"What did they want you for?" asked Heathcote.

"Oh, talking about the race, don't you know, and that sort of thing," said Dick, equivocally.

"Did they say anything about me?"

"Not a word, old man."

Whereat Heathcote turned a little crusty, and wondered that ten yards in a quarter of a mile should make such a difference.

Dick was bursting to tell him all about it, and made matters far worse by betraying that he had a secret, which he could on no account impart.

"You'll know to-morrow, most likely," said he. "I'm awfully sorry they made me promise to keep it close. But I'll tell you first of all when its settled; and I may be able to give you a leg up before long."

Heathcote said he did not want a leg up; and feeling decidedly out of humour, made some excuse to go indoors and hunt up young Aspinall.

On his way he encountered a junior, next to whom he had sat at dinner, and with whom he had then exchanged a few words.

"Where are you going?" demanded that youthful warrior.

"Indoors," said Heathcote.

"No, you aren't," replied the bravo, standing like a wolf across the way.

It was an awkward position for a pacific boy like Heathcote, who mildly enquired—

"Why not?"

"Because you cheeked me," replied the wolf.

"How? I didn't mean to," replied the lamb.

"That'll do. You've got to apologise."

"Apologise! What for?"

"Speaking to me at dinner-time."

The blood of the Heathcotes began to tingle.

"Suppose I don't apologise?" asked he.

"You'll be sorry for it."

"What will you do?"

"Lick you."

"Then," said Heathcote, mildly, "you'd better begin."

The youthful champion evidently was not prepared for this cordial invitation, and looked anything but pleased to hear it.

"Well, why don't you begin?" said Heathcote, following up his advantage.

"Because," said the boy, looking rather uncomfortably around him, "I wouldn't dirty my fingers on such a beast."

Now if Heathcote had been a man of the world he would have divined that the present was a rare opportunity for catching his bumptious young friend by the ear, and making him carry out his threat then and there. But, being a simple-minded new boy, unlearned in the ways of the world, he merely said "Pooh!" and walked on, leaving his assailant in possession of the field, calling out "coward!" and "sneak!" after him till he was out of sight.

He was rather sorry afterwards for his mistake, as it turned out he might have been much more profitably and pleasantly employed outside than in.

Aspinall, whom he had come to look after, was nowhere visible, and, feeling somewhat concerned for his safety, Heathcote ventured to enquire of a junior who was loafing about in the passage, if he knew where the little new fellow was.

"In bed, of course," said the junior, "and I'd advise you not to let yourself be seen, unless you want to get in an awful row," added he solemnly.

"What about?" asked Heathcote.

"Why, not being in bed. My eye! it'll be rather warm for you, I tell you, if any of the Fifth catch you."

"Why, it's only half-past seven?"

"Well, and don't you know the rule about new boys always having to be in bed by seven?" exclaimed the junior in tones of alarm.

"No. I don't believe it is the rule," said Heathcote.

"All right," said the boy, "you needn't believe it unless you like. But don't say you weren't told, that's all," and he walked off, whistling.

Heathcote was perplexed. He suspected a practical joke in everything, and had this junior been a trifle less solemn, he would have had no doubt that this was one. As it was, he was sorry he had offended him, and lost the chance of making quite sure. Dick, he knew, was still out of doors, and he, it was certain, knew nothing about the rule.

But just then a Fifth-form fellow came along, and cut off the retreat.

He eyed the new boy critically as he advanced, and stopped in front of him.

"What's your name?" he demanded.

"Heathcote."

"A new boy?"

"Yes."

"How is it you're not in bed? Do you know the time?"

"Yes," said Heathcote, convinced now that the junior had been right, "but I didn't know—that is—"

"Shut up and don't tell lies," said the Fifth-form boy, severely. "Go to bed instantly, and write me out 200 lines of Virgil before breakfast to-morrow. I've a good mind to send your name up to Westover."

"I'm awfully sorry," began Heathcote; "no one told me—"

"I've told you; and if you don't go at once Westover shall hear of it."

The dormitory, when he reached it, was deserted. Not even Aspinall was there; and for a moment Heathcote began again vaguely to suspect a plot. From this delusion, he was, however, speedily relieved by the appearance of a boy, who followed him into the room, and demanded.

"Look here; what are you up to here?"

"I was—that is, I was told to go to bed," said Heathcote.

"Well, and if you were, what business have you got here? Go to your own den."

"This is where I slept last night," said Heathcote, pointing to the identical bed he had occupied.

"You did! Like your howling cheek."

"Where is my bed room then?" asked Heathcote.

"Why didn't you ask the matron? I'm not going to fag for you. There, in that second door; and take my advice, slip into bed as quick as you can, unless you want one of the Fifth to catch you, and give you a hundred lines."

Heathcote whipped up his night-gown and made precipitately for the door, finally convinced that he was in a fair way of getting into a row very early in his Templeton career.

The door opened into a little room about the size of a small ship's cabin, and here he undressed as quickly as he could, in the fading daylight, and slipped into bed, inwardly congratulating himself that no one had detected him in the act, and that he had a good prospect, contrary to his expectations, of getting to sleep comfortably. The thought of the 200 lines, certainly, was unpleasant. But "sufficient unto the day," thought the philosophic Heathcote. He was far more concerned at the fate of the unsuspecting Dick. What would become of him, poor fellow?

Amid these reflections he fell peacefully asleep. The next thing he was conscious of, in what seemed to him the middle of the night, was the sudden removal of the clothes from the bed, and a figure holding a light, catching him by the arm, and demanding fiercely—

"What do you mean by it?"

His first impulse was to smile at the thought that it was only a dream, but he quickly changed his mind, and sat up with his eyes very wide open as the figure repeated—

"What do you mean by it? Get out of this!"

The speaker was a big boy, whom Heathcote, in the midst of his bewilderment, recognised as having seen at the Fifth-form table in Hall.

"What's the matter?" faltered the new boy.

"The matter! you impudent young beggar. Come, get out of this. I'll teach you to play larks with me. Get out of my bed."

Heathcote promptly obeyed.

"I didn't know—I was told it was where I was to sleep," he said.

"Shut up, and don't tell lies," said the senior, taking off his slipper and passing his hand down the sole of it.

"Really I didn't do it on purpose," pleaded Heathcote. "I was told to do it."

The case was evidently not one for argument. As Heathcote turned round, the silence of the night hour was broken for some moments by the echoes of that slipper-sole.

It was no use objecting—still less resisting. So Heathcote bore it like a man, and occupied his leisure moments during the ceremony in chalking up a long score against his friend the junior.

"Now, make my bed," said the executioner when the transaction was complete.

The boy obeyed in silence—wonderfully warm despite the lightness of his attire. His comfort would have been complete had that junior only been there to help him. The Fifth-form boy insisted on the bed being made from the very beginning—including the turning of the mattress and the shaking of each several sheet and blanket—so that the process was a lengthy one, and, but for the occasional consolations of the slipper, might have become chilly also.

"Now, clear out," said the owner of the apartment.

"Where am I to go?" asked Heathcote, beginning to feel rather forlorn.

"Out of here!" repeated the senior.

"I don't—"

The senior took up the slipper again.

"Please may I take my clothes?" said Heathcote.

"Are you going or not?"

"Please give me my trou—"

He was on the other side of the door before the second syllable came, and the click of the latch told him that after all he might save his breath.

Heathcote was in a predicament. The corridor was dark, and draughty, and he was far from home; what was he to do? "Three courses," as the wise man says, "were open to him." Either he might camp out where he was, and by the aid of door-mats and carpet extemporise a bed till the morning; or he might commence a demonstration against the door from which he had just been ejected till somebody came and saw him into his rights—or, failing his rights, into his trousers; or he might commence a house-to-house canvass, up one side of the corridor and down the other, in hopes of finding either an empty chamber or one tenanted by a friend.

There was a good deal to be said for each, though on the whole he personally inclined to the last course. Indeed he went so far as to grope his way to the end of the passage with a view to starting fair, when a sound of footsteps and a white flutter ahead sent his heart to his mouth, and made him shiver with something more than the evening breeze.

He stood where he was, rooted to the spot, and listened. An awful silence seemed to fall upon the place. Had he hit on the Templeton ghost?—on the disembodied spirit of some luckless martyr to the ferocity of a last century bully? Or, was it an ambuscade prepared for himself? or, was it some companion in—

Yes! there was a sob, and Heathcote's soul rejoiced as he recognised it.

"Is that you, young 'un?" he said in a deep whisper.

The footsteps suddenly ceased, the white flutter stopped, and next moment there rose a shriek in the still night air which made all Westover's jump in its sleep, and opened, as if by magic, half the doors in the long corridor. Aspinall had seen a ghost!

Amid all the airily-clad forms that hovered out to learn the cause of the disturbance, Heathcote felt comforted. His one regret was that he was unable to recognise his friend the junior, in whose debt he was in nocturnal garb; but he recognised Dick to his great delight, and hurriedly explained to him as well as to about fifty other enquirers, the circumstances—that is, so much of them as seemed worth repetition.

Between them they contrived to reassure the terrified Aspinall, who, it turned out, had been the victim of a similar trick to that played on Heathcote.

"Where are you sleeping?" said the latter to Dick.

"The old place. Where ever did you get to?"

"I'll tell you. Has any one got my bed there?"

"No. Come on—here, Aspinall, catch hold—look sharp out of the passage. Are you coming, too, Heathcote?"

To his astonishment, Heathcote darted suddenly from his side and dived in at an open door. Before his friend could guess what he meant, he returned with a bundle of clothes in his arms, and a triumphant smile on his face.

"Hurrah!" said he. "Got 'em at last!"

"Whose are they?" asked Dick.

"Mine, my boy. By Jove, I am glad to get them again."

"Cave there! Westover!" called some one near him. And, as if by magic, the passage was empty in a moment, our heroes being the last to scuttle into their dormitory, with Aspinall between them.

Dick lay awake for some time that night. He was excited, and considered, on the whole, he had made a fair start at Templeton. He had won the new boys' race, and he was the whipper-in-elect of the Templeton Harriers. Fellows respected him; possibly a good many of them feared him. Certainly, they let him alone.

"For all that," meditated he, "it won't do to get cocked up by it. Father said I was to be on my guard against fellows who flattered me, so I must keep my eyes open, or some one will be trying to make a fool of me. If Cresswell's a nice fellow, I'll have a talk with him to-morrow about young Aspinall, and see if we can't do anything to give him a leg up, poor young beggar. I wonder if I'm an ass to accept the whipping-in so easily? Any how, I suppose I can resign if it's too much grind. Heigho! I'm sleepy."



CHAPTER SIX.

HOW OUR HEROES BEGIN TO FEEL AT HOME.

Heathcote awoke early the next morning with his friend the junior seriously on his mind. One or two fellows were already dressing themselves in flannels as he roused himself, amongst others the young hero who had threatened to fight him the evening before.

"Hallo!" said that young gentleman, in a friendly tone, as if nothing but the most cordial courtesies had passed between them, "coming down to bathe?"

"All serene," said Heathcote, not, however, without his suspicions. If any one had told him it was a fine morning, he would, in his present state of mind, have suspected the words as part of a deep-laid scheme to fool him. But, he reflected, he had not much to fear from this mock- heroic junior, and as long as he kept him in sight no great harm could happen.

"Come on, then," said the boy, whose name, by the way, was Gosse; "we shall only just have time to do it before chapel."

"Wait a second, till I tell Dick. He'd like to come, too," said Heathcote.

"What's the use of waking him when he's fagged? Besides, he's got to wash and dress his baby, and give him his bottle, so he wouldn't have time. Aren't you ready?"

"Yes," said Heathcote, flinging himself into his hardly-regained garments.

The "Templeton Tub," as the bathing place was colloquially termed, was a small natural harbour among the rocks at the foot of the cliff on which the school stood. It was a picturesque spot at all times; but this bright spring morning, with the distant headlands lighting up in the rising sunlight, and the blue sea heaving lazily among the rocks as though not yet awake, Heathcote thought it one of the prettiest places he had ever seen.

The "Tub" suited all sorts of bathers. The little timid waders could dip their toes and splash their hair in the shallow basin in-shore. The more advanced could wade out shoulder-deep, and puff and flounder with one foot on the ground and the other up above their heads, and delude the world into the notion they were swimming. For others there was the spring-board, from which to take a header into deep water; and, further out still, the rocks rose in ledges, where practised divers could take the water from any height they liked, from four feet to thirty. Except with leave, no boy was permitted to swim beyond the harbour mouth into the open. But leave was constantly being applied for, and as constantly granted; and perhaps every boy, at some time or other, cast wistful glances at the black buoy bobbing a mile out at sea, and wondered when he, like Pontifex and Mansfield, and other of the Sixth, should be able to wear the image of it on his belt, and call himself a Templeton "shark?"

Heathcote, on his first appearance at the "Tub," acquitted himself creditably. He took a mild header from the spring-board without more than ordinary splashing, and swam across the pool and back in fair style. Gosse, who only went in from the low ledge, and swam half-way across and back, was good enough to give him some very good advice, and promise to make a good swimmer of him in time. Whereat Heathcote looked grateful, and wished Dick had been there to astonish some of them.

One or two of the Fifth, including Swinstead and Birket, arrived as the youngsters were dressing.

"Hallo!" said Swinstead to Heathcote, "you here? Where's your chum?"

"Asleep," said Heathcote, quite pleased to think he should be able to tell Dick he had been having a talk with Swinstead that morning.

"Have you been in?"

"Yes."

"Can you swim?"

"Yes, a little," said Gosse, answering for him. "We're about equal."

Heathcote couldn't stand the barefaced libel meekly.

"Why, you can't swim once across!" he said, scornfully, "and you can't go in off the board!"

The Fifth-form boys laughed.

"Ha, ha!" said Swinstead, "he's letting you have it, Gossy."

"He's telling beastly crams," said Gosse, "and I'll kick him when we get back."

"I'll swim you across the pool and back, first!" said Heathcote.

The seniors were delighted. The new boy's spirit pleased them, and the prospect of taking down the junior pleased them still more.

"That's fair," said Birket. "Come on, strip."

Heathcote was ready in a trice. Gosse looked uncomfortable.

"I'm not going in again," he said; "I've got a cold."

"Yes, you are," replied Birket; "I'll help you."

This threat was quite enough for the discomfited junior, who slowly divested himself of his garments.

"Now then! plenty of room for both of you on the board."

"No," said Gosse; "I've not got any cotton wool for my ears. I don't care about going in off the board unless I have."

"That's soon remedied," said Swinstead, producing some wool from his pocket and proceeding to stuff it into each of the boy's ears.

Poor Gosse was fairly cornered, and took his place on the board beside Heathcote, the picture of discontent and apprehension.

"Now then, once across and back. Are you ready?" said Birket, seating himself beside his friend on a ledge.

"No," said Gosse, looking down at the water and getting off the board.

"Do you funk it?"

"No."

"Then go in! Hurry up, or we'll come and help you!"

"I'd—I'd rather go in from the edge," said the boy.

"You funk the board then?"

The boy looked at the board, then at his tyrants, then at the water.

"I suppose I do," said he, sulkily.

"Then put on your clothes and cut it," said Swinstead, scornfully. Then, turning to Heathcote, he shouted. "Now then, young 'un, in you go."

Heathcote plunged. He was nervous, and splashed more, perhaps, than usual, but it was a tolerable header, on the whole, for a new boy, and the spectators were not displeased with the performance or the swim across the pool and back which followed.

"All right," said Swinstead; "stick to it, young un, and turn up regularly. Can your chum swim?"

"Rather!" said Heathcote, taking his head out of the towel. "I wish I could swim as well as he can."

"Humph!" said Swinstead, when presently the two Seniors were left to themselves. "Number Two's modest; Number One's cocky."

"Therefore," said Birket, "Number Two will remain Number Two, and number One will remain Number One."

"Right you are, most learned Plato! but I'm curious to see how Number One gets out of his friendly call on Cresswell. Think he'll cheek it?"

"Yes; and we shan't hear many particulars from him."

Birket was right, as he very often was.

Dick, on waking, was a good deal perplexed, to find his friend absent, and when he heard the reason he was more than perplexed—he was vexed. It wasn't right of Heathcote, or loyal, to take advantage of him in this way, and he should complain of it.

Meanwhile he had plenty to occupy his mind in endeavouring to recover his "baby's" wardrobe, a quest which, as time went on and the chapel bell began to sound, came to be exciting.

However, just as he was about to go to the matron and represent to her the delicate position of affairs, a bundle was thrown in through the ventilator over the door, and fell into the middle of the dormitory floor. Where it came from there was no time to inquire.

Aspinall was hustled into his garments as quickly as possible, and then hustled down the stairs and into chapel just as the bell ceased ringing and the door began to close.

Heathcote was there among the other new boys, looking rather guilty, as well he might. The sight of him, with his dripping locks and clear shining face, interfered a good deal with Dick's attention to the service—almost as much as did the buzz of talk all round him, the open disorder in the stalls opposite, and the look of undisguised horror on Aspinall's face.

As Dick caught sight of that look his own conscience pricked him, and he made a vehement effort to recall his wandering mind and fix it on the words which were being read. He flushed as he saw boys opposite point his way and laugh, with hands clasped in mock devotion, and he felt angry with himself, and young Aspinall, and everybody, for laying him open to the imputation of being a prig.

He glanced again towards Heathcote. Heathcote was standing with his hands in his pockets looking about him. What business had Heathcote to look about him when he (Dick) was standing at attention? Why should Heathcote escape the jeers of mockers, while he (Dick) had to bear the brunt of them? It wasn't fair. And yet he wasn't going to put his hands in his pockets and look about him to give them the triumph of saying they laughed him into it. No!

So Dick stood steadily and reverently all the service, and was observed by not a few as one of the good ones of whom good things might be expected.

When chapel was over fate once more severed him from his chum, and deferred the explanation to which both were looking forward.

The matron kidnapped Master Richardson on his way into the house, in order to call his attention to a serious inconsistency between the number of his shirts in his portmanteau, and the number on the inventory accompanying them, an inconsistency which Dick was unable to throw any light on whatever, except that he supposed it must be a mistake, and it didn't much matter.

It certainly mattered less than the fact that, owing to this delay, he had lost his seat next to Heathcote at breakfast, and had to take his place at the lowest table, where he could not even see his friend.

There was great joking during the meal about the escapade in the lobby last night, the general opinion being that it had been grand sport all round, and that it was lucky the monitors weren't at home at the time.

"Beastly grind," said one youngster—"all of them coming back to-day. A fellow can't turn round but they interfere."

"Are all the Sixth monitors?" asked Dick.

"Rather," replied his neighbour, whom Dick discovered afterwards to be no other than Raggles, the hero of the "cargo," whose fame he had heard the day before.

"What's the name of the captain?"

"Oh, Ponty! He doesn't hurt," said the boy. "It's beasts like Mansfield, and Cresswell, and that lot who come down on you."

Dick would fain have inquired what sort of fellow Cresswell was, but he was too anxious not to let the affair of the whipper-in leak out, and refrained. He asked a few vague questions about the Sixth generally, and gathered from his companion that, with a very few exceptions, they were all "beasts" in school, that one or two of them were rather good at cricket, and swimming, and football, and that the monitorial system at Templeton, and at all other public schools, required revision. From which Dick argued shrewdly that Master Raggles sometimes got into rows.

By the time he had made this discovery the bell rang for first school, and there was a general movement to the door.

The two chums foregathered in the hall.

"Pity you weren't up in time for a bathe," said Heathcote, artfully securing the first word.

"I heard you went. Too much fag getting up so early. I mean to go down in the afternoon, when most of the fellows turn up."

"Swinstead and Birket were there. I wish you'd been there."

"Not worth the grind. You can come with me this afternoon, if you like. Some of the 'sharks' will be down as well."

Heathcote began to discover he had done a foolish thing; and when he found his friend launching the "sharks" at his head in this familiar way he felt it was no use holding out any longer.

"It was awfully low of me not to call you this morning," said he, "but you looked so fast asleep, you know."

"So I was," said Dick, unbending. "I'm glad you didn't rout me up, for I was regularly fagged last night."

"What time will you be going this afternoon?"

"Depends. I've got to see one of the Sixth as soon as he turns up, but that won't take long."

Heathcote retired routed. His friend was too many for him. He (Heathcote) had no one bigger than Swinstead and Birket to impress his friend with. Dick had "sharks," and behind them "one of the Sixth." What was the use of opposing himself to such odds?

"Wait for us, won't you?" was all he could say; and next moment they were at their respective desks, and school had begun.

Dick's quick ears caught the sound of cabs in the quadrangle and the noise of luggage in the hall while school was going on, and his mind became a little anxious as the prospect of his coming interview loomed nearer before him. He hoped Cresswell was a jolly fellow, and that there would be no one else in his study when he went to call upon him. He had carefully studied the geography of his fortress, so he knew exactly where to go without asking any one, which was a blessing.

As soon as class was over he made his way to the matron's room.

"Do you know if Cresswell has come yet, please."

"Yes, what do you want with him?"

"Oh! nothing," said Dick dissembling, "I only wanted to know."

And he removed himself promptly from the reach of further questions.

Little dreaming of the visit with which he was to be so shortly honoured, Cresswell, the fleetest foot and the steadiest head in Templeton, was complacently unpacking his goods and chattels in the privacy of his own study. He wasn't sorry to get back to Templeton, for he was fond of the old place, and the summer term was always the jolliest of the year. There was cricket coming on, and lawn tennis, and the long evening runs, and the early morning dips. And there was plenty of work ahead in the schools too, and the prospect of an exhibition at Midsummer, if only Freckleton gave him the chance.

Altogether the Sixth-form athlete was in a contented frame of mind, as he emptied his portmanteau and tossed his belongings into their respective quarters.

So intent was he on his occupation, that it was a full minute before he became aware of a small boy standing at his open door, and tapping modestly. As he looked up and met the eyes of the already doubtful Dick, both boys inwardly thought, "I rather like that fellow"—a conclusion which, as far as Dick was concerned, made it still more difficult for him to broach the subject of his mission.

Cresswell was still kneeling down, so it was impossible to form an opinion of his legs, but his arms and shoulders certainly did not look like those of a "snail."

"What do you want, youngster?" said Cresswell.

"Oh," said Dick, screwing himself up to the pitch, "Swinstead told me to come to you."

"Oh," said the other, in a tone of great interest, "what about?"

"About the—I mean—something about the—the Harriers," said Dick, suddenly beginning to see things in a new light.

"About the Harriers?" said Cresswell, rising to his feet and lounging up against the mantel-piece, in order to take a good survey of his visitor. "What does Mr Swinstead want; to know about the Harriers?"

The sight of the champion there, drawn up to his full height, with power and speed written on every turn of his figure, sent Dick's mind jumping, at one bound, to the truth. What an ass he had been going to make of himself, and what a time he would have had if he hadn't found out the trick in time! As it was, he could not help laughing at the idea of his own ridiculous position, and the narrow escape he had had.

"What are you grinning at?" said Cresswell sharply, not understanding the little burst of merriment in his presence.

Dick recovered himself, and said simply, "They've been trying to make a fool of me. I beg your pardon for bothering you."

"Hold hard!" said Cresswell, as the boy was about to retreat. "It's very likely they have made a fool of you—they're used to hard work. But you're not going to make a fool of me. Come in and tell me all about it."

Dick coloured up crimson, and threw himself on the monitor's mercy.

"You'll think me such an ass," said he, appealingly. "It's really nothing."

"I do think you an ass already," said the senior, "so, out with it."

Whereupon Dick, blushing deeply, told him the whole story in a way which quite captivated the listener by its artlessness.

"They said you were an awful muff, and couldn't run any faster than a snail, you know,"—began he—"and as I had pulled off the new boys' race, they said they'd make me Whipper-in of the Harriers instead of you, and told me to come and tell you so, and ask you to give me the whip."

Cresswell laughed in spite of himself.

"Do you really want it?" he asked.

"Not now, thank you."

"I suppose you'd been swaggering after you'd won the race, and they wanted to take the conceit out of you?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"And have they succeeded?"

"Well—yes," said Dick. "I think they have."

"Then, they've done you a very good turn, my boy, and you'll be grateful to them some day. As for the whip, you can tell them if they'll come here for it, I'll give it to them with pleasure. There goes the dinner bell—cut off, or you'll be late."

"Thanks, Cresswell. I suppose," said the boy, lingering a moment at the door, "you won't be obliged to tell everybody about it?"

"You can do that better than I can," said the Sixth-form boy, laughing.

And Dick felt, as he hurried down to Hall, that he was something more than well out of it. Instead of meeting the fate which his own conceit had prepared, he had secured a friend at court, who, something told him, would stand by him in the coming term. His self-esteem had had a fall, but his self-respect had had a decided lift; for he felt now that he went in and out under inspection, and that Cresswell's good opinion was a distinction by all means to be coveted.

As a token of his improved frame of mind, he made frank confession of the whole story to Heathcote during dinner; and found his friend, as he knew he would be, brimful of sympathy and relief at his narrow escape.

Swinstead and Birket, as they watched their man from their distant table, were decidedly perplexed by his cheerful demeanour, and full of curiosity to learn the history of the interview.

They waylaid him casually in the court that afternoon.

"Well, have you settled it?" said Birket.

"Eh? Oh, yes, it's all right," replied Dick, rather enjoying himself.

"He made no difficulty about it, did he?"

"Not a bit. Jolly as possible."

It was not often that two Fifth-form boys at Templeton felt uncomfortable in the presence of a new junior, but Swinstead and Birket certainly did feel a trifle disconcerted at the coolness of their young victim.

"You told him we sent you?"

"Rather. He was awfully obliged."

"Was he? And did he give you the whip?"

"No, he hadn't got it handy. But I told him he could give it to you two next time he met you—and he's going to."

And to the consternation of his patrons the new boy walked off, whistling sweetly to himself and watching attentively the flight of the rooks round the school tower.

"Old man, we shall have some trouble with Number One," said Swinstead, laughing.

"Yes, we've caught a Tartar for once," said Birket. "You and I may retire into private life for a bit, I fancy."



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A GENERAL ELECTION.

The return of the Sixth, our heroes discovered, made a wonderful change in the school life of Templeton. The Fifth, who always made the best use of their two day's authority while they had it, retired almost mysteriously into private life in favour of their betters. All school sports, and gatherings, and riots had to depend no longer upon the sweet will of those who sported, or gathered, or rioted, but on the pleasure of the monitors. The school societies and institutions began to wake up after their holiday, and generally speaking the wheels of Templeton which, during the first two days had bumped noisily over the cobbles, got at last on to the lines, and began to spin round at their accustomed pace.

In no part of the school was this change more felt than among the juniors. They liked being off the line now and then, and they always rebelled when the iron hand of the law picked them up and set them back on the track. It wasn't only that they couldn't run riot, and make Templeton a bear-garden. That was bad enough. But in addition to that, they had to fag for the Sixth, and after a week or two of liberty the return to servitude is always painful.

"You kids," said Raggles, two days after the return of the Sixth, "mind you show up at Den after Elections this evening."

"What is Den, and who are Elections?" asked Dick.

"What, don't you know? Awful green lot of new kids you are. Elections is after tea in the hall, and Den's directly after that."

Raggles was very much affronted, when, after this lucid explanation, Dick again enquired—

"What do you mean by Den and Elections?"

"Look here, what a howling idiot you must be if you've got to be told half a dozen times. I'll spell it for you if you like."

"All serene," said Heathcote. "Two to one you come a cropper over Elections."

"Who do they elect?" asked Dick.

"Why, everybody, of course. The captains of the clubs, and all that. Hang it, you'll be there. What's the use of fagging to tell you?"

"And what about the Den? Who lives in it?"

"Look here! I shall lick you, Richardson, if you go on like that. You green kids are a lot too cheeky."

And the offended envoy went off in a huff, leaving his hearers in a state of excited uncertainty as to the nature of the ceremony to which their company had been invited.

As the reader may like to have a rather more definite explanation than that afforded by Mr Raggles, let him know that unlike most public schools, the school year at Templeton began after the Easter holidays, instead of after the summer holidays. The new boys came up then for the most part (though a few "second chances," as they were called, straggled in in the autumn term), and the various appointments to offices of honour and duty, the inauguration of the clubs, and the apportionment of the fags always formed an interesting feature of the new term. The whole of the business was transacted in a mass meeting of the school, known by the name of "Elections," where, under the solemn auspices of the Sixth, Templeton was invited to pick out its own rulers, and settle its own programme for the ensuing year.

Elections, as a rule, passed off harmoniously, the school acquiescing on most points in the recommendations of the Sixth, and, except on matters of great excitement, rarely venturing to lift up its voice in opposition. The juniors, however, generally contrived to have their fling, usually on the question of fagging, which being a recognised institution at Templeton, formed a standing bone of contention. And, as part of the business of Elections was the solemn drawing of lots for new boys to fill the vacancies caused by removal or promotion, the opportunity generally commended itself as a fit one for some little demonstration.

The Juniors' Den at Templeton, that is, the popular assembly of those youthful Templetonians who had not yet reached the dignity of the Fourth Form, had always been the most radical association in the school. Though they differed amongst themselves in most things, they were as one man in denouncing fagging and monitors. Their motto was—down with both; and it pleased them not a little to discover that though their agitation did little good in the way of reforming Templeton, it served to keep their "Den" well before the school, and sometimes to cause anxiety in high places.

Such was the state of school politics at Templeton, when Dick and Heathcote obeyed the summons to attend their first Elections, on the first Saturday of the new term.

They found the Great Hall crowded with benches, rather like chapel, with a raised dais at the upper end for the Sixth, a long table in front for the 'reporters,' and the rest of the space divided into clusters of seats, occupied by members of the various school organisations represented. Of these clusters, by far the largest was that devoted to the accommodation of the Den, towards which our heroes, actively piloted by Raggles and Gosse, and a few kindred spirits, were conducted in state, just as the proceedings were about to begin.

"Come and squash up in the corner," said Raggles; "we're well behind, and shan't be seen if we want to shine."

"Shine," as our heroes discovered in due time, was a poetical way of expressing what in commonplace language would be called, "kicking up a shine."

"Shall you cheer Ponty?" asked Gosse of his friend.

"Rather. He's a muff. I shall howl at Mansfield, though, and Cresswell."

"I shan't howl at Cresswell," said Dick boldly.

"Why not? He's a beast. You'll get kicked, if you don't, I say."

"I suppose they'll make him Whipper-in again," said another boy near them. Dick looked uncomfortable for a moment. But the indifferent looks on his neighbours' faces convinced him the story had not yet reached the Den.

"Cazenove thinks he ought to get it," said Gosse, amid a general laugh, for Cazenove was almost as round as he was high. "Shall I put you up, old man? Hullo, here they come! There's Ponty. Clap up, you fellows."

A big cheer greeted Pontifex, the captain of the school, as he strolled on to the dais, and took the chair of state.

The new boys eyed him curiously. He was a burly, good-humoured, easy- going fellow, with an "anything for a quiet life" look about him, as he stretched himself comfortably in his seat, and looked placidly round the hall. The cheering had very little effect on his composure. Indeed, he may not have taken in that it was intended for him at all; for he took no notice of it, and appeared to be quite as much amused at the noise as any one else.

A great contrast to Pontifex was Mansfield, the vice-captain, who, with quick eye, and cool, determined mouth, sat next, and eyed the scene like a general who parades his forces and waits to give them the word of command. Like Pontifex, he seemed but little concerned, either with the cheers of his friends or the few howls of his mutinous juniors. He was used to noises, and they made very little difference to him one way or another. Cresswell, on the contrary, seemed decidedly pleased, when cheers and cries of "Well run!" greeted his appearance; and most of the other monitors—Cartwright, the quick-tempered, warm-hearted Templeton football captain; Freckleton, the studious "dark man;" Bull, the "knowing one," with his horse-shoe pin; Pledge, the smirking "spider;" of the Sixth, and others—seemed to set no little store by the reception the school was pleased to accord them.

At last all were in their places, the door was shut—a traditional precaution against magisterial invasion—and Pontifex lounged to his feet.

"Well, you fellows," said he, with a pleasant smile and in a pleasant voice, "here we are again at another Election. We're always glad to see one another after the holidays—at least I am (cheers)—and I hope we've got a good year coming on. They tell me I'm captain of Templeton this year. (Laughter and cheers.) I can tell you I'm proud of it, and only wish I wasn't going to Oxford in the autumn. (Cheers and cries of 'Don't go.') The comfort is, you'll have a rattling good captain in Mansfield when I'm gone. (Cheers and a few howls.) I don't wonder some of the young 'uns howl, for he'll make some of you sit up, which I could never do. (Great laughter among the Seniors, and signs of dissension in the Den.) But I've not got to make a speech. There's a lot of business. The first thing is the cricket captain. There's only one man fit for that, and I won't go through the farce of proposing him. Those who say Mansfield's the right man for cricket captain, hold up your hands."

A forest of hands went up, for even the malcontents who didn't approve of Mansfield as a monitor had nothing to say against his cricket, which was about as perfect as any that had been seen in the Templeton fields for a dozen years.

With similar unanimity Cresswell was re-elected Whipper-in of the Harriers, and no one held up his hand more enthusiastically for him than did Dick, who shuddered to think how he could ever have imagined himself on such a lofty pedestal.

Then followed in quick succession elections to the other high offices of state in Templeton—Cartwright to the football captaincy, Bull to the keepership of the fives and tennis, Freckleton to be warden of the port—a sinecure office, supposed to imply some duties connected with the "Tub," but really only the relic of some ancient office handed down from bygone generations, and piously retained by a conservative posterity.

All these were re-elections and passed off without opposition, and as a matter of course.

When, however, Pontifex announced that the office of Usher of the Chapel was vacant, the duties of which were to mark the attendance of all boys and present weekly reports of their punctuality, and proceeded to nominate Pledge for the post, the first symptoms of opposition showed themselves, much to the delight of the Den.

"I move an amendment to that," said Birket, looking a little nervous, but evidently in earnest. "I don't think Pledge is the proper man. (Cheers.) I don't like him myself—(loud cheers)—and I don't think I'm very fastidious. (Great applause from the Den.) We want an honest, reliable man—(hear, hear)—who'll keep our scores without fear or favour. (Applause.) You needn't think I'm saying this for a lark. I'm pretty sure to catch it, but I don't care; I'll say what I think. (Cries of 'We'll back you up,' and cheers.) You're not obliged to have a monitor to be Usher of the Chapel, and I propose Swinstead be appointed."

Birket sat down amid loud cheers. It had been a plucky thing for him to do, and very few would have undertaken so ungracious a task; but, now he had undertaken it, the meeting was evidently with him.

"Everybody here," said Pontifex, "as long as he's in order, has a right to express his opinion without fear. Two names have now been proposed— Pledge and Swinstead. Any more?"

No one broke the silence.

"Then I'll put up Swinstead first. Who votes for Swinstead?"

Everybody, apparently. The Den, to a man, and the Middle school scarcely less unanimously.

"Now for Pledge."

About a dozen, including Bull and one or two of the Sixth, a select few among the juniors, and a certain unwholesome-looking clique among the Fourth and Fifth.

It rather surprised our heroes to notice that Pledge, so far from appearing mortified by his reverse, took it with a decidedly amiable smile, which became almost grateful as it beamed into the corner where Birket and Swinstead, both flushed with excitement, sat.

"By Jingo! I wouldn't be those two for a lot!" said Raggles.

"Now I think Pledge takes it very well," said Heathcote.

Whereat there was a mighty laugh in the Den as the joke passed round, and the phenomenon of the "green new kid" blushing scarlet all over attracted general curiosity, and stopped the proceedings for several minutes.

As soon as order was restored, other elections were proceeded with, including the school librarian and the post fag, the duty of which latter office was to distribute the letters which came by the post to their respective owners. For this office there was always great competition, each "set" being anxious to get one of its own members, on whom it could depend.

The contest this year lay between Pauncefote, of Westover's, and Duffield of Purbeck's, and ever since the term opened canvassing had been going on actively on behalf of the respective candidates. I regret to say the laws relating to elections at Templeton were not as rigid as those which regulate public elections generally, and bribery and corruption were no name for some of the unscrupulous practices resorted to by the friends of either party to secure a vote. If a small boy ventured to express so much as a doubt as to his choice, his arm would be seized by the canvassing party and screwed till the required pledge was given. And woe to that small boy if an hour later the other side caught him by the other arm and begged the favour of his vote for their man! Nothing short of perjury would keep his arm in its socket. Nor was it once or twice only that the youth of Templeton would be made to forswear itself over the election of post fag. Several times a day the same luckless voter might be made to yield up his promise, until, at the end of a week, he would become too confused and weary to recollect for which side his word of honour had last been given. Nor did it much matter, for his vote in Hall depended entirely on the company nearest within reach of his arm; and if, by some grim fatality, he should chance to get with one arm towards each party, the effort of recording his vote was likely to prove one of the most serious undertakings of his mortal life.

Our heroes, luckily for them, found themselves planted in the midst of Pauncefote's adherents, so that they experienced no difficulty at all in making up their minds how they should vote. They either did not see or did not notice a few threatening shouts and pantomimic gestures addressed to them by some of Duffield's supporters in a remote corner of the room, and held up their hands for his opponent with the clear conscience of men who exercise a mighty privilege fearlessly.

"Stick up both hands," said Gosse. "We shall be short."

"It wouldn't be fair," said Dick, boldly.

"Howling prig!" said Gosse, in disgust, "canting young hypocrite; you'll get it hot, I can tell you, if—"

"Shut up!" shouted Dick, rounding on him with a fierceness which astonished himself. It was a show to see the way in which Gosse collapsed under this thunderclap of righteous indignation. He looked round at Dick out of the corners of his eyes, very much as a small dog contemplates the boot that has just helped him half-way across the road, and positively forgot to keep his own grimy hand raised aloft till the counting was finished.

"Pauncefote has 108 votes. Now those who are in favour of Duffield?"

There was great excitement, and no little uproar, as the rival party made their show. Cries of, "Cheat! both hands up!" rose from the shocked adherents of Pauncefote; and a good deal of quiet service, in holding the arms of weaklings down to their sides, was rendered on the frontier. Finally, it was found that Duffield had in votes; whereat there were tremendous cheers and counter-cheers, not unmixed with recriminations, and imputations and threats, which promised our heroes a lively time of it when finally they adjourned to the Den.

Before that happened, however, a solemn ceremony had to be gone through, in which they were personally interested. The chairman read out a list of new boys, and ordered them to answer to their names, and come forward on to the platform. It was a nervous ordeal, even for the most self- composed, to be thus publicly trotted out in the presence of all Templeton, and to hear the derisive cheers with which his name and appearance were greeted as he obeyed.

"Look at his legs!" cried one, as Dick, inwardly hoping he was making a favourable impression, passed up the hall and mounted the steps. Whereupon Dick suddenly became conscious of his lower limbs—which, by the way, were as straight and tight a pair of shanks as any boy of fourteen could boast—and tried to hide them behind a chair.

"I can see them still!" cried a shrill voice, just as he thought he had succeeded; and poor Dick, who, an hour ago, had almost forgotten he was a new boy, had to endure a storm of laughter, and look as much at his ease as he could, while all Templeton mounted on chairs, and stretched its necks to catch a glimpse of his unfortunate legs.

Heathcote came in for a similar trial on account of his blushes, and poor Aspinall positively staggered, and finally broke down under allusions to the "bottle," and "soothing syrup," and "mamma" and "sister Lottie."

The Sixth had the sense not to attempt to quell the disorder till it had had a fair chance of blowing itself off. Then Pontifex ordered the names to be put into a hat, and handed round for each of the monitors to draw. Each monitor accordingly drew, and announced the name of his future fag. In the first round Heathcote's name and Aspinall's both came up—the former, much to his disgust, falling to the lot of Pledge, the latter to that of Cresswell. Dick boiled with excitement as the hat started on its second round. Suppose he, too, should fall to the lot of a cad like Pledge, or a brute like Bull! Or, oh blissful notion! suppose Cresswell should draw him, too, as well as Aspinall.

The hat started; Pontifex drew a stranger; so did Mansfield. Then Cresswell drew, and, with a bound of delight, Dick heard his own name, and marked the gleam of pleasure which crossed his new master's face as he turned towards him. He forgot all about his legs, he even missed Heathcote's doleful look of disappointment, or the thankful sigh of young Aspinall. He felt as if something good had happened to him, and as if his star were still in the ascendant.

At the end of the Elections a cry of "three groans for fagging!" was proposed by some member of the Den, who took care to keep himself well concealed, and, as usual, was lustily responded to by all the interested parties. Which little demonstration being over, Pontifex announced that the meeting was over, and that "captain's levee" would be held on that day week at 5:30.

Our heroes were promptly kidnapped, as they descended from the platform, by the emissaries of the Den, who hurried them off to the serene atmosphere of that dignified assembly, where, for an hour or more, they took part in denouncing everybody and everything, and assisted in a noble flow of patriotic eloquence on the duty of the oppressed towards the oppressor, and the slave towards his driver. The Sixth, meanwhile, rather glad to have Elections over, strolled off to their own quarters.

"More row than ever this year," said Mansfield, as he followed Cresswell into his study. "Ponty's too easy-going."

"I don't know. If you keep them in too tight they'll burst. I think he's right to give them some play."

"Well, perhaps you're right, Cress; but I'm afraid I shan't be as easy with them as Ponty. My opinion is, that if you give them an inch they'll take an ell. By the way, that was a queer thing about Pledge. Did you expect it?"

"No, but I'm not surprised. He's a low cad—poor Forbes owed his expulsion last term to him, I'm positive. He simply set himself to drag him down, and he did it."

"Pity he's such a good bowler, one's bound to keep him in the eleven, and the fellows always swear by the eleven. By the way, I hear we have our work cut out for us at Grandcourt this year. They're a hot lot, and we play them on their own ground this time."

"Oh, we shall do it, if only Ponty will wake up."

These two enthusiasts for the good of Templeton would have been a good deal afflicted had they seen what the burly captain of the school was doing at that moment.

He was sitting in his easy-chair, the picture of comfort, with his feet up on the window-ledge, reading "Pickwick," and laughing as he read. No sign of care was on his brow, and apparently no concern for Templeton was weighing on his mind; and even when a fag entered and brought him up a list of names of boys requiring his magisterial correction, he ordered him to put it on the table, and never even glanced at it for the next hour.

Pontifex, it is true, did not do himself justice. He passed for even more easy-going than he was, and when he did choose to make an effort— few fellows could better deal with the duties that fell to his lot. But, unfortunately, he didn't make the effort often enough either for the good of Templeton or his own credit.

He was getting to the end of his chapter when the door opened again, and Pledge entered.

"Hallo," said the captain, looking up after a bit, "you came a cropper, I say, this afternoon. What have you been up to?"

"That's what I came to ask you," said Pledge, with an amiable smile.

"Goodness knows! I was as much surprised as you. You know, between you and me, I don't think you did Forbes much good last term."

"Quite a mistake. I befriended him when everybody else was cutting him. He told me when he left I was the only friend he had here."

"A good friend?" asked Pontifex, looking hard at his man.

"Really, Ponty, you don't improve in your manners," said Pledge, with a slightly embarrassed laugh.

"No offence, old man," said the captain. "But, seriously, don't you think you might do a little more good, or even a little less well, harm, you know, in Templeton than you do?"

"Most noble captain, we must see what can be done," said Pledge, colouring a trifle, as he left the room.

"I've lost my pull on him, I suppose," said the captain, taking up his "Pickwick."

"By Jove! I wish I could make up my mind to kick him!"



CHAPTER EIGHT.

IN WHICH HEATHCOTE BECOMES INTERESTING.

Pledge was a type of fellow unfortunately not uncommon in some public schools, whom it is not easy to describe by any other word than dangerous. To look at him, to speak to him, to hear him, the ordinary observer would notice very little to single him out from fifty other boys of the same age and condition. He was clever, good-humoured, and obliging, he was a fine cricketer and lawn tennis player, he was rarely overtaken in any breach of school rules and he was decidedly lenient in the use of his monitorial authority.

For all that, fellows steered clear of him, or, when they came across him, felt uncomfortable till they could get out of his way. There were ugly stories about the harm he had done to more than one promising simple-minded young Templetonian in days past who had had the ill-luck to come under his influence. And although, as usual, such stories were exaggerated, it was pretty well-known why this plausible small boys' friend was called "spider" by his enemies, who envied no one who fell into his web.

Heathcote accordingly came in for very little congratulation that evening after Elections when he was formally sworn in to the Den as the "spider's" fag and was thoroughly frightened by the stories he heard and the still more alarming mysterious hints that were dropped for his benefit.

However, like a philosopher as he was, he determined to enjoy himself while he could, and therefore entered with spirit into the lively proceedings of that evening's Den.

That important institution was, our heroes discovered, by no means an assembly of one idea. Although its leading motive might be said to be disorder, it existed for other purposes as well; as was clearly set forth in the articles of admission administered to each new boy on joining its honourable company.

Terrible and sweeping were the "affirmations" each Denite was required to make on the top of a crib to Caesar's Commentaries.

(1) "I promise to stick by every chap of the Den whenever I am called upon."

(2) "I promise never to sneak, or tell tales of any chap of the Den, under any circumstances."

(3) "I promise never to fag for anybody more than I can possibly help."

(4) "I promise to do all I can to make myself jolly to the Den."

(5) "If I break any of these rules, I promise to let myself be kicked all round by the chaps of the Den, as long as I am able to stand it."

Our heroes and young Aspinall were called upon solemnly to subscribe to each of these weighty promises, under threat of the most awful vengeance if they refused. And, as it seemed to each he might safely venture on the promise required, they went dutifully through the ceremony, and had the high privilege of exercising their new rights, ten minutes later, in kicking a couple of recalcitrant Denites, one of whom, as it happened, was the high-minded Mr Gosse, who had been detected in the act of telling tales to a monitor of one of his companions.

Mr Gosse availed himself on this occasion of the last clause of Rule 5, and lay down on the ground, after the first kick. He was, however, persuaded to resume his feet, and finally had the inward satisfaction of feeling that he had obeyed the requirements of the rule to the utmost.

This little matter of business being disposed of, and the usual patriotic speeches having been delivered, the Den, which was nothing if it was not original, proceeded to its elections—a somewhat tedious ceremony, which it was very difficult for a stranger to understand.

A vicious-looking youth, called Culver, was elected president of the club, Pauncefote (the rejected post fag) and Smith were appointed treasurers, and, greatly to the surprise of the new boys, but of no one else, Mr Gosse, still barely recovered from his loyalty to Rule 5, was elected secretary, and made a very amiable and highly-applauded speech, in returning thanks for the compliment paid to him.

After this, the Den resolved itself into a social gathering, and became rather tedious.

Dick was interrupted in a yawn by Messrs. Pauncefote and Smith, who politely waited upon him for his subscription, a request which Culver, as president, and Gosse, as secretary, were also in attendance to see complied with.

"How much?" said Dick.

"Threepence," said Smith, but was instantly jostled by a violent nudge from Gosse.

"How much tin have you got?" demanded that official.

Dick, who had long ere this lost any reverence he might be expected to entertain towards the secretary of the Den, replied:

"Threepence."

"Howling cram!" observed Gosse. "I know you've more than that."

"Ah! you've been putting your hands in my pockets then?"

Whereat there was a mighty cheer, and the Den was called to order to hear the joke, which it did with genuine merriment; and then and there passed a resolution unanimously, requesting Mr Gosse once more to comply with Rule 5. That young gentleman got out of it this time by making a public apology, and in no way abashed by the incident, proceeded to attend the treasurers during the remainder of their business circuit. Culver stayed behind, and said to Dick:—

"Awfully well you shut him up. I say, by the way, I suppose you don't want a knife, do you?"

"Yes, I do. Have you got one?"

"Rather! but I'd sooner have a dog's-head pin instead. I suppose you've not got one."

Considering that Dick's dog's-head pin, the gift of his particular aunt, was all this time within a few inches of Culver's nose, the inquiry was decidedly artless.

"Yes, I have," said Dick, pointing to his scarf; "a jolly one, too."

"How'd you like to swop?"

"Let's see the knife," replied the business-like Dick.

Culver produced the knife. Rather a sorry weapon, as regarded its chief blades. But it had a saw, and a gouge to remove stones from one's boot.

"It's a jolly fine knife," said Culver, seeing that it was already making an impression; "and I'd be sorry to part with it."

Dick mused on the weapon, and lightly rubbed his chin against his aunt's dog's-head.

"All right," said he, putting the knife into his pocket, and slowly pulling out the pin. His conscience half smote him, as he saw his treasure being transferred to Culver's scarf. But he was too proud to try to revoke his bargain, and consoled himself as best he could by fondling the knife in his pocket, and thinking how useful the gouge would be.

Before the evening was over he made the discovery that "swopping" was a favourite pastime of the leisure hours of the Den. He was startled at one period of the evening to notice Heathcote's steel chain adorning the waistcoat of Gosse, and an hour later to find it in the possession of Raggles, who came over to Dick with it, and asked casually.

"I suppose you wouldn't care to swop a knife for this?"

Dick was proof against the temptation. He didn't want a steel chain. But he wished Culver would be moved to transfer the dog's-head to some one who wanted a knife. That, however, Culver did not do. He seemed, as indeed his experience in business justified him in being, a good judge of a good bargain; and stuck very faithfully to his new pin, in spite of a considerable number of offers.

After joining in a few songs the airs of which were somewhat vague, the Den adjourned. As its proceedings had consisted in an uninterrupted uproar for two consecutive hours, the new boys, none of whom were seasoned to it, were all more or less tired.

Poor young Aspinall, in particular, was very tired. He had had a rough time of it; and had tremblingly complied with every demand any one chose to make of him. He had parted with all his available "swoppable" goods; he had stood on a form and sung little hymns to a derisive audience; he had answered questions as to his mother, his sister, and other members of his family; he had endured buffeting and kicks, till he was fairly worn out, and till it ceased to be amusing to torment him.

When finally he was released, and found himself on his way to the dormitory, under Dick's sheltering wing, he broke down.

"I wish I was dead," he said, miserably, "it's awful here."

"Don't talk like that," said Dick, a trifle impatiently, for with all his good heart he got tired of the boy's perpetual tears. "You'll get used to it soon. Haven't you got any pluck in you?"

"It's all very well for you," said the boy; "fellows seem to let you alone, and not care to touch you; but they see I can't stand up for myself."

"More shame if they do," said Dick bluntly; "I don't believe you when you say so. I call it cant. How do you know? You can't tell till you try."

"Oh, don't be angry, please," said the boy. "I know you are right; I really will try, if you stick up for me."

"Never mind me," said Dick, getting into bed.

Aspinall did not pursue the topic; but as he lay awake that night, feeling his heart jump at every footstep and word in the room, he made the most desperate and heroic resolves to become a perfect griffin to all Templeton. For all that, he also nearly made up his mind to steal out of bed and peep from the window, to see if there were any possibility of escaping home, while Templeton slept, to Devonshire.

The new boys all obeyed the summons of the half-past-six bell next morning with nervous alacrity. For it was something more than a mere call to shake off "dull sloth"—it was a reminder that they were fags, and that their masters lay in bed depending on them to rouse them in time for morning chapel.

The old fags smiled to see the feverish haste with which the new ones flung themselves into their garments, and started each on his rousing mission. These veterans had had their day of the same sort of thing. Now they knew better, and as long as they could continue occasionally to be found by their seniors with a duster in their hands, or toasting a piece of bread before the fire, the "new brooms" could be left to do all the other work, for which the old ones reaped the credit.

Heathcote, with very dismal forebodings, knocked at Pledge's door.

"It's time to get up, please," said he.

"All right. Fetch me some hot water, will you? and brush my lace boots."

Heathcote, as he started off to fetch the water, thought that the voice of his new master was certainly not as repulsive as he had been led by his numerous sympathisers to expect.

"However," said he to himself, "you can't always judge of a fellow by his voice."

Which was very true, as he found immediately afterwards, when, as he was kneeling down at the tap, trying to coax the last few drops of hot water into his can, a voice behind him said—

"Look sharp, you fellow, don't drink it all up," and he looked up and saw Dick, and Dick's can, bound on the same errand as his own.

"Hallo," he said, "you won't find much left."

"You'll have to give me some of yours then," said Dick.

"I can't, I've only got half a can-full as it is."

"But Cresswell sent me, I tell you."

"And Pledge sent me."

"Pooh! He doesn't matter. He's a beast. Come, go halves, old man."

Of course Heathcote went halves, and enquired as he did so whether Dick had got any boots to clean.

"I've put the young 'un on to that," said Dick, rather grandly. "I left him crying on them just now."

"How many fags has Cresswell got?"

"Us two," said Dick, "at least I've not seen any more."

"I believe I'm the only one Pledge has got."

"Poor beggar! Thanks, Georgie. Get next to me at chapel."

And the two friends went each his own way.

Pledge seemed, on the whole, agreeably surprised to get as much as a quarter of a can of hot water; and Heathcote, as he polished up the lace boots, felt he had begun well. His new master said little or nothing to him, as he put the study tidy, arranged the books, and got out the cup and saucer and coffee-pot ready for the senior's breakfast.

"Is there anything else?" he asked as the chapel bell began to toll.

"No, that's all just now. You can come and clear up after breakfast, and if you've got nothing to do after morning school, you can come and take a bat down at the nets, while I bowl."

At the very least Heathcote had expected to be horrified, when this terrible ogre did speak, by a broadside of bad language; and he felt quite bewildered as he recalled the brief conversation and detected in it not a single word which could offend anybody. On the contrary, everything had been most proper and considerate, and the last invitation coming from a first eleven man to his new fag was quite gratuitously friendly.

"I don't think he's so bad," he remarked to Dick, as they went from chapel to breakfast.

"All I know is," said Dick, "Cresswell was asking me if it was my chum who had been drawn by Pledge, and when I told him, he told me I might say to you, from him, that you had better be careful not to get too chummy with the 'spider;' and the less you hang about his study the better. I don't think Cresswell would say a thing like that unless he meant it."

"I dare say not," said Heathcote. "But I wish to goodness some one would say what it all means. I can't make it out."

After breakfast he repaired to his lord's study, and cleared the table.

"Well," said Pledge. "What about cricket?"

"Thanks, awfully," said the fag, "I'd like it."

"All serene. Come here as soon as school is up." Which Heathcote did, and was girt hand and foot with pads, and led by his senior down into the fields, where for an hour he stood gallantly at the wickets, swiping heroically at every ball, and re-erecting his stumps about once an over, as often as they were overturned by the desolating fire of the crack bowler of Templeton.

A few stragglers came up and watched the practice; but Heathcote had the natural modesty to know that their curiosity did not extend to his batting, gallant as it was. Indeed, they almost ignored the existence of a bat anywhere, and even failed to be amused by the gradual demoralisation of the fag who wielded it, under the sense of the eyes that were upon him.

"Pledge is on his form this term," said Cresswell, one of the onlookers, to his friend Cartwright.

"Tremendously," said Cartwright. "Grandcourt won't stand up to it, if it's like that on match day. Who's the kid at the wicket?"

"His new fag—poor little beggar!"

"It's a pity. Poor Forbes was just like him a couple of years ago."

"Never mind," said Cresswell, "Mansfield has got his eyes open, and I fancy he'll be down in that quarter when he's captain. Old Ponty won't do it. He's worse than ever. Won't even come to practice, till he's finished 'Pickwick,' he says."

And the two friends strolled off rather despondently.

In due time Heathcote was allowed to divest himself of his armour, and accompany his senior indoors.

"You didn't make a bad stand, youngster," said Pledge, as they walked across the field, "especially at the end. Have you done much cricket?"

"Not much," said Heathcote, blushing at the compliment.

"You should stick to it. You'll get plenty of chance this term."

"And yet," said Heathcote to himself, "this is the fellow everybody tells me is a beast to be fought shy of, and not trusted for a minute." He was almost tempted to interrogate Pledge point-blank on what it all meant; but his shyness prevented him.

Nothing occurred during the day to solve the mystery. There was comparatively little to be done in the way of fagging; and what little there was, was amply compensated for by the help Pledge gave him in his Latin composition in the evening.

Later on, while Pledge was away somewhere, Heathcote was putting the books away on to the shelves, and generally tidying up the study, when the door partly opened, and a small round missive was tossed on to the floor of the room.

Heathcote regarded the intruder in a startled way, as if it had been some infernal machine; but presently took courage to advance and take the missive in his hand. It was a small round cardboard box, about the size of a tennis ball, which, much to his surprise, bore his own name, printed in pen and ink, on the outside. He opened it nervously, and found a note inside, also addressed to himself, which ran thus:—

"Heathcote.—This is from a friend. You are in peril. Don't believe anything Pledge tells you. Suspect everything he does. He will try to make a blackguard of you. You had much better break with him, refuse to fag for him and take the consequences, than become his friend. Be warned in time.—Junius."

This extraordinary epistle, all printed in an unrecognisable hand, set Heathcote's heart beating and his colour coming and going in a manner quite new to him. Who was this "Junius," and what was this conspiracy to terrify him? "Suspect everything he does." A pretty piece of advice, certainly, to anybody. For instance, what villainy could be concealed in his bowling for an hour at the wickets, or rescuing young Aspinall from his tormentors? "He will try to make a blackguard of you." Supposing Junius was right, would it not be warning enough to fight shy of him when he began to try? Heathcote had reached this stage in his meditations when he heard Pledge approaching. He hurriedly crushed the letter away into his pocket, and returned to the bookcase.

"Hullo, young fellow," said Pledge, entering. "Putting things straight? Thanks. What about your Latin verses? Not done, as usual, I suppose. Let's have a look. I'll do them for you, and you can fetch them in the morning. Good-night."

Heathcote retired, utterly puzzled. He could believe a good deal that he was told, but it took hard persuasion to make him believe that a senior who could do his Latin verses for him could be his worst enemy.



CHAPTER NINE.

A LITERARY GHOST.

For two whole days Heathcote let "Junius's" letter burn holes in his pocket, not knowing what to think of it, or what to do with it. For him to take Dick into his confidence was, however, a mere matter of time, for Heathcote's nature was not one which could hold a secret for many days together, and his loyalty to his "leader" was such that whenever the secret had to come out, Dick's was the bosom that had to receive it.

"It's rum," said the latter, after having read the mysterious document twice through. "I don't like it, Georgie."

"The thing is, I can't imagine who wrote it. You didn't, did you?"

Dick laughed.

"Rather not. I don't see the good of hole-in-the-corner ways of doing things like that."

"Do you think Cresswell wrote it? He's about the only senior that knows me, except Pledge."

"I don't fancy he did; it's not his style," said Dick, who seemed quite to have taken the whipper-in under his wing.

"He might know. I wonder, Dick, if you'd mind trying to find out? It maybe a trick, you know, after all."

"Don't look like it," said Dick, glancing again at the letter. "It's too like what everybody says about him."

"That's the worst of it. He's hardly said a word to me since I've been his fag, and certainly nothing bad; and he writes my Latin verses for me, too. I fancy fellows are down on him too much."

"Well," said Dick, "I'll try and pump Cresswell; but I wish to goodness, Georgie, you weren't that beast's fag."

Every conversation he had on the subject, no matter with whom, ended in some such ejaculation, till Heathcote got quite used to it, and even ceased to be disturbed by it.

Indeed, he was half disappointed, after all the warning and sympathy he had received, to find no call made upon his virtue, and no opportunity of making a noble stand against the wiles of the "spider." He would rather have enjoyed a mild passage of arms in defence of his uprightness; and it was a little like a "sell" to find Pledge turn out, after all, so uninterestingly like everybody else.

Dick duly took an opportunity of consulting Cresswell on his friend's behalf.

"I say, Cresswell," said he, one morning, as the senior and his fag walked back from the "Tub."

"Who was Forbes?"

"Never mind," said Cresswell, shortly.

This was a rebuff, certainly; but Dick stuck to his purpose.

"Heathcote asked me," he said. "He's Pledge's fag, and everybody says to him he'll come to grief like Forbes; and he doesn't know what they mean."

"You gave your chum my message, did you?" said Cresswell.

"Oh, yes; and, do you know, the other evening he had a letter thrown into him, he doesn't know where from, saying the same thing?"

Cresswell whistled, and stared at his fag.

"Was it signed 'Junius,' and done up in a ball?" he asked, excitedly.

"Yes. Did you send it?"

"And was it in printed letters, so that nobody could tell the writing?"

"Yes. Do you know about it, I say?"

"No," said Cresswell; "no more does anybody. Your chum's had a letter from the ghost!"

"The what?"

"The Templeton ghost, my boy."

"I don't believe in ghosts," said Dick.

"That's all right. No more do I. But those who do, say its a bad sign to get a letter from ours. Forbes got one early last term."

"Do you really mean—?" began Dick.

"I mean," said Cresswell, interrupting him, and evidently not enjoying the topic, "I mean that nobody knows who writes the letters, or why. It's been a mystery ever since I came here, three years ago. It happens sometimes twice or thrice a term; and other times perhaps only once in six months."

"What had Heathcote better do?" asked Dick, feeling anything but reassured.

"Do! He'd better read the letter. There's no use going and flourishing it all round the school."

With this small grain of advice Dick betook himself to his friend, and succeeded in making him more than ever uncomfortable and perplexed. Nor was his perplexity made less when, during the next few days, it leaked out somehow, and spread all over Templeton, that Heathcote had had a letter from the ghost.

Interviewers waited on him from all quarters. Seniors cross-examined him, Fifth-form fellows tried to coax the letter out of him, and the Den called upon him, under threats of "Rule 5," to make a full disclosure of what had befallen him. He had a fair chance of losing his head with all the attention paid him; and, had it not been for Cresswell's advice, emphasised by Dick, he might, like the ass in the lion's skin, have made himself ridiculous. As it was, he was not more than ordinarily intoxicated by his sudden notoriety, and kept the ghost's letter prudently hidden in his own pocket.

One fellow, and one only besides Dick, saw it. And that was Pledge.

"What's all this about the ghost?" asked the senior of his fag one evening during preparation in their study. "Is it true you've had a letter?"

"Yes," said Heathcote, very uncomfortably.

"Do you mind letting me see it?"

"I'd rather not, please," said the boy.

"Don't you think it was meant for me to see?" asked Pledge.

Heathcote was puzzled. He had never thought so yet, and wished Dick was at hand to be consulted.

"I don't think so," he said.

"It says, doesn't it, that you are to be on your guard against me, and that I shall be sure and do you harm, and that the less you see of me the better, eh?"

"Yes; have you seen the letter?"

"No, or I shouldn't ask to see it.—How would you like to have letters written about you like that?"

"Not at all. Do you know who wrote it?"

"No. No one knows. And you believe it, of course?"

"No, I don't," said Heathcote, making up his mind at a bound on a question which had been distracting him for a week.

Pledge seemed neither pleased nor surprised by this avowal.

"Doesn't everybody say you ought to?"

"Perhaps they do," said Heathcote, getting into a corner.

"Doesn't your chum say so?"

"He only goes by what other fellows say."

"You mean Cresswell?"

"I daresay Cresswell may have said something," said the new boy, getting deeper and deeper, and beginning to shuffle in spite of himself.

"You know he has said something," said Pledge, sternly. "The ghost didn't tell you to tell falsehoods, did it?"

"No. Cresswell did say something."

"And you think it was very friendly of him, don't you?"

"No, I don't," said the unhappy Heathcote.

"Is Cresswell very fond of you?" asked Pledge.

"No. I hardly ever saw him."

"Why do you suppose he sent you that message, then?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he's got a spite against you."

The boy was fairly out of his depth now, and gave up trying to recover his feet.

"Would you like to know why; or don't you care?"

"I would like to know, please."

"I daresay you've heard of a fellow called Forbes?"

Heathcote had, from twenty different fellows.

"Forbes was a fag of mine last year—a nice boy, but dreadfully weak- minded. Any one could twist him round his thumb. As long as I kept my eye on him he was steady enough; but if ever I let him slide he got into trouble. I was laid up a month last autumn with scarlet fever, and, of course, Forbes was on the loose, and spent most of his time with Cresswell and his set. As soon as I got back I noticed a change in him. He had got into bad ways, and talked like a fellow who was proud of what he had learned. He used to swear and tell lies, and other things a great deal worse. I did all I could to pull him up, and before Christmas I fancied he was rather steadier. But last term he broke out again as bad as ever. I could keep no hold of him. He was constantly cutting me for his other friend; and all the time I, as his senior, got the credit of his ruin. He was expelled in February for some disgraceful row he got into, and, because I stuck to him to the end, his other friend gets up a report that I was to blame for it all. I don't profess to be better than I ought to be, youngster; I know I should be better than I am; but I'm not a blackguard."

Heathcote was greatly impressed by this narrative. It cleared up, to his mind, a great deal of the mystery that had been tormenting him the last few days, and accounted for most of the stories and rumours which he had heard. The manner, too, in which Pledge defended himself, taking no undue credit for virtue, and showing such little bitterness towards his traducers, went far to win him over.

"It's hard lines on you," he said.

"You see, even a ghost can be wrong sometimes."

"Yes, he can," said Heathcote, resolutely.

"I should like to see the letter, if you have it."

And he did see it, and Heathcote watched the two red spots kindle on his cheeks as he read it and then crushed it up in his hand.

"You don't want it back, I suppose? You're not going to frame it?"

"No," replied the boy, watching the ghost's letter, rather regretfully, as it flared up and burned to ashes on the grate.

He wished the unpleasant impression caused in his own mind by the affair could come to an end as easily as that scrap of paper did.

Care, however, was not wont to sit heavily at any time on the spirit of George Heathcote, and as Pledge did not again return to the subject, and even Dick, seeing no immediate catastrophe befall his friend, began to suspect the whole affair as an intricate and elaborate practical joke at the expense of two new boys, the matter gradually subsided, and life went on at its usual jog-trot.

This jog-trot gave place, however, on one eventful afternoon to a more stately parade, on the occasion of the captain's levee, a week after Elections.

This ceremony, one of the immemorial traditions of Templeton, which fellows would as soon have thought of neglecting as of omitting to take a holiday on the Queen's birthday, was always an occasion of general interest after the reassembling of the school.

The captain of Templeton on this evening was "at home;" in other words, he stood on the platform at the top of "Hall" in his "swallows" and received the school, who all turned up in their very best attire to do honour to the occasion.

New boys were "presented" by their seniors, and the captain, if he was a fellow of tact and humour, usually contrived to say something friendly to the nervous juniors; and generally the occasion was looked upon as one on which Templeton was expected to make itself agreeable all round and do itself honour.

For some days previously our heroes had been carefully looking up their wardrobes in anticipation of the show. Dick, on the very evening of Elections, had put aside his whitest shirt, and Heathcote had even gone to the expense of a lofty masher collar, and had forgotten all about the ghost in his excitement over the washing of a choker which would come out limp, though he personally devoted a cupful of starch to its strengthening.

There was, as usual, keen competition among the members of the Den as to who should achieve the "showiest rig" on the occasion. For some days the owner of Heathcote's steel chain was mentioned as the favourite, until rumour got abroad that young Aspinall was a "hot man," and had white gloves and three coral studs. But Culver outdid everybody at the last moment by appearing in a real swallow-tail of his own, which he had secretly borrowed from a cousin during the holidays and kept dark till now.

This, of course, settled the contest in favour of the president of the Den, and so much enthusiasm prevailed over the discovery, that a Den levee was immediately proposed.

The idea took, and, after much debate, it was resolved that the honourable and original fraternity should take possession of the lower end of Hall on the captain's night, and, after doing duty at the top end, repair to the bottom, there to display their loyalty to their own particular "swallow." Due announcement was made to this effect, and Rule 5 carefully rehearsed in the ears of all waverers.

The evening came at last. Pontifex, surrounded by the Sixth, rambled up on to the dais and waited good-humouredly for the show to begin, quite regardless of his own imposing appearance and of the awe which the array of senior shirt-fronts struck into the hearts of the new juniors who looked on.

In solemn order Templeton ascended the dais and rendered homage. With the Fifth the captain was affable, and with the Upper Fourth he exchanged a few jocular courtesies. With the Middle school he contented himself with a shake of the hand and a "How are you, Wright?"

"Ah, Troup, old man," and such-like greetings. Boys he had punished yesterday he received quite as warmly now as the most immaculate of the virtuous ones, and boys who had cheeked him two hours ago in the fields he shook hands with as cordially as he did with the most loyal of his adherents.

There was a pause as the last of the Middle school descended from the dais, and the Den, headed by the resplendent Culver, advanced. Templeton tried to look grave and remember its good manners, but it was an effort under such an array of glory. Culver himself, with his borrowed coat so tight under the arms that he could not keep his elbows down, and his waistcoat pinned back so far that the empty button-hole in his front quite put the studded ones to shame, might have passed in a crowd; but Gosse, with his hair parted in the middle and his "whisker" elaborately curled; Pauncefote, with his light blue silk handkerchief protruding half out of his waistcoat pocket; and Smith, with the cuffs that hid the tips of his fingers, were beyond gravity, and a suppressed titter followed the grandees up the hall and on to the platform.

Pontifex received them all with serene affability and good breeding.

"Hullo, youngster!" said he to Culver, not even bestowing a glance on his finery: "hope to see you in an eleven this season. Ah, Gosse, my boy; quiet as ever, eh? You're an inch taller than last levee. How are you, Pauncefote? How are you, Smith? How goes the novel? not dead, I hope?"

"No; it's going on," said Pauncefote, blushing.

"Put me down for a copy," said the captain. "Hullo! here come the new boys."

Time did not appear to have endowed our heroes yet with confidence or elegance in the art of ascending the Templeton platform. Dick still retained a painful recollection of his legs, and Heathcote was torn asunder by the cruel vagaries of his high collar, which would not keep on the button, but insisted on heeling over, choker and all, at critical moments to one side. Aspinall made a more respectable show, for he was too nervous to bestow a thought on his dress, or to notice the curious eyes turned upon him from remote corners.

New boys were always presented by their seniors, and it was a critical moment when Cresswell, taking Dick and Aspinall, one by each arm, said in an audible voice:—

"Captain, allow me to introduce Mr Richardson and Mr Aspinall, two new boys."

Dick bowed as gracefully as he could, and watched the captain's hand sharply, in case it might show signs of expecting to be shaken, which it did, with a cheery—

"Very glad to see you, Richardson. I hear you won the new boys' race. You've got a good trainer in Cresswell. How do you do, Aspinall? Feeling more at home here, aren't you? I recollect how lost I was the first time I tumbled into school."

"Captain, allow me to introduce Mr Heathcote," said Pledge.

Poor Heathcote, whose choker had now got round to his back, turned crimson, and said, "Thank you," and then made a grab at the captain's hand, by way of hiding his confusion.

"Ah, how are you, Heathcote?" said the magnate kindly. "Hope to see plenty of you in the 'Tub,' and down field. You new boys should show up out of doors all you can."

Mansfield was not the only senior standing by who heard and appreciated this delicate hint. Pledge heard it too, and knew what it meant.

"If old Ponty," said Mansfield to Cresswell, "would only follow it up, what a splendid captain he would be. There's not another fellow can go through levee the way he does. He strokes down everybody. Goodness knows, when my turn comes, I shall come a cropper."

"Your turn will come soon, if Ponty leaves this term. You're bound to have levee in your first week. Hullo! what's up down there?"

This last question was caused by the slight excitement of Den levee, which, according to programme, was in the act of being celebrated at the bottom of the hall.

Culver, who was really rather sore under the arms, with his long confinement in his cousin's "swallow," was mounted on a lexicon, and word being passed that he was ready to receive company, the Den proceeded to file past him, in imitation of the ceremony which had just been concluded on the upper dais.

The imitation in this case, however, was not flattery. Culver was not a dignified youth, and his sense of humour was not of that refined order which enables a man to distinguish between comedy and burlesque. He had a general idea that he had to make himself pleasant, which he accordingly did in his own peculiar style.

"Ah, Gossy, old chap!" he said, as the secretary of the Den presented himself with his whiskered cheek nearest to his chief. "It's coming on, my boy. You'll have a hair and a half before the Grandcourt match."

The titter which greeted this sally highly delighted the tight-laced president, who (especially as his audience consisted of a good sprinkling of the Middle school, attracted by the chance of sport), strained every nerve to sustain his reputation for wit.

"How do you do, Pauncefote, my lad?" said he, as the owner of the light blue silk handkerchief approached. "Why don't you show enough wipe? Stick a pin in one corner, and leave the rest hanging down. How's the novel, my boy?"

"Pretty well," said Pauncefote.

"Ah, my venerable chum, Smith," continued the president, holding out his hand to the joint secretary.

"Why don't you wash your face, and stick your hands up your sleeves. How's a fellow to flap you a daddle in those cuffs, eh?"

In this refined style of banter, Culver passed his followers in array, gradually degenerating in his humour as he went on, until the last few came in for decidedly broad personalities.

But he saved up his final effort for the new boys, of whom Aspinall happened to be pushed forward first.

"Booh, hoo! poor little baby. Did it come for a little drink of its 'ittle bottle? It should then. Hold out your hand, you young muff."

Aspinall obeyed, and next moment was writhing under the "scrunch" which the president in his humour bestowed upon it.

"Now make a bow," demanded that gentleman when the greeting was over.

Aspinall made obeisance, amid loud derisive cheers, and was called upon to repeat the performance several times.

"Now shake hands again."

The boy tried to escape, but his arm was roughly seized, and his hand once more captured in the ruthless grip of his host.

In vain he tried to get free. The more he struggled the tighter the grip became, till at last he fairly fell on his knees, and howled for pain.

Then Dick, who had gradually been boiling over, could stand it no longer.

"Let his hand go!" he shouted, stepping up to the president, and emphasising his demand with a slight push.

You might have knocked the Den down with a feather! They stared at one another, and then at Dick, and then at one another again, until their eyes ached.

Then Culver, utterly oblivious of his tight sleeves, or his dignified position, turned red in the face and said—

"What do you mean?"

"What I say," said Dick, a trifle pale, and breathing hard.

"Will you fight?" said Culver.

"Yes," said Dick, in a dream, for his head was swimming round, and he forgot where he was, and what the row was about.

"You mean it?" once more asked the president.

"Yes, I do," again retorted Dick.

"Very well," said Culver.

Instantly there was a stampede of the Den, and cries of "a fight!" shook the halls and passages of Templeton.

The Sixth heard it in their lofty regions, whither they had retired after the fatigue of levee.

"Pity to stop it," said Birket, who reported the state of the matter to the seniors. "It'll do good."

"Who's the better man?" asked Cresswell.

"Culver, I fancy."

"Humph!" said the captain, "you'd better be there to see fair play, Birket; and Cresswell will come down and stop it in ten minutes. Eh, Cress?"

"All serene," said Cresswell.



CHAPTER TEN.

DESCRIBES A GREAT BATTLE, AND WHAT FOLLOWED.

Perhaps I ought to begin this chapter with an apology. Perhaps I ought to delude my readers into the belief that it gives me far more pain to describe a fight, than it gave Dick and his antagonist to take part in it. Perhaps I ought to go back and alter my last chapter, and call in the dogs of war. Perhaps I should solemnly explain to the reader how much more beautiful it would have been in Dick, if, instead of letting his angry passions rise at the sight of young Aspinall's wrongs, he had walked kindly up to the bully, and laying his hand gently on his shoulder, asked him with a sweet smile, whether he thought that was quite a nice thing for a big boy to do to a small one? whether his conscience didn't tell him he erred? and whether he wouldn't go and retire for a quiet hour to his study, and think the matter over with the said conscience? Then, if, at the end of that time he still felt disposed to use physical force towards the little new boy, would he allow him, Dick, on this occasion to bear the punishment in his young friend's place?

I say, I might, perhaps begin my chapter in this fashion, were it not for two trifling difficulties—one being that I should be a humbug, which it is not my ambition to be; the other, that Dick, too, would have been a humbug, which he certainly was not.

The truth about fighting is—if one must express an opinion on so delicate a subject—that its right and wrong depend altogether on what you fight about. There are times when to fight is right, and there are a great many more times when to fight is wrong. And for Dick at the present moment to hold up his hands and say, "Oh, no, thank you," when Culver asked him if it was a fight, would have been as bad every bit, as if he had picked a quarrel and fought with the man who caught him out at cricket.

Having relieved our minds so far, let us, reader, accompany Basil the son of Richard, as he strides; surrounded by his myrmidons, and most of all by the faithful Heathcote, to the Templeton "cock pit," where already the large-boned Culver, hemmed in no more by the envious grip of the toga of his mothers sister's son, awaits the fray.

For him Gosse holds the sponge, and bids him hit low, and walk his foeman over the tapes.

And now a score of officious voices cry out "A ring!" and the surging waves fall back, as when a whirlpool opens in mid-ocean.

Tall amid the crowding juniors stalks Birket, at sight of whom Dick's heart rejoices, and Gosse's countenance falls. For Birket will see fair play.

And now the faithful Heathcote staggers under the weight of his friend's discarded garments, and whispers words of brotherly cheer as the snowy sleeves of the hero roll up his arm, and his chafing collar falls from his swelling neck.

The crowd grows dumb and hearts beat quick, as those two stand there, face to face, the large-boned, solid Culver, and the compact, light- footed Dick, with his clean, fresh skin, and well-poised head, and tight, determined lips; and the signal goes forth that the battle has begun.