The knowing ones are there, who, with Birket, look close to see what the new boy is made of, and how he works his left. But the unknowing regard the size of their Culver, and prophesy fast and furiously.

Then do these two circle slowly round the tapes, attempting nothing great, but, by feint and parry, seeking each to unmask his man and discover where he is weak and where strong. The unknowing ones and Gosse murmur, and cry on their man to let out. And he, irresolute a moment, yields, and standing drives at his foeman's head. Up goes the right of Basil the son of Richard, and behold while all cry "a parry!" in goes his left, quick as a flash, and grazes the chin of the solid Culver.

Whereat the ring well-nigh breaks with applause, and the knowing ones nod one at another, and Heathcote leaps for joy and beams like the sun at mid-day as his hero returns to his knees and girds himself for the second round.

Birket looks up at the clock and groans to see five minutes gone. Gosse, too, groans as his man steps forward once more, unsteady and amazed at what had befallen him. "Hit low!" he whispers.

And now, once more, dead silence falls upon the ring, and all eyes turn to where Dick steps lightly up and meets his man. All mark the laugh in his eye, but the knowing ones like it not.

"Steady," says Birket; "don't be too sure."

But Basil the son of Richard heeds him not, and his eyes laugh still. This time, not Culver, but he is the pursuer, and the unknowing ones quake for their hero. Yet Culver stands as he stood before and deals his blow. Once more the new boy parries and drives home with his left. But, alas! Culver is ready for him, while he, unprepared, with his right still up, receives the fist of Culver on his chest. And the echo falls upon the ring like distant thunder.

Where, now, is the laughter in Basil's eyes, or who can see the sunlight on Heathcote's troubled face? Who now nod their heads but the unknowing ones? and who looks grave but Birket?

As when a mountain torrent rushes down its bed with huge uproar until it meet a fiercer, leaping headlong from the cliff, and drowning the lesser din with a greater, so do the shouts for Basil the son of Richard, grow faint beneath the shouts that rise for Culver, the large of bone. Nor when "time" is called, and from the trembling knees of their seconds those two arise and stalk into the ring, does the clamour cease, till Birket, with his eye on the clock, breathes threatenings and demands it.

Then you may hear a pin fall, as Basil, stern of eye and tight of lip, stands fast and waits his man. The knowing ones look anxiously to where the solid Culver squares, and take cheer; for he is flushed and eager, and his lips are open as he walks into the fray. And Heathcote calls loud upon his hero, and Birket bids him straight "go in and win." Gosse yet again bids the solid one "hit low!" and the unknowing ones cry "two to one on Culver."

The heroes meet, and Culver, gathering up his might, makes feint at Basil's head. Up goes the wary arm of Basil, which marking, Culver smites hard and low, a villain thrust hard on the hero's belt. Whereat Gosse cries aloud "bravo!" but Heathcote rages and shouts "belt!" and would himself spring into the fray, but Birket holds him back.

For Basil's eyes flash fire, and on the distant staircase stands already Cresswell, ready to stop the fight. "A minute more," cries Birket, and the ring is still as when Etna, ready to burst, sleeps.

Then does Basil the son of Richard gather himself together and draw breath, while Culver, sure of his man, steps back for a mighty blow. Dick sees it coming, and marks with a quick cool eye its fierce descent. With half a step he avoids it, and as the solid form sways past he greets it right and left with well-aimed blows, which send it headlong to the dust two long yards distant.

Then, as when the swelling torrent breaks with one furious bound into the vale below, does the crowd burst into the ring, and, with mighty shouts, proclaim a victory to the light-footed son of Richard. And, behold, as they do so, the towering form of Cresswell comes in view and bears down upon the scene.

Never did swarm of mice, spying Grimalkin afar, scamper quicker to their holes than do the youths of Templeton vanish before the distant view of Cresswell. Victor and vanquished, knowing and unknowing—all but one, fade to sight, and ere the monitor can stop the fight, the fight is over.

Birket alone remained to meet the senior.

"Well," said the latter, "is it all over?"

"Rather," said the Fifth-form boy. "I'm awfully glad you didn't come sooner."

"Bless you," said Cresswell, "I've been watching it for the last five minutes, so I ought to know when to turn up."

"You have? Then you saw the finish? The youngster made as neat a job of it as I ever saw."

"It was rather pretty," said Cresswell. "He'd something to make up for, though, after making such an ass of himself in the second round. By- the-way, was that last shot of Culver's below the belt?"

"It was precious close to the wind, anyhow. You leave that to me, though. I'll make that all right."

"Thanks," said the monitor. "Something ought to be said about it, or we shall have more of it. Well, I suppose they'll shake hands after a bit. You might see to that, too. Ponty's sure to ask, and there ought to be an end of it."

When Birket, half an hour later, descended to the Den he found a revolution in active progress. Dick was the hero of the hour. His valiant stand against solid odds, his last victorious blow, but, most of all, the cowardly blow of his opponent, had suddenly raised him to a pinnacle of glory which took away his breath. Culver, despite his dress-coat, despite his exertions at levee, despite his seniority and long service, had been ignominiously deposed from office, and subjected to the rigour of rule 5 by an indignant and resentful populace. The unknowing ones, who had backed him the loudest, now answered the soonest to Heathcote's demand for retribution, and Gosse himself, who had an hour ago whispered nothing but "hit low," now denounced the coward and proclaimed his deposition.

By a single vote Culver was dethroned, and Dick, amid frantic cheers, elected president in his stead. Nor did popular clamour cease there, for Gosse was stripped of his office, too, and Heathcote unanimously chosen secretary; and, for the first time in history, the Den did homage to two week-old new boys, and called them its leaders.

It was scarcely possible that Dick, in the midst of all this glory, should remain unmoved. He tried to look modest, he tried to bear himself as though he had done nothing out of the common, he even tried to persuade himself he would rather not accept the office thrust upon him. But his heart swelled with pride, and his head grew light in its lofty atmosphere.

Nor did Birket's visit tend to sober him.

"Well, youngster," said the Fifth-form boy, "you managed it at last, then?"

"Oh, yes," said Dick, grandly, "he's not very good with his parries."

"Isn't he? He's good at coming in on your chest, my boy. Don't you be too cocky. You're not a Tom Sayers yet."

"The last blow was below the belt, though," said Dick.

"I know. I've come to see about that."

"You needn't bother. He's been licked for it. I didn't touch him, of course, but the other fellows did."

"Kind of you. Has he apologised?"

"Oh, never mind," said Dick, forgivingly, "it doesn't matter."

"Tut! do you suppose he's got to apologise to you? I was there to see fair play, and he's to do it to me."

At any other time Dick might have felt snubbed; but now he failed to see the rebuke, and gave order grandly that Culver should be brought.

"There he is," said he, as the unhappy ex-president of the Den was conducted into his presence.

"Culver," said Birket, "you are a cad; you hit below the belt."

"No, I didn't, it was an accident," pleaded the culprit. "Please, Birket, I've been licked already."

"Stand up on that form, and tell all the fellows you apologise for doing a cowardly action and disgracing Templeton."

Culver promptly obeyed, and repeated the apology word for word.

There were loud cries for Gosse at this point, and Birket yielded to the popular demand, and ordered the ex-secretary to go through the same ceremony. Which the ex-secretary cheerfully did.

"Now then," said the Fifth-form boy, turning again to Culver, "shake hands with Richardson and make it up. You've been licked, so there's nothing left to settle."

Culver may have secretly differed from Birket on this point, but he kept his secret to himself and held out his hand. Dick took it, and gave it an honest shake. It is one of the luxuries victors enjoy, to shake the proffered hand of the vanquished, and Dick enjoyed it greatly.

"It's all made up now," said Birket, addressing the Den, "and there'd better be no more row about it, or you'll have one of the Sixth down on you, and he won't let you off as easy as I have, I can tell you."

But although the fight was over, and the breach of the peace was healed, the consequences of the fray were of much longer duration.

Their effect on Dick was not, on the whole, beneficial to that doughty young warrior. Prosperity went harder with him than adversity. As long as he had his hill to climb, his foe to vanquish, his peril to brave, Dick had the makings of a hero. But when fortune smoothed his path, when the foe lay at his feet, when the peril had passed behind, then Dick's troubles began. Popularity turned his head, and laid him open to dangers twice as bad as those he had cleared. The more fellows cheered him, the more he craved their cheers; the more he craved their cheers, the more willing a slave he became.

"It strikes me, youngster," said Cresswell one day, when the term had turned the corner, and the Grandcourt match was beginning to loom very near in the future, "it strikes me you're not doing much good up here. You're always fooling about with those precious juniors of yours, instead of sticking to cricket and tennis and your books. Here's young Aspinall here, ahead of you, by long chalks, in classics, and getting a break on at tennis that'll puzzle you to pick up unless you wake up. You can do as you like; only don't blame me if you get stuck among the louts."

For a time, this friendly advice pulled Dick up in his profitless career. The dread of being considered a "lout" by your senior is a motive which appeals forcibly to most boys; and for a week or so Dick made a feverish show of returning to his outdoor sports, and doing himself justice.

But the effort died away under the claims of the Den. Den suppers, Den concerts, Den debates, and Den conclaves always somehow managed to clash with Templeton work and play; and even Heathcote found it next to impossible to keep up his batting and his secretarial duties to the honourable fraternity.

"I shall have to jack it up," said he, one day, dolefully to Dick, "Pledge always wants me just when things are going on here. Hadn't you better get some one else?"

"Bosh! Let Pledge get some one else," said Dick, warmly. "What right has he got to make you fag for him out of school; that's the very thing we want to stop."

"But I rather like the batting. Cartwright said I was improving."

"Oh, of course; just a dodge to make you stick to it. Don't you let them gammon you, Georgie. Stick to us, and hang Pledge."

And, of course, Heathcote obeyed, and his cricket suffered; and fellows who had hopes of him shrugged their shoulders when they saw him rioting in the Den, and letting another usurp his pads.

Had Dick known the bad turn he was doing his friend he would have hesitated before requiring him to give up a healthy sport, which, just then, was one of his chief safeguards against far less healthy occupations.

The "spider" had not had the fly in his web for five weeks without casting some light toils around him. Heathcote himself would have said that Pledge was as inoffensive to-day as he had been on the first day of the term, and would have angrily scouted the idea that "Junius," or any one else, had been right in his warnings.

And yet in five weeks Heathcote had begun not to be the nice boy he was. Not that Pledge, by any direct influence, incited him to evil-doing. On the contrary, he always corrected him when he prevaricated, and scolded him when he idled.

But the boy had begun a course of indirect training far more dangerous to his morals and happiness than any direct training could have been.

He discovered, very gradually, that Pledge's notions of persons and things were unlike any he had hitherto entertained. In the innocence of his heart he had always given every one credit for being honest, and virtuous, until he had good cause to see otherwise. When any one told him a thing, he usually believed it straight off. If any one professed to be anything, he usually assumed it was so. The small knot of boys at Templeton who called themselves religious, who said their prayers steadily, who refused to do what their conscience would not allow, who tried to do good in some way or other to their fellows, these Heathcote had readily believed were Christians, and more than once he had wished he belonged to their set.

But, somehow, Pledge's influence gave him altogether different ideas on these points. For instance, he would one evening hear a conversation somewhat as follows, between his senior and some friend—generally Wrangham of the Fifth, who usually associated with Pledge:

"I hear Holden is not going to try for the Bishop's scholarship, after all," says Wrangham, who, by the way, is aesthetic, and adopts an air of general weariness of the world which hardly becomes a boy of seventeen.

"Did he tell you so himself?" asked Pledge.

"Yes."

"Then, of course, we don't believe it. He'd like us to think so, I daresay."

"He knows what he is about, though. He got confirmed last week, you know, and that's bound to go down with Winter."

"Winter's pretty well bound to favour Morris, I fancy, though he's not pious," says Pledge. "There are three young Morrises growing up, you know."

Wrangham laughs languidly.

"Nice rotten state the school's in," says he. "Thank goodness, it doesn't matter much to me; but I've once or twice thought of joining the saints, just to save trouble."

"Ha, ha! I'd come and look at you, old man. Fancy you and Mansfield looking over the same hymn-book, and turning up your eyes."

"But," says Heathcote, who has been drinking in all the talk in a bewildered way, and venturing now, as he sometimes does, to join in it. "But I always thought Mansfield was really good."

His two hearers laugh till the boy blushes crimson, and wishes he had not made such an ass of himself.

"Rather," says Wrangham. "He is one of the elect. It's worth fifty pounds a year to him, so it would be a wonder if he wasn't."

"Yes, my boy," says Pledge, "if you want to get on at Templeton, take holy orders. Believe everybody's as good as he tries to make out, and you'll have no trouble at all. When a fellow cracks up your batting, don't on any account suspect he wants to borrow five shillings of you, and if he tells you it's naughty to look about in chapel, don't imagine for a moment he's got half-a-dozen cribs in his study. Bah! They're all alike. Thank goodness you're not a hypocrite yet, young 'un, whatever you may become. Now you can cut. Good-night."

And Heathcote obeys, and lies wide awake an hour, wondering how he can ever have remained a simpleton as long as he has.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

HOW PONTY TAKES HIS HAND OUT OF HIS POCKET.

The Grandcourt match was the only match of the season which Templeton played away from home. All its other matches, the house match, and even the match against the town, were played in the Fields, in the presence of the whole school. But once every other year, Templeton went forth to war in drags and omnibuses against its hereditary rival, and mighty was the excitement with which the expedition and its equipment were regarded by every boy who had the glory of his school at heart.

Seventy boys, and seventy only, were permitted to form the invading army, the selection of whom was a matter of intrigue and emulation for weeks beforehand. But for a few broad rules, which eliminated at least half the school, the task might have been still more difficult than it was. For instance, all juniors, to the eternal wrath and indignation of the Den, were excluded. Further, all boys who during the term had suffered punishment, either monitorial or magisterial, all boys who had not shown up at the proper number of practices in the Fields, all boys who had lost a given number of "call-overs" forfeited the chance of getting their names on the "Grandcourt List," as it was called.

Of the reduced company that remained, each member of the eleven had the right of nominating six, the remaining four being chosen by the patriarchal method of lot.

Altogether, it was admitted that the system of selection was on the whole impartial, although, as a matter of course, it involved bitter disappointments to many an enthusiastic and deserving cricketer.

Our heroes, being juniors, were of course out of it, and they warmly adopted the indignation of the Den against the gross tyranny of excluding the rising generation from taking part in the great school event.

But Dick was not a youth whose inmost soul could be satisfied with mere indignation. If a thing struck him as unjust, the desire to rid himself of the injustice took possession of him at the same time.

"Georgie," said he to Heathcote, the day before the match, "it's all rot! We must go, I tell you."

"How can we? We should get bowled out, to a certainty, before we started."

"But, Georgie, it's no end of a day, fellows say; you get put up like lords at Grandcourt, and the spread afterwards is something scrumptious."

"Yes, but what chance should we stand of that when every one will know we're mitching?"

"Oh, they wouldn't say anything if once we got there. I tell you, old man, I'd risk a good bit to do it. Think of the crow we'd have at the next Den."

"How should we get over, though?"

"Oh, I know some of the Fourth. They might smuggle us into their trap, or we could hang on somehow. Bless you! the fellows will be too festive to notice us. What do you say?"

"All right; I'm on to try it," said Heathcote, not feeling very sanguine.

"Right you are. Keep it quiet, I say, and come down to 'Tub' early to- morrow."

Which being arranged, the two dissemblers went down and addressed a monster meeting of the Den, denouncing everybody and vowing vengeance on the oppressor.

At "Tub time" next morning, Dick met his friend with a radiant face.

"It's all right," said he; "I've been over to the Mews and had a look at the traps, and one of them's got a bar underneath we can easily hang on to."

"Rather a grind hanging on to a bar for two hours!" suggested Heathcote.

"Bless you! that won't hurt. Besides, we might get a lift further on; in fact, one of the coachmen said for five bob he'd stow us away in the boot."

"That would be less dusty," said Heathcote; "but—"

"Look here," said Dick eagerly, as he and his friend stood side by side on the spring-board ready for a plunge, "what howling asses we are! Of course all the fellows will go on the top of the omnibuses, so if we cut round to the stables directly after breakfast, we can stow ourselves away inside one, under the seat, and then we shall have it all to ourselves."

"All right," said Heathcote, looking at last as if he saw his way to the venture.

And the two friends forthwith dived, and turned the plan over beneath the waves.

When, punctually at ten o'clock, the six coaches paraded in the great Quadrangle, no one noticed the absence of Dick and his henchman in the crowd that assembled to watch the departure of the lucky seventy. Nor when coach one had started with the Eleven, and coaches two, three, and four had carried off the rest of the Sixth and Fifth, did any one suspect that coach five had taken up two of its passengers already.

The Upper and Middle Fourth, who boarded this vehicle, had little idea, as they pitched their coats and wraps inside and mounted themselves to the top, that, like the birds who buried the babes in the wood beneath the leaves, they were hiding the light of day from two innocents who lay one under either seat, with their noses to the fresh air and their hearts very decidedly in their mouths.

"Chock full up here," cried a voice from the top, which Dick, even in his retirement, recognised as belonging to Duffield, the post fag, who, by virtue of his office, was just out of the Den; "you kids will have to go inside."

"Oh, I say, you might let us up," replied one of the "kids" in question, in tones of expostulation; "we won't take up much room. It's so jolly stuffy inside."

"So it is," inwardly ejaculated the two stowaways.

"Just the place for you. You can play oughts-and-crosses and enjoy yourselves. There's not standing room up here," cried Duffield.

"Can't we stand on the step?"

"No; Hooker's bagged the bottom step, and I've bagged the one half up this side as soon as we start."

The lurkers gasped. They had not reckoned on the steps being occupied and their snug retreat raked by the eyes of the bumptious Hooker.

"Can we stand on them till you're ready, I say?" once more asked the persevering Fourth-formers.

"Why can't you go inside? I say, though," added the post fag, "there's room for two on the next coach. Hop up, or you'll be out of it!"

To the relief of our heroes, the youngsters yapped off on the new scent; and they presently had the satisfaction of hearing their voices raised in a halloo of triumph from the box of coach six.

"All right!" cried a master, as the last man squeezed up to his perch.

Then arose great cheers and counter-cheers, not unmixed with yells, as the cavalcade drove off in style, followed by Templeton in full cry as far as the great gate, where they parted company, amid shouts that brought all the town to its windows.

Once clear of the school, our heroes breathed more freely in more senses than one. As long as Hooker kept guard of the lower step, and Duffield's legs swayed about on the other, they were unable to do more than quietly push back the coats and put their heads out. But both these amateur conductors were too much occupied in hailing passers-by and protecting their caps from the assaults of their own friends above to bestow much attention to the inside of a coat-strewn, stuffy vehicle; and in time our heroes found they might venture to whisper across the floor and attempt in a quiet way to make themselves more comfortable; "Beastly dusty," said Heathcote; "it gets in my mouth."

"Wouldn't mind that," said Dick, "if I didn't get pins-and-needles in my arms. I've a good mind to turn over."

Here they were sent back like rabbits to their holes by the scare of a free fight taking place on the lower step between Hooker and a town youth, whom he had aggrieved by discharging a broadside of peas on a tender portion of his visage.

The fight was a sharp one, for the burly town youth was a "tartar," and had more than one grudge to settle with the Templeton boys. He managed to get a footing on the step, and hooking one elbow securely over the door, worked his other arm with great effect on the unfortunate Hooker. The whole fray was so suddenly got up that those on the roof knew nothing about it, and Duffield was so occupied with kicking at the intruder with his one spare leg that he quite forgot to raise a war cry.

The town boy proved equal to his two antagonists. Duffield was early rendered hors de combat by his spare foot being captured and tucked under the arm by which the enemy hung on to the door. And Hooker himself was gradually getting ousted from his perch, and might have been finally dropped on to the road, had not an unexpected diversion in his favour rescued him.

This was made by no one less than Dick, who, having taken in with a quick eye the position of affairs, saw that Templeton demanded his services, cost him what they might. He, therefore, summoned Heathcote to back him up, and taking an overcoat from the pile, cast it adroitly over the head of the town boy just as he had edged Hooker on to the very margin of the step. This, of course, settled the business. Duffield got back his foot, and Hooker got his arm once more over the door. The former raised a cry of "Cad hanging on!" The latter shouted, "Whip behind!" The occupants of coach six yelled, "Chuck him over!" And putting one thing with another, the town boy decided that he would be more comfortable on the pavement than where he was. So he dropped off, leaving his hat behind him, which trophy was immediately seized and passed aloft, amid universal triumph, and displayed proudly on the top of a bat, on coach five, until the cavalcade was clear of the town.

"Who scragged that fellow?" asked Hooker, as soon as the campaign was over, looking up and down.

"I don't know," said Duffield. "Is there any one inside?"

Dick, who had been gradually trying to edge back to his retreat, deemed it prudent to make a clean breast of it at once, while the two "step" men owed him their thanks.

"I say, Hooker," said he, putting up his head behind the pile of wraps in a manner that made the gentleman addressed almost fall off with fright, "don't say anything—I scragged him. Heathcote and I wanted so awfully to see the match. Keep it dark, I say."

Hooker put his head into the window, and whistled.

"You'll get in a frightful row," said he, consolingly; "never mind, I'll say nothing. Cover up, and don't let the chaps see you."

They took his advice as cheerfully as they could, and even endured pleasantly the occasional pea-shooter practice with which, by way of enlivening their solitude, he was good enough to favour them.

They had an anxious drive on the whole. For besides Hooker's pea- shooter and the dismal prophecies he kept calling in to them of the terrible fate that awaited them on their return to Templeton, they found the dust and heat very trying. All that, however, was as nothing to the panic produced by a sudden rumour of a shower, and the possible descent of the whole of coach five into the interior. Happily for them Jupiter Pluvius changed his mind at the last moment, and sheered off. But the two minutes they spent in expecting him were calculated considerably to curtail the natural life of both.

It was hard lines, too, to hear all the festivities going on above and be able to take no part in them. They dared not even sit up for fear of becoming visible to the occupants of the box-seat of coach six, who had a full view of their interior. So they lay low for two mortal hours, and by the time Grandcourt was reached discovered that their dusty heads and limbs ached not a little.

"You'd better come out and cheek it," said Hooker, as the coach pulled up; "you're bound to get into a row, so you may as well enjoy yourselves."

Dick's intention had been to get taken on under the seat to the stables, and there make his escape. But after all there was not much less risk that way than in following Hooker's advice. So they tumbled out with the crowd, and kept near Hooker, on whose support they felt entitled to rely, after the service rendered to him in the battle of the lower step.

Every one was so excited about the match, and so anxious to show off well to the Grandcourt boys, that no one took any notice of the two small interlopers, which was a matter of great thankfulness to our heroes.

Their spirits gradually rose as they found themselves sitting comfortably among a knot of Templetonians, in the glorious Grandcourt meadow, with a superb view of the match. They lost all their reserve, and joined wildly in the cheers for the old school, heedless of every consideration of prudence and self-preservation.

And they certainly had some excuse for their enthusiasm. For Templeton walked away from her enemy from the very first, in a style which amazed even her most ardent admirers.

In their first innings they put together 215 as smartly and merrily as if they were playing against an eleven of the Den. One after another the Grandcourt bowlers collapsed. No sort of ball seemed to find its way past the Templeton bats, and no sort of fielding seemed to hem in their mighty hits.

Pontifex—"dear old Ponty," as everybody called him to-day—who had been breaking his friends' hearts by his indolence and indifference all the term, stood up now, and punished the Grandcourt bowling, till the enemy almost yelled with dismay. The steady Mansfield was never steadier, nor Cartwright more dashing, nor Pledge more artful. Even Birket, who to- day fleshed his maiden bat on the Grandcourt meadow, knocked up his two and threes, with one cut for four into the tent, till it seemed to Templeton that cricket was in the air, and that even Hooker and Duffield could have pulled the match off single-handed.

But the batting was nothing to the play when Templeton was out and took the offensive. Pledge was more than dangerous, he was deadly, and knocked the balls about in a manner quite "skeery." Heathcote was perfectly sure he could have made as good a stand as the Grandcourt captain, and began to lay down the law to his hearers as to how this man should have taken one ball and that man "drawn" another, till he became quite amusing, and was recognised for the first time by several of his schoolfellows.

However, the general interest in the match was still too keen to give him the notoriety his indiscretion deserved; and lulled by his apparent immunity and the luxury of his present circumstances, he, like Dick, quite forgot he had no right to be where he was, and even expostulated with Duffield for squashing him and interfering with his view.

Grandcourt went out for a miserable 80; of which 30 had been put on by one man. Of course they had to follow on, and as the time was short, it was agreed to curtail the usual interval, and finish up the match straight away.

So Grandcourt went in again, and although it fared somewhat better, was still unable to stem the tide of defeat. With 135 to get in order to avoid a single innings defeat, it was only natural they did not settle down to their task very cheerfully or hopefully. Pledge still sent down a ruthless fire from one end; and seemed even to improve with exercise. Nor was he badly backed up at the other end by Cresswell; while Mansfield, at the wicket, and Ponty, at point, seemed, as it were, to help themselves to the ball off the end of the bat, whenever they liked. By painful, plodding hard work, Grandcourt put up their hundred, and it spoke well for the chivalry of the victorious seventy, that they cheered the three figures as loudly as any one.

It was uphill work trying to hold out for the remaining 35 runs. But the losers were Englishmen, and long odds brought out their good qualities. With solemn, almost ferocious, faces, the two last men in clung to their bats, and blocked, blocked, blocked, stealing now a bye, pilfering now a run out of the slips, and once or twice getting on the right side of a lob with a swipe that drew the hearts of Templeton into their mouths.

A score of runs did those two add on to their hundred, and the seventy groaned as the chances of a single innings victory dwindled run by run.

"Most frightful soak if they do us," said Dick, addressing the audience generally. "Why don't they try Mansfield?"

"Shut up. Lie down under the seat, and don't talk to me," said Hooker, flushed with excitement.

"Pledge has bowled four maidens running," said Heathcote, determined that no one should blame the bowler he had assisted to train.

"What's the use of bowling maidens? Why don't he bowl the boys, and have done with it?" said Duffield.

Dick looked at Heathcote; Heathcote looked at Dick; Duffield hummed a ditty. How could he do such a thing at such a time, and in such a place? Oh, had he been only in the Mountjoy waggonette on a lonely road, what a business meeting they could have held! As it was, there was only time to crush the debtor's hat down over his eyes, and dig him on each side in the ribs, when a general stir betokened some important movement on the field of battle.

"By George! they're going to change bowlers," said Hooker. "Quite time, too."

"No, they're not," replied Dick, "they're going to change ends. Awful low trick to put Cresswell with the light in his eyes."

"Pledge has had it in his all the last hour," said Heathcote.

"Shut up, you kids, and don't make such a row. You can talk when we're in at supper," said a Fifth-form fellow.

The allusion was a depressing one. More than once it had crossed our heroes' minds that supper was coming on; but the chances of their "cheeking in" (as they called it) to that part of the day's entertainment were, to say the least, narrow.

At any rate, the allusion made them sad, and they relapsed into silence as the bowlers changed ends, and Pledge prepared to attack from his new base.

There was a sudden uncomfortable silence all round the meadow. Grandcourt felt that if they could weather the storm a few overs longer they might yet avert the disgrace of a single innings defeat. Templeton felt, with decided qualms, that unless the change told quickly, it had better not have been made at all. The eleven stepped in a bit, and watched the ball with anxious faces. Ponty, alone, with one hand in his pocket, yawned, and looked somewhere else. "What's the odds to Ponty?" thought the seventy, marvelling how any one could look so unconcerned at such a crisis.

Pledge bowled one of his finest, awkwardest, most disconcerting slows. The cautious batsman was proof against its syren-like allurements, and stepped back to block what any one else would have stepped forward to slog. The ball broke up sharp against his bat, and Grandcourt began to breathe again as they saw its progress arrested.

But at that particular moment it appeared to enter dear old Ponty's head to take his hand out of his pocket and stroll forward a pace or two from his place at point in the direction of the wicket. And somehow or another it seemed to him that while he was there he might as well pick up the ball, as it dropped off the end of the bat on its way to the ground.

Which he did. And as every one looked on, and wondered what little game he was up to, it occurred to the umpire that it was a catch, and that the match was at an end.

Whereupon, the truth flashed round the field like an electric shock, and the crowds broke into the meadow in wild excitement, while the seventy, crimson with cheers, formed column and went for their men.

Poor Ponty had a hard time of it getting back to the tent, and half repented of his feat. But it did him and Templeton good, when they came upon the headquarters of Grandcourt, to hear the hearty cheers with which the vanquished hailed their victors.

Chivalry is infectious. For the next quarter of an hour the meadow was given up to cheers by Templeton for Grandcourt, and cheers by Grandcourt for Templeton, in which the gallant seventy-two, despite their numerical inferiority, held their own with admirable pluck.

Then, a mighty bell tolled out across the meads, and conqueror and conquered, united in the brotherhood of appetite and good fellowship, turned in to supper, carrying their cheers with them.

Now was the hour of our heroes' perplexity. For, be it said to their credit as gentlemen, that however easily they may have got over their scruples as to breaking Templeton rules, riding in Templeton coaches, and enjoying themselves in the Grandcourt meadows, they had some hesitation about making free with the Grandcourt supper without a rather more precise invitation than they were already possessed of.

So they lagged a little behind the seventy, put their Templeton badges conspicuously forward, and tried to look as if supper had never entered into their calculations.

"Aren't you two fellows coming to supper?" said a Grandcourt senior, overtaking them as they dawdled along.

"Thanks, awfully," said they; "perhaps there won't be room."

"Rather!" said the hospitable enemy, "you two won't crowd us out."

"We'll sit close, you know," said Dick.

"Better not sit too close to begin with," said the Grandcourt boy, laughing, "or it'll be real jam before supper's over. Cut on and join your fellows, and squeeze into the first seat you can find."

The first seat our heroes found was one between Ponty and the Grandcourt head master, which, on consideration, they decided not to be appropriate. They therefore made hard for the other end of the room, and wedged themselves in among a lot of jolly Grandcourt juniors, who hailed them with vociferous cheers, and commenced to load them with a liberal share of all the good things the hospitable table groaned under.

Happy for Dick and Heathcote had they taken advice and begun the orgy at half distance! But they survived the "jam;" and what with chicken pie, and beef and ham, and gooseberry pie and shandy-gaff, to say nothing of jokes and laughter, and vows of eternal friendship with every Grandcourt fellow within hail, they never (to quote the experience of the little foxes in the nursery rhyme) "they never eat a better meal in all their life."

They could have gone on all night. But alas! envious time, that turns day to night, and hangs its pall between our eyes and the light of our eyes, put an end to the banquet. The coaches clattered up to the Grandcourt gate; the seventy, with their wraps and coats, were escorted, by their hosts in a body, to the chariots; horns sounded; cheers answered cheers; caps waved; whips cracked, and in five minutes the Grandcourt gate was as silent as if it guarded, not a fortress of hearty schoolboys, but a deserted, time-ruined monastery.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

IN WHICH NEMESIS HAS A BUSY TIME OF IT.

Our heroes had all along had a presentiment that their troubles would begin some time or other. They had expected it at the very start; but it had been put off stage by stage throughout the day, until it really seemed as if it must make haste, if it was to come at all.

And yet everything had gone so smoothly so far; the day had been so successful, the match so glorious, the supper so gorgeous, that they could hardly bring themselves to think Nemesis would really pounce upon them.

That worthy lady, however, though she often takes long credit, always pays her debts in the long run, and our heroes found her waiting for them before Grandcourt was many miles behind them.

They had been baulked in their intention of getting back into the friendly shelter of coach five at the outset, by the very awkward fact that Mansfield would stand at the door of Grandcourt, talking to a friend, until coach five had received its passengers, and started. Coach six followed, and to the horror of our two skulkers the way was still blocked. Things were getting desperate. The top of number six was packed, and still Mansfield stood across the door.

Should they throw themselves on his mercy, or hurl themselves between his feet, and overturn him, if haply they might escape in the confusion? How they hated that Grandcourt fellow who talked to him. What business had he to keep a Templeton fellow there catching cold? Why hadn't all Grandcourt been ordered to bed directly after supper?

Horrors! Coach six shouted "All right!" and rattled off.

"We're done for," said Heathcote. "We may as well show up."

"Stay where you are," said Dick; "we shall have to hang on behind the coach the Eleven go in."

"But, Dick, they're all monitors!"

"Can't be helped," said Dick, peremptorily.

The Eleven's coach drove up, and all Grandcourt turned out with a final cheer for their conquerors. Mansfield shook hands with his friend, and climbed up on to the box. The rest followed. Ponty rambled out among the last. He looked up at the crowded roof, and didn't like it. It was far too much grind for the dear fellow to swarm up there.

"I'll go inside, Cresswell. Come on; we'll get a seat each, and make ourselves comfortable."

Cresswell laughed.

"If you hadn't made that catch, old man," said he, "I'd say you were the laziest beggar I ever saw. But as you've a right to give your orders, I'll obey. Lead on, mighty captain."

Our heroes shivered, and wondered if any sin in the calendar were equal to that of sloth! With all the Eleven on the top, they had had a chance yet of weathering "Mrs" Nemesis, and hanging on behind. But with the captain and whipper-in inside, they might as well try and hang on a lion's tail.

"All U P, old man," groaned Heathcote.

"Slip out sharp!" said Dick excitedly. "Our only chance is to get ahead of them, and pick them up on the road."

Scarcely any one noticed the two dismayed little Templetonians, as they squeezed out of the gate, with their caps drawn over their eyes, and their heads diligently turned away from the coach of the Eleven. One fellow, however, spotted them, and scared the wits out of them, by saying "Hallo! here are two youngsters left behind. Get inside this coach; there's lots of room. Look alive, they're starting."

"Oh, thanks!" said Dick, scarcely able to speak for the jumping of his heart, "we're going to do a trot the first mile or so. Thanks awfully! Good-bye." And to the amazement of the Grandcourtier, the small pair started to run with their heads down and their fists up, at the rate of seven miles an hour.

"By George," thought he to himself, "some of those Templeton kids go the pace."

The pleasant village of Grandcourt was startled that evening, as the shades of night fell, by the sight of two small boys trotting hard down the High Street, side by side, some three hundred yards in advance of the coach which carried the conquering heroes of Templeton; like eastern couriers who run before the chaise of the great man. But those two heeded neither looks nor jeers; their ears were deaf to the cry of "Stop thief," and shouts of "Two to one on Sandy," stirred no emotions in their fluttering breasts. Luckily for them the road began uphill, so they were able to get a fair start by the time the village was clear. When at last they pulled up breathless at the road-side, they could see the lamp of the coach a quarter of a mile down the road, advancing slowly.

"It's touch and go," said Heathcote, "if we do it without getting nabbed. That wretched light shows up everything."

"Yes, I don't like it," said Dick; "we'd better lie down in the ditch, Georgie, till it's got past. They'll trot as soon as they get up here on to the level, and we must make a shot at the step. Those fellows inside are sure not to be looking out."

It was an anxious few minutes as the light approached, and shot its rays over the prostrate bodies of the boys in the ditch. They dared not lift their faces as it passed, and it was only when, as Dick had predicted, the walk changed into a trot, that they started from their lurking- place, and gave chase.

"Why," groaned Heathcote, as they came up, "it's got no step!"

For once, Dick was gravelled. The idea that the coach was not like all the other coaches had never once crossed his mind; and he felt beaten. The two unhappy pursuers, however, kept up the chase, pawing the forbidding coach door, very much as kittens paw the outside of a gold- fish bowl.

Alas! there was nothing to lay hold of; not even a handle or a nail!

"Shall we yell?" gasped Heathcote, nearly at the end of his wind.

"Wait a bit. Is there anything underneath we could lay hold of?"

They groped, but, as it seemed, fruitlessly. Dick, however, stooped again, and next moment turned round radiant.

"There's a bit of string," said he. "Keep it up, old man, and we'll get hold of it."

With much diving he succeeded in picking up the end of a casual piece of string that had somehow got its other end fastened to a nut underneath the coach. As quick as thought he whipped out his handkerchief and looped it on to the string. Then Heathcote whipped out his handkerchief and looped it on to Dick's, and between them the two held on grimly, and tried to fancy their troubles were at an end.

The support of a piece of stray string at the tail of a coach, supplemented by two pocket-handkerchiefs, may be grateful, but for practical purposes it is at best a flimsy stay, and had it not been for occasional hills at which to breathe, our heroes might have found it out at once.

As it was, they were carried three or four miles on their way by the purely moral support of their holdfast until the last of the hills was climbed, and the long steady slope which led down to Templeton opened before the travellers and reminded the horses of corn and stable. Then a trot began, which put the actual support of the extemporised cable to the test.

Our heroes, worn out already, could not, try all they would, keep it slack. Every step it became tauter and tauter, until at last you might have played a tune upon it. They made one gallant effort to relieve the strain, but, alas! it was no good. There was a crack of the whip ahead, the horses, full of their coming supper, gave a bound forward, and that moment on the lonely road, five miles from home, sprawled Heathcote, with Dick in his lap, and two knotted pocket-handkerchiefs in the dust at their feet. They had no breath left to shout, no energy to overtake, so they sat there panting, watching the coach vanish into the night and humbly wondering—what next?

"Here's a soak!" said Heathcote at last, recovering speech and slowly untying his handkerchief from the cable in order to mop his face.

"Yes," said Dick, getting off his friend's lap and looking dismally down the road; "our ride home didn't come off after all."

"We came off, though!" said Heathcote. But he corrected himself as he saw Dick wearily round upon him. "I mean—I say, what must we do?"

"Stump it," said Dick. "It's about five miles."

Heathcote whistled.

"Pity we didn't cheek it into our own coach," said he. "I say, Dick, what a row there'll be!"

"Of course there will," said Dick. "Have you only just found that out? Come along; we'll be late."

Considering it was eight o'clock and they were yet five miles from home, this last observation was sagacious.

They strolled on for half an hour in silence, mending their pace as they recovered their wind, until at the end of that time they had settled down into a steady three-and-a-half miles an hour, and felt rather more like getting home than they had done.

"Another hour will do it," said Dick. "I say, we might smuggle in after all, Georgie. What a crow if we do, eh?"

Georgie inwardly reflected that there would be a crow of some sort or other whatever happened, but he prudently reserved his opinion and said, "Rather!"

"We ought to come to the cross-roads before long," said Dick. "I hope to goodness you know which one goes to Templeton."

"No, I don't; but there's bound to be a post."

There was a post, but, though they climbed up it and rubbed their eye- lashes along each arm, they could get no guiding out of it. They could see an L on one arm, and an N on another, and a full stop on each of the other two, but, even with this intelligence, they felt that the road to Templeton was still open to doubt, as, indeed, after their wanderings round and round the sign-post, they presently had to admit was the case with the road by which they had just come.

"We'd better make ourselves snug here for the night," said Heathcote, who fully took in the situation.

"That would be coming to a full stop with a vengeance!" said Dick.

"Shut up; I let you off—and, by Jove, here's somebody coming!"

The red embers of a pipe, followed by a hulking nautical form, hove slowly in sight as he spoke, and never did a sail cheer the eyes of shipwrecked mariners as did this apparition bring comfort to Dick and Heathcote.

"I say," said the former, advancing out of the shades and almost startling the unsuspecting salt, "we've lost our way. Which road goes to Templeton?"

The big sailor gave a grunt and lay to in an unsteady way, which convinced our heroes, unlearned as they were in such matters, that he wasn't quite sober.

"What d'yer want ter go ter Templeton fur?" demanded he.

"We belong to the school, and we've got left behind."

The sailor laughed an unsympathetic laugh and took his pipe out of his mouth.

"Yer belong to the school, do yer, and yer've lost yer way?"

"Yes; can you put us right?"

"Yes, I can put yer right," said the brawny young salt, putting his pipe back between his lips. "What'll yer stand?"

"We'll give you a shilling," said Dick.

"Yer will? Yer'll give me a sovereign apiece, or I'll bash yer!"

And he laid a hand on the arm of each of his victims, chuckling and smoking as he looked down on their puny efforts to escape.

"Turn out yer pockets, nobs!" said he, giving them a slight admonitory shake.

"I haven't got a sovereign," said Heathcote.

Dick did not even condescend to plead; he fell headlong on his huge opponent, shouting, in the midst of his blows—

"Let us go, do you hear? I know your name; you're Tom White, the boatman, and I'll get you locked up if you don't."

But even this valiant threat, and the still more valiant struggles of the two boys, availed nothing with the nautical highwayman, who smoked, and shook the bones of his wretched captives, till they were fain to call for mercy.

The mercy was dearly bought. Dick's half-sovereign, Heathcote's twelve shillings, the penknife with the gouge, among them did not make up the price. One by one their pockets were turned inside out, and whatever there took the fancy of the noble mariner went into the ransom. Pencils, india-rubber, keys, and even a photograph of Dick's mother were impounded; while resistance, or even expostulation only added bone- shaking into the bargain; till, at last, the unhappy lambs were glad to assist at their own fleecing, in order to expedite their release.

"There yer are," said Tom, when at last the operation was over, "that's about all I want of yer, my hearties; and if yer want the road to Templeton, that's she, and good-night to yer, and thank yer kindly. Next time yer want a sail, don't forget to give an honest jack tar a turn. Knows my name, do yer? Blessed if I ever see you afore."

"You're a beastly, low, tipsy thief," shouted Dick, from a respectful distance, "and we'll get you paid out for this."

And not waiting for a reply, the two unfortunates, less heavily weighted than ever, started down the road, snorting with rage and indignation and full of thoughts of the direst revenge.

Nemesis was coming down on them at last with a vengeance!

Two miles they went before speech came to the relief of their wounded feelings.

"It's transportation," said Heathcote.

"Cat-o'-nine-tails too," said Dick.

"Jolly good job," said Heathcote.

And they went on another mile.

Then it occurred to them this was not the road along which they had driven in the morning; and once more the villainy of Tom White broke upon them in all its blackness.

"He's sent us upon the wrong road!" said Heathcote, beginning at last to feel that Nemesis was a little overdoing it.

Dick gulped down something, and walked on in silence.

"Where are you going? What's the use of going on?"

"May as well," said Dick, striding on. "It's bound to lead somewhere."

In which comfortable conviction they accomplished another half-mile.

Then to their satisfaction, and somewhat to Dick's self-satisfaction, they heard a low noise ahead, which they knew must be the sea.

"I thought it would bring us out," said Dick. "When once we get at the sea, we can't help finding Templeton."

"Unless we take a wrong turn to start with, and then we shall have to walk all round England before we turn up."

"Shut up, Georgie, we've had foolery enough for one night."

Heathcote collapsed, and another mile brought the two wanderers to the sea.

Luckily for them, the rising moon came to their rescue in deciding whereabouts they were.

"Not far out," said Dick, "there's the Sprit Rock; two miles more will do it."

"I shan't be sorry when I'm in bed," said Heathcote.

"I shan't be sorry when I see Tom White hung. I say, we may as well have a dip before we go on."

So they solaced themselves with a plunge in the moonlit sea, which, after their dusty labours, was wonderfully refreshing. Having dressed again, all but their shoes and stockings, which they looped together and hung over their shoulders, they tucked up their trousers, and started to wade along the strand to their journey's end.

The tide had only just started to come in, so they had the benefit of the hard sand, which, combined with the soft, refreshing water and the bright moonlight, rendered their pilgrimage as pleasant as, under the circumstances, they could have desired. Their talk was of Thomas White, for whom it was well he was not within earshot. They arrested him, tried him, sentenced him, flogged him, transported him, and yet were not satisfied.

"You know, Georgie," said Dick, working himself into a fury, "he collared my mother's photograph! the low cad! I'd be a beast if I didn't pay him out."

"Rather! and I'll back you up, old man. I was going to get a tennis-bat with that twelve bob; the blackguard!"

About a mile from home the lights of Templeton hove in sight; but still our heroes' talk was of Tom White and the next assizes.

They had the beach to themselves, with only a few stranded boats for company, over whose anchors they had to pick their way gingerly.

"The tide's coming in at a lick," said Dick. "Half an hour later, we should have had to tramp on the soft sand— Lookout, you duffer!"

The last remark was caused by Heathcote tripping over a rope, and coming down all fours on the wet sand.

"Bother that rope," said he, "I never saw it. I say, it's rather a small one for that big boat, isn't it?"

"It is," said Dick, walking round to the stern of the boat in question, "its— Hallo, I say, Georgie, look here!"

Georgie looked in the direction of Dick's finger, and read the words, "'Martha,' Thomas White, Templeton" on the stern of the boat.

Both boys whistled. Then Dick marched resolutely up to the bows, over a thwart in which the anchor rope was hitched in a loop.

"Tom White must have been drunk when he anchored this boat," said Dick. "She'll never hold if the wind gets up."

"Good job, too," said Heathcote.

"So I think," said Dick, thoughtfully. "I say, Georgie," added he, with his fingers playing on the end of the loop, "Tom White's a frightful cad, isn't he?"

"Rather!"

"And a thief, too?"

"I should think so."

"It would serve him jolly well right if he lost his boat."

"He don't deserve to have a boat at all."

"This knot," said Dick, slipping the loop, "wouldn't hold against a single lurch. Why, it comes undone in a fellow's hand—"

And the end dropped idly on the floor of the boat as he spoke.

Heathcote nodded.

"Think of the cad having robbed two juniors like us, and collared mother's photograph, too, the brute!" said Dick, taking his friend's arm and walking on.

They talked no longer of Thomas White, but admired the moonlight, and wondered how soon the tide would be up, and speculated as to whether there wasn't a breeze getting up off the land. Once they turned back, and glanced at the black hull, lying, still aground, with the tide yards away yet. Then they thought a trot would warm them up before they put on their boots, and mounted the cliff to Templeton.

The clock struck half-past eleven as they knocked modestly at the porter's lodge. The porter was up, and evidently expected them.

"Nice goings-on, young gentlemen," said he. "The Doctor wishes to see you after chapel in the morning. In you go. I'm sorry for you."

With fluttering hearts they stole across the moonlit Quadrangle, and gazed round at the grim windows that peered down on them from every side. The housekeeper was up and ready for them, too.

"Bad boys," said she, as she opened the door; "go to bed quietly, and make no noise. The Doctor will be ready for you the moment chapel is over."

They mounted the creaking stairs, and crawled guiltily along the passage to their dormitory.

The dormitory monitor was sitting up in bed ready for them, too.

"Oh, you have turned up, have you?" said he. "I hope you'll enjoy yourselves with Winter in the morning. Most of the fellows say it's expulsion; but I rather fancy a licking, myself. Cut into bed, and don't make a noise."

And he curled himself up in his bedclothes, and slept the sleep of the just, which was more than could be said for the fitful slumbers of our heroes, which visions of Tom White's boat, and Ponty's pocket, and the piece of string at the tail of the Eleven's coach, combined to make the reverse of sound.

In the middle of the night Dick, as he lay awake, felt Heathcote's hand nudging him.

"I say, Dick!" said the latter, "the wind's got up. Do you hear it?"

"Shut up, Georgie. I'm just asleep."

Nemesis handed in her last cheque to our heroes after chapel next morning in the Doctor's study. I will spare the reader the harrowing details of that serious interview. Suffice it to say that the dormitory fag was right, and that Mrs Partlett was spared the trouble of packing up the two young gentlemen's wardrobes.

But they emerged from the study wiser and sadder men. They knew more about the properties of a certain flexible wood than they had ever dreamed of before. They also felt themselves marked men in high quarters, with a blot on their new boy's scutcheon which it would take a heap of virtue to efface.

"By George!" said Dick that afternoon, "we got it hot—too hot, Georgie."

"I think Winter might have let us down rather easier, myself," said Georgie.

There was a pause.

"Was it windy last night?" asked Dick.

"Rather!" said Georgie.

"Anything new down town?"

"Couldn't hear anything."

"Hum! I wonder what that beast's done with mother's photograph? I say, Georgie, what a howling brute he was!"

"He was; he deserves anything."

Strange, if so, that neither of our young heroes went to the police station and informed against their man. On the contrary, they went up on to the cliffs after school, and scanned the bay from headland to headland, doubtless lost in the wonders of the deep, and wishing very much they could tell what the wild waves were saying as to the whereabouts of the Martha.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

'TWIXT SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS.

Perhaps no epoch of a schoolboy's life is more critical—especially if he be of the open-hearted nature of Dick and Heathcote—than that which immediately follows his first punishment at the hands of the law.

On the one hand he has the sense of disgrace which attends personal chastisement, as well as the discomfort of a forfeited good name, and the feeling of being down on the black books of the school authorities generally. On the other hand, he is sure to meet with a certain number of companions who, if they do not exactly admire what he has done, sympathise with him in what he has suffered; and sympathy at such a time is sweet and seducing. A little too much sympathy will make him feel a martyr, and a little martyrdom will make him feel a hero, and once a hero on account of his misdeeds, he needs a stout heart and a steady head to keep himself from going one step further and becoming a professional evil-doer, and ending a fool and his own worst enemy.

Dick and Heathcote ran a serious risk of being shunted on to the road to ruin after the escapade of the Grandcourt match.

The former discovered that his popularity with the Den was by no means impaired by adversity. In fact, he jumped at one bound to the hero stage of his ordeal. He was but a boy of flesh and blood, and sympathy is a sweet salve for smarting flesh and blood.

After the first burst of contrition it pleased him to hear fellows say—

"Hard lines on you, old man. Not another in a hundred would have cheeked it the way you did."

It pleased him, too, to see boys smaller than himself look round as they passed him, and whisper something which made their companions turn round too. Dick grew fond of small boys as the term went on.

It pleased him still more to be taken notice of by a few bigger boys, to find himself claimed by Hooker and Duffield as a crony, to be bantered by the aesthetic Wrangham, and patronised by the stout Bull.

All this made him go over the adventures of that memorable day often in his mind, and think that after all it wasn't a bad day's sport, and that, though he said so who shouldn't, he had managed things fairly well, and got his money's worth.

His money's worth, however, reminded him of his lost half-sovereign and his mother's photograph, and these reflections usually pulled him up short in his reminiscences.

Heathcote, in a more philosophical and dismal way, had his perils, and Pledge gave him no help through his difficulty. On the contrary, he encouraged his growing discontent.

"Dismals again?" said he, one evening. "That cane of Winter's must be a stiff one if it cuts you up like that."

"Winter always does lay it on thick to the kids, though," said Wrangham, who happened to be present. "His lickings are in inverse ratio to the size of the licked."

It did comfort Heathcote to hear his case discussed in such learned and mathematical terms, but that was all the consolation he got.

Dick was in far too exalted a frame of mind to give much assistance.

"What does it matter?" said he, recklessly. "I don't mean to fret myself."

And so the matter ended for the present. The two friends were bearing their ordeal in two such different ways that they might almost have parted company, had there not been another common interest of still greater importance to bind them together.

One day Heathcote came up from the "Tub" at a canter and caught his friend at the chapel door.

"Dick," he said, "it's all out! This bill was sticking on one of the posts by the pier. It was wet, so I took it off."

Dick read—"L2 reward. Lost or stolen from her moorings, on Templeton Strand, on the 4th inst, a lugger-rigged sailing boat, named the Martha. Any one giving information leading to the recovery of the boat—or if stolen, to the conviction of the thief—will receive the above reward. Police Station, Templeton."

Dick handed the ominous paper back with a long face.

"Here, take it. Whatever did you pull it off the post for?"

"I thought you'd like to see it," said Heathcote, putting the despised document into his pocket.

"So I did. Thanks, Georgie. We didn't steal the boat, did we?"

"Rather not. Not like what he did to our money."

"No. That was downright robbery."

"With violence," added Heathcote.

"Of course. It was really Tom White's fault the boat got adrift. It was so carelessly anchored."

"Yes. A puff of wind would have slipped that knot."

There was a pause.

"It's plain he doesn't guess anything," said Dick.

"Not likely. And he's not likely to say anything about it, if he does."

"Of course not. It would mean transportation for him."

"After all, some one may have gone off with the boat. We can't tell. It was there all right when we saw it, wasn't it?"

Dick looked at his friend. He could delude himself up to a certain point, but this plea wouldn't quite wash.

"Most likely they'll find it. It may have drifted round to Birkens, or some place like that. It'll be all right, Georgie."

But the thoughts of that unlucky boat haunted their peace. That Tom White had only got his deserts they never questioned; but they would have been more comfortable if that loop had slipped itself.

Days went on, and still no tidings reached them. The bills faced them wherever they went, and once, as they passed the boat-house with a crowd of other fellows, they received a shock by seeing Tom White himself sitting and smoking on a bench, and looking contemplatingly out to sea.

"There's Tom White," said one of the group. "I say," shouted he, "have you found your boat, Tom?"

Tom looked up and scanned the group. Our heroes' hearts were in their boots as his eyes met theirs. But to their relief he did not know them. A half-tipsy man on a dark night is not a good hand at remembering faces.

"Found her? No, I aren't, young gentleman," said he.

"Hard lines. Hope you'll get her back," said the boy. "I say, do you think any one stole her?"

"May be, may be not," replied the boatman.

"Jolly rum thing about that boat," said the spokesman of the party, as the boys continued their walk.

"I expect it got adrift somehow," said another.

"I don't know," said the first. "I was speaking to a bobby about her: he says they think she was stolen; and fancy they've got a clue to the fellow."

Heathcote stumbled for no apparent reason at this particular moment, and it was quite amusing to see the concern on Dick's face as he went to the rescue.

"Jolly low trick," continued the boy, who appeared to interest himself so deeply in Tom's loss, "if any one really took the boat away. Tom will be ruined."

"Who do they think went off with her?" asked another.

"They don't say; but they're rather good at running things down, are our police. Do you recollect the way they bowled out the fellow who tried to burn the boat-house last year, and got him six months?"

This police gossip was so alarming to our two heroes, that they gave up taking walks along the beach, and retired to the privacy of the school boundaries, where there was no lack of occupation, indoor and out, to relieve the monotony of life.

A week after the Grandcourt match, a boy called Braider came up to Dick and asked to speak to him. Braider was in the Fourth, and Dick knew of him as a racketty, roystering sort of fellow, very popular with his own set—and thought something of by the Den, on account of some recent offences against monitorial authority.

"I say," said he to Dick, confidentially, "what do you say to belonging to our Club?"

"What Club?" asked Dick, scenting some new distinction, and getting light-headed in consequence.

"You'll promise not to go telling everybody," said Braider. "We're called the 'Sociables,' It's a jolly enough lot. Only twenty of us, and we have suppers and concerts once a week. The thing is, it's awfully select, and a job to get into it. But your name was mentioned the other day, and I fancy you'd get in."

"I suppose Georgie Heathcote isn't in it?" said Dick.

"Rather not!" said the other, mistaking his meaning; "he'd have no chance."

"He's not a bad fellow," said Dick. "I wouldn't mind if he was on."

"Well, there are two vacancies. What do you say for one?"

"Do I know the other fellows?"

"Most of them," and Braider repeated a string of names, among which were those of a few well-known heroes of the Fifth and Fourth.

"They're all jolly fellows," said Braider, "and, back up one another like one o'clock. It was your plucky show up at Grandcourt that made them think of having you; and if you join you'll just be in time for the next concert. What do you say?"

Dick didn't like to say no; and not being a youth who dallied much between the positive and the negative, he said:

"All serene, Braider, if they really want it."

"Of course they do, old man," said Braider, in tones of satisfaction; "they'll be jolly glad. Mind you don't go talking about it to any one, you know. They're very select, and don't want all Templeton wanting to join."

"When's the election?" asked Dick.

"Oh! to-day week. There's one fellow, Culver, up against you; but he's got no chance. One black ball in six excludes, so it's always a close run."

"Do you think there would be any chance for young Heathcote?"

"Doubt it. But we might try when you're in. Ta, ta! old man. Mum's the word."

Dick spent a troubled week. He was uncomfortable with Heathcote, in whom he was bursting to confide. He was uneasy, too, in meeting the few members of the "Sociables" whom he knew, and felt that they were watching him critically, with a view to the election next Thursday. And he was vindictive in the presence of Culver, whose possible rivalry he regarded as little short of an insult.

Indeed, the effect of the suspense on him was bad all round. For having somehow picked up the notion from Braider's hints that "spirit" was a leading qualification for aspiring members of the club, he was very nearly increasing that qualification notoriously, before the week was out, by another row with headquarters.

He purposely shirked his work, and behaved disorderly in class, in order to show his patrons what he was made of; and what was worse, he egged the unsuspecting Georgie on to similar excesses by his example. Georgie, as far as "spirit" went, stood better qualified for membership of the club at the week's end than did the real candidate; for while the latter escaped punishment, the former was dropped upon to the tune of three hundred lines of Virgil, for throwing a book across the room during class.

"Just my luck," said he defiantly to his leader afterwards. "Everybody's down on me. I'm bound to catch it, so I may as well have my fling."

"You did have your fling, Georgie, and you caught it, too."

Georgie was too out of humour to notice the jest. "You don't catch me caring twopence about it, though," said he.

But his tones belied the valiant words, and Dick looked curiously at his troubled, harried face.

"Why, Georgie," said he, "you're down on your luck, old man."

"Blow my luck!" said Georgie, "perhaps I am down on it. It serves me worse than yours."

Dick didn't say anything more just then. Perhaps because he had nothing to say. But he didn't like this new state of things in his friend. Georgie was being spoiled, and would have to be looked after.

Dick was not the only Templetonian who had made this brilliant discovery. Ponty had dropped a casual eye on him now and then, so had Mansfield; and neither the captain that was, nor the captain that was to be, liked the look of things.

"He's going the way of all—all the Pledgelings," said Ponty. "Can't you stop it, Mansfield?"

"If I were captain of Templeton, I'd try, old man," replied the other.

"Really, Mansfield, you frighten me when you look so solemn. What can I do?"

"Do? Take him away from where he is, to begin with."

"On what grounds? Pledge hasn't done anything you or I could take hold of. And if the kid is going to the dogs, we can't connect it with Pledge, any more than we can with Winter himself."

And Ponty yawned, and wished Mansfield would not look as if somebody wanted hanging.

"It's curious, at any rate," said Mansfield, "that Pledge's fag should begin to go to the dogs, while his chum, who fags for Cresswell, and is quite as racketty, should keep all right."

"Do you call young Richardson all right?" asked Ponty. "I should say he and his friend are in the same boat, and he's holding the tiller."

Which was pretty 'cute for a lazy one like Ponty.

"Well," said Mansfield, who, with all his earnestness, felt really baffled over the problem, "things mustn't go on as they are, surely."

"Certainly not, dear boy, if we can make them better; but I don't see what's to be done. I'd bless you if you could put things right."

And he put his feet upon the chair in front, and took up his novel.

Mansfield took the hint. Nor did he misunderstand his indolent friend. Ponty's indolence wasn't all laziness. It was sometimes a cloak for perplexity; and the captain-to-be, as he said good-night, guessed shrewdly that not many pages of the novel would be skimmed that evening.

Ponty did, in fact, wake up a bit those last few weeks of the term. He rambled down once or twice to the Juniors' tennis court, and terrified the small fry there by sprawling at full length on the grass within sight of the play. It was a crowded corner of the fields and a noisy one, and, if the captain went there for a nap, he had queer notions of a snug berth. If, however, he went there to see life, he knew what he was about.

He saw Aspinall there, toughening every day, and working up his screwy service patiently and doggedly, till one or two of the knowing ones found it worth their while to get on the other side of the net and play against him. Culver was there, big of bone, bragging, blustering as ever, but keeping the colour in his cheeks with healthy sport. Gosse was there, forgetting to make himself a nuisance for one hour in twenty- four. The globular Cazenove was there, melting with the heat, but proclaiming that even a big body and short legs can do some good by help of a true eye and a patient spirit. These and twenty others were there, getting good every one of them, and atoning, every time they scored a point and hit out a rally, for something less healthy or less profitable scored elsewhere. And Ponty, as he lay there blinking in the sun, moralised on the matter, and came to the conclusion that there is hope for a boy as long as he loves to don his flannels and roll up his shirt- sleeves, and stand up, with his head in the air, to face his rival like a man. Even a Culver may look a gentleman as he rushes down to his corner and saves his match with a left-hander, and Aspinall himself may appear formidable when, as he stands up to serve, his foeman pulls his cap down and retreats with lengthened face across the service-line.

But where were Dick and Heathcote? For a whole week Ponty took his siesta in the Juniors' corner, blinking now at the cricket, now at the tennis, strolling sometimes into the gymnasium, and sometimes to the fives courts, but nowhere did Basil the son of Richard meet his eyes, and nowhere was Heathcote the Pledgeling.

One day he did find the latter wandering like a ghost in the Quadrangle, and saw him bolt like a rat to his hole at sight of a monitor; and once he saw Dick striding at the head of a phalanx of Juniors, with his coat off and his face very much on one side, and the marks of battle on his eye and lip. Ponty sheered off before the triumphal army reached him and shrugged his shoulders.

That afternoon he encountered our heroes arm-in-arm in the Quadrangle and hailed them. They obeyed his summons uneasily.

"Go and put on your flannels, both of you," said the captain, "and come back here; I'll wait for you."

In trepidation they obeyed and went, while Ponty looked about for a cozy seat on which to stretch himself.

In five minutes they returned and presented themselves. Ponty eyed them both calmly, and then roused himself and began to walk to the fields.

Tennis was in full swing in the Junior corner, where all sorts of play, good, bad and indifferent, was going on at the nets. Ponty, followed by the two bewildered champions, strolled about till he came upon an indifferent set being played by Gosse and Cazenove against Raggles and another boy called Wade.

"Stop the game for a bit, you youngsters," said the captain. "Which two of you are the best?"

"I think I and Raggles are," said Gosse, with his usual modesty.

"Oh, then you can sit out. Give your rackets to these two; they're going to play against Cazenove and Wade."

Dick's heart sank within him as he took Gosse's racket and glanced up at the captain's face.

"I'm rather out of practice," faltered he.

"Come, are you ready? I'll umpire," said the captain.

It was a melancholy exhibition, that scratch match; all the more melancholy that the other courts gradually emptied and a ring of Juniors formed, who stared silently now at the players, then round at Pontifex, and wondered what on earth he found to interest him in a miserable show like this. For our heroes mulled everything. Two faults were not enough for them; the holes in their rackets were legion, and their legs never went the way they wanted. The Den blushed as it looked on and heard Ponty call, game after game, "Love—forty."

Of course the two wretched boys were scared—Ponty knew that well enough—but so were Cazenove and Wade. And yet Cazenove and Wade managed to keep their wind and get over their net, and no one could say they had less to be scared at than their opponents.

At length the doleful spectacle was over. "One—six" was the score in games.

"You must be proud of your one game," said Ponty, strolling off.

Our heroes watched him go, and felt they were hard hit. It was no use pretending not to understand the captain's meaning, or not to notice the still lingering blushes of the spectators on their account.

So they withdrew sadly from the field of battle, chastened in spirit, yet not without a dawning ambition to make Ponty change his mind concerning them before the term was quite run out.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

HOW DICK HAS ONE LATIN EXERCISE MORE THAN HE BARGAINED FOR.

Dick did not often feel ashamed of himself. He had a knack of keeping his head above water, even in reverses, which usually stood him in good stead. But after that mournful scratch match with Cazenove and Wade, he certainly did feel ashamed.

And, be it said to the credit of his honesty, that he blamed the right offender. Ponty had been rough on him, but it wasn't Ponty's fault. Cazenove and Wade had knocked him and his chum into a cocked hat, but it wasn't Cazenove's or Wade's fault. Heathcote had mulled his game dreadfully, and done nothing to save the match, but it wasn't Heathcote's fault. Basil the son of Richard was the guilty man, and Basil the son of Richard kicked himself and called himself a fool.

Not publicly, though. In the Den, despite the blushes his tennis had caused, he did his best to keep up his swagger and restore confidence by a few acts of special audacity; and the Den was forgiving on the whole. They did feel sore for a day, and showed it; but gradually they came back to their allegiance, and made excuses for their hero of their own accord.

If truth must be told, Dick was far more concerned as to the possible effect of his public humiliation on his election at "the Sociables," which was now only a day off.

Braider told him, with rather a long face, that his chances had been rather shaken by the affair, and that there was again some talk of pushing Culver against him. This alarming news drove all immediate projects of virtue out of Dick's head. Not that membership of the club was his one ideal of bliss; but, being a candidate, he could not bear the idea of being defeated, particularly by a young ruffian like Culver. So he indulged in all sorts of extravagances on the last day of his probation, and led Heathcote on to the very verge of a further punishment in order to recover some of the ground he had lost with the "select" twenty.

After school he could settle to nothing till he knew his fate. He dragged the unsuspecting Heathcote up and down the great Quadrangle under pretext of discussing Tom White's boat, but really in order to keep his eye on the door behind which the select "Sociables" sat in congress.

Heathcote saw there was a secret somewhere, and, feeling himself out of it, departed somewhat moodily to Pledge's study. Dick, however, continued his walk, heedless if every friend on earth deserted him, so long as Culver should not be preferred before him behind that door.

He was getting tired of this solitary promenade, and beginning to wonder whether the "Select Sociables" had fallen asleep in the act of voting for him, when a ball pitched suddenly on to the pavement between his feet.

He couldn't tell where it came from—probably from some window above, for no one just then was about in the Quadrangle.

He stooped down to pick it up and pitch it back into the first open window, when, greatly to his surprise, he saw his name written across it, and discovered that the ball was not a tennis ball at all, but a round paper box, which came in two as he held it.

Dick was not superstitious. He had scoffed at the Templeton ghost when he first heard of it, and made up his mind long since it was a bogey kept for the benefit of new boys.

But it certainly gave him a start to find himself, at this late period of the term, when he had almost forgotten he ever was a new boy, pitched upon as the recipient of one of these mysterious missives.

The letter inside was written in printed characters, like those addressed to Heathcote.

"Dick," it began.

"Hallo," thought Dick to himself, "rather cheek of a ghost to call a fellow by his Christian name, isn't it?"

"Dick,—Don't be a fool. You were a fine fellow when you came. What are you now? Don't let fellows lead you astray. You can be a fine fellow without being a bad one. Let the 'Sociables' alone. They'll teach you to be a cad. If you don't care for yourself, think of Heathcote, who only needs your encouragement to make a worse failure than he has made already. Save him from Pledge. Then you'll be a fine fellow, with a vengeance. Your real friend,—

"Junius.

"P.S.—Translate 'Dominat qui in se dominatur.'"

The first thing that struck Dick about this extraordinary epistle was, that it was odd the ghost should write his letters on Templeton exercise paper. It then occurred to him that it was rather rough to put him through his paces in Latin idioms at a time like this. Couldn't the ghost get a dictionary, or ask a senior, and find out for himself?

It then occurred to him, who on earth was it who had written to him like this? Some one who knew him, that was certain; and he almost fancied it must be some one who liked him, for a fellow wouldn't take the trouble to tell him he was a fine fellow at the beginning of the term, and all that sort of thing, unless he had a fancy for him.

What did he mean by "What are you now?" It sounded as if he meant "You are not a fine fellow now." Rather a personal remark.

"What's it got to do with him what I am now?" reflected Dick, digging his hands into his pockets, and resuming his promenade. "And what does he mean by fellows leading me astray? Like to catch any one trying it on, that's all. Like to catch him, for the matter of that, for his howling cheek!"

Dick sat down on one of the stone benches, and pulled out the letter for another perusal.

"'Let the Sociables alone.' Oh, ah! most likely he's been blackballed himself, and don't like any one to—. Humph! wonder if they are a shady lot or not? What does he mean by saying they'll teach me to be a cad? Who'll teach me to be a cad? Not a muff like Braider."

At that moment a door opened at the end of the corridor, and a voice shouted—

"Richardson!"

It was Braider's voice, and Dick knew it.

He crumpled the letter up in his hand, and the colour came and went from his cheeks.

"Richardson! where are you?" called Braider again, for it was dusk, and our hero's seat was screened from view.

Dick coloured again, and bit his lips; and finally got up from the bench, and strolled off in an opposite direction.

"Richardson! do you hear?" once more shouted the invisible Braider.

Dick walked on in the dusk, wondering to himself whether Braider would get into a row for kicking up that uproar in the Quad.

At last, after one final shout, he heard the door slam. Then he quickened his pace, and made for Cresswell's study.

On the staircase he met Aspinall.

"I heard some one calling you out in the Quad.," said the small boy.

"Did you?" replied Dick. "I wonder who it can have been? Is Cresswell in his study?"

"No."

"All serene. Come back with me. Have you done your swot?"

"Yes, I did my lessons an hour ago."

"Oh!" said Dick, and strode on, followed somewhat dubiously by his young protege.

"Shut the door," said Dick, sternly, as they entered the study.

"Whatever is going to happen to me?" ejaculated the small boy, inwardly, as he obeyed. Dick had never spoken to him like this before. Had he offended him unwittingly? Had he been disloyal to his sovereignty?

Dick walked to the fireplace, and, pulling a letter from his pocket, read it through twice, apparently heedless of his subject's presence. Then he looked up suddenly, and, crushing the paper viciously back into his pocket, stared hard at his perturbed companion.

"Young Aspinall," said he, sharply, "do you say I'm a fool?"

"Oh, no," replied the boy, staggered by the very suggestion, "I should never think of saying such a thing."

"Should you say I was a blackguard?"

"No, indeed, Dick. No one could say that."

The hero's face brightened. There was a warmth in Aspinall's voice which touched the most sensitive side of his nature. Dick would have liked the ghost to be near to hear it.

"Should you say I've let myself be led astray, and made a mess of it here, at Templeton?"

"No, Dick, I don't think so," said the boy.

"What do you mean? don't think. Have I, or have I not?" demanded Dick.

It was a delicate position for the timorous small boy. He had had his misgivings about Dick, and seen a change in him, not, as he thought, for the better. But the idea of telling him so to his face was as much as his peace was worth. Yet he must either tell the truth, or a lie, and when it came to that, Aspinall could not help himself.

"You are the best friend I've got," said he, nervously, "and I'd give anything to be as brave as you; but—"

"Well, wire in," said Dick, tearing to bits one of Cresswell's quill pens with his teeth; "but what?"

"You're so good-natured," said Aspinall, "fellows make you do things you wouldn't do of your own accord."

"Who makes me do things?" demanded Dick, sternly.

"I don't know," pleaded the boy, feeling that this sort of tight-rope dancing was not in his line; "perhaps some of your friends in the Fourth and Fifth. But I may be all wrong."

"What do they make me do?" said Dick.

"They make you," said Aspinall, feeling that it was no use trying to keep his balance any longer, and that he might as well throw down his pole and tumble into the net; "they make you break rules and get into rows, Dick, because you see it goes down with them, and they cheer you for it. You wouldn't do that of your own accord."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't think you would," said the boy.

If any one had told Aspinall, ten minutes ago, he would be talking to Dick in this strain, he would have scouted the idea as a bit of chaff. As it was, he could hardly believe he had said as much as he had, and waited, in an uncomfortable sort of way, for Dick's next remark.

"Oh! that's what you think, is it?"

"Please don't be angry," pleaded the boy, "you asked me."

"What about Heathcote?" demanded Dick, abruptly, after a pause.

"What do you mean, Dick?"

"I mean, is he making a mess of it, too?"

"Oh, Dick; I never said you were making a mess, of it."

"Well, then, is Heathcote being led astray?"

"I don't know. He seems different; and talks funnily about things."

"Does what? I never heard Georgie talk funnily about things, and I've known him a good bit. Who's leading him astray? Am I?"

Poor Aspinall was on the tight-rope again, at the most ticklish part. For he did think Dick was running Heathcote into mischief, unintentionally, no doubt, but still unmistakably, "Am I?" repeated Dick, rounding on his man, and fixing him with his eyes.

"Heathcote's not so strong-minded as you are, Dick, and when he sees you doing things, I fancy he thinks he can do them too. But he can't pull up like you, and so he gets into rows."

"Oh!" said Dick, returning to his quill pen, and completing its demolition. Then he pulled out the letter, and read it to himself again, and this time, instead of returning it to his pocket, twisted it up into a spill, and lit the gas with it.

"What should you say was the English of 'Dominat qui in se dominatur,' young 'un," he asked, casually, when the operation was complete.

"Why, that's one of the mottoes in the Quad," said Aspinall, wondering what on earth this had to do with Heathcote's rows. "I always fancied it meant, 'He rules best, who knows how to rule himself.'"

"Which is the word for best," asked Dick, critically, rather pleased to have found a flaw in the motto.

"Oh, I suppose it's understood," said Aspinall.

"Why couldn't he say what he meant, straight out?" said Dick, waxing wondrous wroth at the motto-maker, "there's plenty of room in the Quad for an extra word."

Aspinall quite blushed at this small explosion, and somehow felt personally implicated in the defects of the motto.

"Perhaps I'm wrong," said he. "Perhaps it means a fellow can't rule at all, unless he can rule himself."