read through the farrago with only one very strong desire—to kick Raffles neck and crop out of the stable. This was the bill:—

Mr. burn owes me daniel raffles this money.

To bunneys at sixpence each... 2 0 To 50 cartrigges...... 6 6 To pidgins......... 1 6 1 gunn breech loder...... L7 0 0 totel L7 10 0

"Now, Raffles," said Jack, in a white heat, "what do you mean by this rotten foolery?"

"There's no foolery about it," said Raffles, sulkily. "That's my bill."

"Why, you unspeakable rascal, did you fancy I'd pay it?"

"I did, and I do."

Something in the fellow's tone made Jack a trifle uneasy, and he considered within himself for a moment what he had better do. That the rascal had made up his mind to be nasty was evident, and when Jack thought that the gun, poor as it was, was destroyed, though through no fault of his own, he thought perhaps he might give his old jackal something as a solatium.

"All right, Raffles! I'll pay you for what I owe you now, and I'll give you a sovereign for the gun. I'll send you that in a day or two. I've no more money with me now."

"That ain't the bill. I want this 'ere bill paid."

"'This 'ere bill' is sheer rot!" retorted Jack.

"Rot or not, it's what I want from you. You pay up that seven odd, or it will be the worse for you. What is seven odd to a young gent like you? Aren't you all millionaires at St. Amory's?"

"Not by a long chalk."

"Well, I don't want to be unpleasant, my buck, but if you won't pay over I'll show you up."

"Show me up, you beast—what do you mean?"

"I'll write to Corker and blow the gaff."

"If you did that," said Bourne, grimly, "I'd kill you first day I could do it."



"Or I'd write to your brother."

"And he'd do it now, you skunk!"

"No names, young gent. That won't pay my bill. You don't seem to imagine I mean what I say."

"No, I don't, for you wouldn't be any nearer getting the money."

"But then you say you aren't going to pay anyhow, so I may as well touch you up a bit. You've most every time told me not to be so beastly friendly, and I ain't going to be. I'm going to have the seven ten or show you up. That's straight."

"Show me up," repeated Jack, blankly. "You miserable blackmailer!" Bourne felt then the beautiful feelings of being in the grasp of a low-bred cad who could play with him as a cat with a mouse. He sat staring in front of him livid with rage, and Raffles, who was watching him covertly, and with no small anxiety, could see he was digesting the whole situation. Jack would indeed then and there have let Raffles do his worst, and would have stood the racket from Corker—and his brother—rather than be blackmailed by the villain by his side, but he said hopelessly to himself, "How can I do it without bringing Acton into it? When this comes out all his training with the Coon must come out too; perhaps he'll lose his monitorship for not keeping his hand on me, and Phil's done him a bad enough turn already. I can't round on him. Heavens! I can't do that."

This reads rather pitiful, doesn't it, under the circumstances?

Jack at the end of his resources tried a desperate bluff.

"I'll put Acton on your track, my beauty, and perhaps he'll make you see—or feel—reason."

"That game's no good, young shaver. I don't want to see Mr. Acting no more than you want to tell him of your little blow-outs. Look here, are you going to pay? Yes or no?"

"I haven't got the money," said Jack, at his wits' end.

"Ho! that's very likely," said Raffles, with a sneer; "anyhow, you could mighty soon get it if you wanted to."

"How?"

"Why, borrow it, of course. Ask your chum, Mr. Acting. He 'as money. No end of brass, the Coon says."

"I can't do that," said Jack, in utter despair.

"Orl right," said Raffles, seeing his shot had told. "I see you ain't got the money on you now, and I don't want to be too 'ard on you. I'll give you a chance. I'll give you till Saturday to turn it over. My advice is to borrow from Mr. Acting. He'll lend it you, I should think; anyhow, I can't stand shilly-shallying here all night, no more than I can stand the loss of that grand gun, so I'm off. Have the money by Saturday at three, or I blow the gaff and you can be hung up or cut up for all I care. I'm not going to be more beastly friendly nor more chummy than that."

Raffles lurched off with a savage leer, and Jack staggered back to St. Amory's.

Jack's life was a burden to him for the next few hours, his head nearly split with the hatching of impossible plans with loopholes to escape the weasel on his track, but the end was as Acton had foreseen. Acton got a note through Grim.

"DEAR ACTON, "Could you give me ten minutes in your study to-night?—Yours, "J. BOURNE."

"DEAR BOURNE, "Twenty, if you like.—Yours, "J. ACTON."

Jack went, and when Acton put him into the easy-chair and noticed his white, fagged face, he felt genuinely sorry for him.

"You look seedy, young 'un."

"I hope I don't look as seedy as I feel, that's all."

"What's the matter?"

Jack boggled over what he'd come to say, but finally blurted out: "Acton, would you lend me seven pounds? I'm in a hole, the deuce of a hole; in fact, I'm pretty well hopelessly stumped. I'll tell you why if you ask me, but I hope you won't. I've been an ass, but I've collared some awful luck, and I'm not quite the black sheep I seem. I don't want to ask Phil—in fact, I couldn't, simply couldn't ask him for this. I'll pay you back beginning of next term if I can raise as much, and if not, as much as I can then, and the rest later."

"Oh, you're straight enough, young 'un, and I'll lend you the money," said Acton.

Jack blubbed in his thanks, for he was really run down.

"Keep up your pecker, Bourne. Borrowing isn't a crime, quite. When do you want the cash?"

"By to-morrow, please," said Jack.

"Call in for it, then, before afternoon school, and you can pay me back as you say. I suppose the sharks have got hold of you."

"Yes," said Jack, with perfect truth, though he only knew of one, and he went to bed that night blessing Acton. His gorge rose when he thought of his fleecing, and at this he almost blubbed with rage as he blubbed with gratitude to Acton.

That interesting Shylock, Raffles, was at the farm confidently waiting young Bourne and his coins, and when he saw the young innocent bowling furiously down the road, he sighed with satisfaction. His dream was true.

"Write out the receipt."

"I've already done it, Mr. Bourne."

"Then here's your blackmail."

"Correct to the figure, sir, and I think it's a settle, nice and comfortable for all parties."

"If it's any comfort for you to know you're an utter blackguard you can hear it. A fellow like you isn't on the same level as your filthy mongrel."

"I never said we was," murmured Raffles, as he shuffled away.



CHAPTER XVIII

HODGSON'S QUIETUS

Acton now felt pretty safe as regards young Bourne. He held him fast in the double bonds of indebtedness and of gratitude, and with Jack the gratitude was by far the greater. Acton had saved him from disgrace, from a lengthened stringing up, from the scorn of his brother, from the jeers and laughter of the rest of the fellows. Like others, he could have stood Corker's rage better than the jokes of his cronies. He was received back into the fold of his own particular set with more eclat than he felt he deserved.

"Here's old Bourne gone and sacked Acton," said Grim.

"Sure Acton hasn't sacked him?" suggested Rogers.

"Best fellow breathing," said Bourne, fervently.

"Still, he's Biffen's."

"I don't care whether he's a water-lily or not—he can't help that, you know, poor fellow."

"Why should he? Aren't we cock house?"

"Where would you have been if Acton hadn't lifted you out of your muddy pond, and let you see a little sunlight?"

"You should be his fag," said Grim.

"I'd jolly well like to," said Jack. "I'd black his boots almost."

"He's a dozen pairs," said Grim.

"Write a poem on his virtues," suggested Rogers.

"Shut up this rot," said Wilson. "Let's try a run round the Bender—last fellow stands tea at Hoopers."

"Carried, nem. con.," said Grim, who was pretty speedy.

And the reunited half-dozen cronies ran the three miles out and ditto home, Wilson subsequently standing tea, for, as he pathetically explained, "I was overhauling Rogers hand over hand when I slipped my shoe, else he'd have had to fork out." Thus Jack became again for a while the common or garden variety of school-boy, and he enjoyed the change.

* * * * *

Phil Bourne came into my room the same evening that saw Jack Bourne released from the toils of Raffles.

"Busy, old man?"

"Not at all," said I, pushing away my books. "Jolly glad you've come in."

"There's a bit of news for you. I've just been in the gym. I fancy the old school will pull off the 'Heavy' at Aldershot."

"Has Hodgson turned out so jolly well, then?"

"Hodgson! Oh no! Hodgson isn't going to be the school's representative this year, I fancy."

"Why, have you been in form to-night?"

"Look here, old man, you are quite out of it. You sit here reading up all that ancient lore about the cestus, and you could tell me the names of all Nero's gladiators, and yet here at this establishment we've got a gladiator who is going to make history, and you don't know it."

"I thought you were the only fellow who could show Hodgson anything."

"No," said Phil. "I never was as good as Hodgson. I always made a point of making him go all the way to win on principle, but he always had a pull more or less over me. You see, Hodgson is lazy, and he wanted some one to challenge the right to represent the school, or I don't fancy he'd have put in enough good work to stand much chance against the Eton man. Therefore I stepped into the breach, and, by sweating him, have made Hodgson from a very fair boxer into a good one—good, but nothing super-excellent."

"Then who's been lying low all this time?"

"Acton."

"Acton?" said I, in utter astonishment. "Why, didn't our dear Theodore dress him down once for losing his temper in the gym?"

"He did, my boy, and Acton repaid the compliment to-night—with interest. He opened our eyes for us. I'm telling the bare truth when I say that he simply played with Theodore, and at the third round he as good as knocked him out."

I stared into the fire for a minute or two, thinking out this news.

"Eureka!" said I. "I've found it!"

"What?"

"The reason Acton crops up here. He cannot forget an injury. Hodgson humbled him once, and so Acton must needs take away from Theodore his own peculiar pet ambition, which is to represent St. Amory's at Aldershot in the Heavy."

"I wish," said Phil, gloomily, "Biffen's Beauty's schemes always worked out so well for the school's honour. He'll represent St. Amory's without a doubt."

"Is he so very good, then?"

"Super-excellent, old fellow! Prodigious!" said Phil, with genuine admiration. "We'll all sleep with both ears on the pillow when the telegram comes from Aldershot. Such a left! He has a swinging, curly stroke which he uses after an artful little feint which would win the final by itself. Hodgson really seemed trying to catch quick-silver when he tried to get home on Acton. Where did Acton learn all this? The sergeant hasn't got that artful mis-hit in his bag of tricks."

"Don't speculate on Acton's doings or where he picks up what he knows. It's too intricate."

"What a pity one can't go and shake his hand as one would like to do. He is a marvel—this dark horse," said Phil, with genuine regret, as always when speaking of Acton.

"Our bete noir," said I, without winking.

"You heathen," said Phil, laughing. "That was almost a pun. But I'm afraid I'm a bit selfish in my joy about Acton. Since he's a certainty, I can devote all my mighty mind to rackets. I don't think there is a better pair in the place than Vercoe and self at present."

"Oh, thou modest one!"

"'Toby' always finishes up 'When you and Mr. Vercoe goes to Queen's Club, Mr. Bourne, I advise you, etc.' So, 'Toby' evidently has no doubt who's to go there."

"Toby" Tucker was our racket professional, and when he spotted a pair for the public-school rackets, Fenton, the master who finally chose the pair, never said "Nay." "Toby" was incorruptible. With both his little eyes fixed inexorably on merit, the greatest joys of his life were consummated when the St. Amory's pair brought the championship home.

"Congratulate you, old man. If Acton pulls off the Aldershot and you and Vercoe the rackets—"

"If I only felt as confident on our lifting that as I do of Acton bringing off his, I'd go straightway and smother 'Toby.' He almost works one to death."



CHAPTER XIX

HOW THEY "'ELPED THE PORE FELLER"

As a rule, the laboratory was empty on half-holidays, and Gus used to work through his tables in solitude, when he tried a little "bottle-washing" as a change from the refereeing, but one afternoon he found no less a person than W.E. Grim, the prize fag of Biffen's, doing something very seriously with a green powder.

"Hullo, young 'un! What are you footling round here for?"

"Lancaster has given me this salt to analyze, Todd. I think there's copper in it."

"What have you been up to, that Lancaster has run you in? Half-holiday, too!"

"He hasn't run me in," said Grim, sulkily. "As a special favour he's let me come in here to work a little myself. I did a ripping chemistry paper last week, and—"

"Oh, I see. Are you going to give Biffen's another leg up, too?"

"Just as soon as you give Taylor's one," said Grim, who, in common with all the juniors, did not fear the easy-going Todd.

"No cheek!" said Gus. "If I mixed up coal-dust and brick-dust, how'd you separate 'em?"

"Ask my grandmother for a telescope, and look out the mix through the butt end."

"Quite so," said Todd, chuckling. "I suppose you've given me a specimen of Biffen's latest brand of wit. Well, don't make too big a row in hunting for your copper, and then I'll not chuck you out."

Grim murmured something disparaging Todd's authority for chucking out, but Gus languidly sidled off to his own particular bench, where, out of sight of Grim, he prepared to do an afternoon's quiet work.

Meanwhile Grim's particular cronies, Wilson, Rogers, Sharpe, Poulett, and young Bourne, arrayed in all the glory of mud-stained footer-togs, after vainly waiting outside Biffen's, were seeking high and low for the copper-hunting chemist, who, for many reasons, had kept his afternoon's plan very dark. He knew only too well that his beloved chums would not hear of an afternoon's work, and would head him off either to footer or a run round the Bender. Therefore, immediately after dinner, he had made an unostentatious exit, and reached the laboratory in safety.

"Where is Grimmy?" said Sharpe.

"Dunno," said Wilson.

"Did he know of our six-a-side against Merishall's lot?"

"Rather! Said he hoped we'd win."

"We! Why, is he backing out, then?"

"Well, we've waited for him half an hour, and there's no sign of him yet—look's like it."

"What is up with him, I wonder?" said Poulett.

"Seemed rather mysterious this morning—rather stand-offish to my idea. Perhaps, though, he's only guzzling buns or swilling coffee somewhere. Let's see."

The quintette thereupon spread themselves out, but every shop was drawn blank.

"Rum!" said Rogers. "Where can the ass be?"

"If we knew, Solomon, would we try to find out?" said Sharpe.

"I say, you fellows—I've got an idea about Grimmy. Didn't Lancaster give him a leg-up for his chemistry the other day? Permission to footle in the lab. on half-holidays, and all the rest of it? Grim was no end cocky over that."

"Grimmy waste a 'halfer' bottle-washing! Rot! That isn't his form, Wilson."

"If," said Poulett, impressively, "he has sunk so low, we must give him an 'elpin' 'and, pore feller!"

"Rather. If Lancaster has put the cover over old Grimmy we must get him out somehow. Let's adjourn to see."

The honourable five forthwith moved over to the laboratory, and Grim received his beloved cronies with hot blushes and a rather nervous manner.

"I say, you chaps, what do you want?"

"What did we want?" said Bourne, as though he'd forgotten it. "What was it, Rogers?"

"A fellow, formerly Grimmy, not a nasty bottle-washer," said Rogers, more in sorrow than in anger.

"But yesterday and Grimmy was an average back, and now he's holding up some filthy brew to the sunlight to see how muddy it is. Oh, my great aunt!" chimed in Wilson.

"How are the mighty fallen!" gasped Sharpe.

"Look here, you fellows—" began Grim, with still more vivid blushes mantling his noble face.

"'Ear, 'ear! speech! speech! withdraw! apologize!"

"I'm not ashamed of being here and doing a little chemistry for my own amusement, so there; and you fellows had better cut before Lancaster comes and runs you all in."

"That is all right, Grimmy. Lancaster's sporting a silk tile, so he's off to town. To think of your cutting our six-a-side to puff down a dirty blow-pipe! Come out, you idiot, and get into your footer togs!" said Sharpe.

"I'm not coming, I tell you."

"Insanity in the family, evidently," observed Poulett, judicially.

"Aren't you coming, really?"

"No, I'm not; do get out and leave me alone!"

"Never!" said Poulett. "We'll stay with him and see him through the fit, eh?"

"Rather! We'll never desert you, Grimmy!"

"We'll let the six-a-side slide for this afternoon, and we'll help Grimmy with his salt," suggested the egg-poacher, brilliantly; and any amount of hidden meaning was in the word "help."

"We will! we will!" cried the rest, spotting Poulett's idea instanter, with enthusiastic joy; and despite Grim's frenzied declamation and eloquence they all "helped."

For two hours—as lively a couple of hours as ever were passed within the laboratory—Gus lay low behind the far bench and enjoyed the afternoon's performance far more than Grim. The green powder underwent some weird experiments, each of the quintette availing himself of Grim's knowledge and test-tubes and acid-bottles with the utmost freedom. The analysis of Lancaster's mixture gave various results, but when Rogers "found" rhubarb and black-lead this was held the correct find, and after this verdict the generous five put up the test-tubes in the rack. They all said Rogers had settled the matter, and anyway they had had a jolly time.

"Understand," observed Poulett, as he washed away some acid stains from his bare knees, "that Grimmy is not ashamed of his black-lead and rhubarb hunt."

"Why those vivid blushes, then?"

"We never bargained that old Grim would copy that Fifth Form ass, Todd, and chum up with Lancaster, did we?"

"What did you say about Todd?" inquired Grim, suavely.

"Said he was an ass."

"A what?"

"An ass, a jackass, a howling jackass!" cried Poulett, crescendo.

"How?"

"Remember Corker pitching into him? Said he wasn't fit for a decent nursery, and Toddy had his mouth open all the time."



"Bully Cotton has given Toddy up. Toddy was too big an ass even for Cotton," remarked Wilson.

"He looks fairly intelligent," observed Grim, in a gentle whisper.

"So did you, almost, till you started fooling like this."

Grim artistically kept the conversation on Todd, and Gus learned how like an ass each individual of the quintette thought him. He smiled gently at Grim's astuteness in paying him out so neatly for his previous friendly remarks about chucking out. When the first stroke of the roll-call bell reached the laboratory he emerged solemnly and with state from his retreat, and stalked quietly through the knot of his outspoken critics, who were instantly besieged by a variety of emotions. He closed the laboratory door after him, and, when he saw the key outside, the temptation to repay the left-handed compliments of Poulett and Co. in their own coin was too strong. Gus gently turned the key, and was halfway down the corridor before the band arrived at the locked door.

"Let us out!" shrieked Rogers. "We'll apologize all of us—won't we, Poulett?"

"Yes!" yelled Poulett. "Anything! Oh, Todd, do let us out!"

But Todd went on his way, serenely ignoring the frantic appeals behind him, and turned out into the street with a sweet smile on his face.

"That beast, Todd, has gone, and Merishall will ladle us out three hundred of Virgil for missing call-over," moaned Bourne.

"It's four hundred, if Merishall takes it," said Rogers, with dire conviction.

"Not for me," said Grim, beaming cheerfully around; "I'm all right. I'll tell Merishall that the door was locked; but as for you five idiots, who oughtn't to be here at all—well! What the dickens did you want to call old Toddy all those fancy names for, you silly cuckoos?"

"Oh, look here, Grim, you artful bounder," shouted Poulett, bitterly, "you've got us into this mess. Why didn't you say Todd was behind those back benches?"

"Yes, why?" shouted the rest of the raging fags. "We'll scrag you for this, darling. Cuckoos are we? Scrag him—put him in the scrum."

W.E. Grim had a very bad five minutes, but when he crawled out of the scrum, hot, damaged, and dusty, he said viciously—

"I hope Merishall gives you a thou., you beastly cads. You've mucked up my afternoon, and I'm hanged if I don't tell Lancaster."

Ten minutes after roll-call the janitor let them out, and shortly afterwards a wretched procession of five emerged from Merishall's room with two hundred lines from Virgil hanging over each head for a missed call-over without excuse. Grim worked an artistic revenge on his scrummagers by calling personally the next half-holiday to inquire if they would prefer to analyze a green salt or to play a six-a-side against Merishall's lot. In every instance a Virgil hurtled towards his head. Having done his duty to his friends, he left them to pious AEneas and the slope of Avernus, whilst he got another salt from the science-master, and, with Gus, possessed the laboratory in peace.



CHAPTER XX

ACTON'S TRUMP CARD

On the Saturday before we should go home Acton was due at Aldershot, and would return the same night, as the fellows hoped, with his laurels thick upon him. Bourne and Vercoe were staying at school a week later than we, for the rackets did not come off until our holidays had commenced. Toby had begged for this almost with tears in his eyes, for he had a mortal dread of the relaxing process of a week at home.

"You'd have no 'ands, Mr. Bourne, no spring, no eyes, when you toed the mark at Kensington. I'll send you fit if I have you here."

So Vercoe and Phil agreed to stay.

And now Acton determined to put into operation his long-thought-of scheme for the paying off of the score against Phil. It was subtle, and founded on a perfect knowledge of Bourne's character, and a perfect disregard of the consequences to any one—even including himself. Acton would have willingly martyred himself, if he could have inflicted a little of the torments on Bourne too.

There was one rule from which Dr. Moore never swerved a hair's breadth. Compared to this particular law the stringency of the Old Game regulation for Thursday was lax indeed. He never had departed from it, and he never would depart from it. If any fellow took it into his head to slip out of his house after lights out at ten on any pretence whatever he was expelled. There was some legend in connection with this severity, what exactly none of us rightly knew, but according to the tale the escapade of two fellows years ago, when Corker was new to the place, had resulted in one of the fellows being shot. Twice had he expelled fellows while I was at school—Remington and Cunningham—and I cannot ever forget the old man's deathlike face as he told them to go. Some fellows broke out and were not found out, for Corker wasn't going to have any barred windows as in some places. Any one could break out any night he liked, but he knew what he might expect if he were caught. There was no help. Remington had been found out, and though there had been Remingtons in the school since Anne's reign, Corker was inexorable. He was expelled.