"You'll have to grip it hard with your ankles and elbows," he said, beginning to slide down an inch or two; "and go slow, whatever you do."

It was nervous work watching him, and still more nervous work when at length I braced myself up to the effort and proceeded to embrace the slender pipe. How I ever managed to get to the bottom I can't say. I remember reflecting about half way down that this would be good daily exercise for the Henniker, and the mere thought of her almost sent me headlong to the bottom.

At last, however, I stood safe beside my chum on the gravel walk.

"Now!" said he.

"Now," I replied, "where shall we go?"

"London, I think," said he, solemnly as ever, "All right—how many miles?"

"Eighty or ninety, I fancy—but where's your coat?"

"In the dormitory. I was too much flurried to put it on."

"Never mind, we can use mine turn about. But I wish we'd got boots instead of slippers."

"So do I," replied I, who even as I stood felt the sharp gravel cutting my feet; "ninety miles in slippers will be rather rough."

"Never mind," said Jack, "come on."

"Come on," said I.

At that moment, to our dismay and misery, we heard a window above us stealthily opened, close to the water-pipe, and looking up beheld the Henniker's head and yellow-and-black body suddenly thrust out.

"Batchelor and Smith—Mr Ladislaw," (here her voice rose to pretty nearly a shriek)—"Mr Ladislaw! come at once, please—Batchelor and Smith, running away. Mr Ladislaw, quick! Batchelor and Smith!"

We stood motionless, with no spirit left to fly, until the door was opened, and Mr Ladislaw, Miss Henniker, and Mr Hashford, all three, sallied out to capture us.

Among them we were dragged back, faint and exhausted, into Stonebridge House, all thoughts of freedom, and London, effectually banished from our heads, and still worse, with the bitter sense of disappointment added to our other miseries.

Mr Hashford was set to watch us for the rest of the night in the empty schoolroom. And he had an easy task. For even though he fell asleep over it, we had no notion of returning to our old scheme. Indeed, I was shivering so, I had no notion of anything but the cold. Jack made me put on his coat, but it made very little difference. The form I was on actually shook with my shivering. Mr Hashford, good soul that he was, lent me his own waistcoat, and suggested that if we all three sat close together—I in the middle—I might get warmer. We tried it, and when at six o'clock that same eventful morning the servant came to sweep the room she found us all three huddled together—two of us asleep and one in a fever.

I have only a dim recollection of what happened during the next week or so. I was during that time the most comfortable boy in all Stonebridge House. For the doctor came every day, ordered me all sorts of good things, and insisted on a fire being kept in my room, and no lessons. And if I wished to see any of my friends I might do so, and on no account was I to be allowed to fret or be disturbed in mind. I couldn't help feeling half sorry for Miss Henniker being charged with all these uncongenial tasks; but Stonebridge House depended a great deal on what the doctor said of it, and so she had to obey his orders.

I took advantage of the permission to see my friends by requesting the presence of Smith very frequently. But as the Henniker generally thought fit to sit in my room at the same time, I didn't get as much good out of my chum as I might have done. I heard he had had a very smart flogging for his share of that eventful night's proceedings, and that another was being saved up for me when I got well.

It was quite a melancholy day for me when the doctor pronounced me convalescent, and said I might resume my ordinary duties. It was announced to me at my first appearance in school, that on account of my delinquencies I was on the "strict silence" rule for the rest of the term, that my bed was removed to the other dormitory, and that I was absolutely forbidden to hold any further communication, either by word or gesture, with my friend Smith.

Thus cheerfully ended my first term at Stonebridge House.



CHAPTER SIX.

HOW THINGS CAME TO A CRISIS AT STONEBRIDGE HOUSE.

A year passed, and found us at the end of it the same wretched, spiritless boys as ever. Stonebridge House had become no more tolerable, the Henniker had grown no less terrible, and our fellow "backward and troublesome boys" were just as unpleasant as they had been. No new boys had come to give us a variety, and no old boys had left. Except for the one fact that we were all of us a year older, everything was precisely the same as it had been at the time of the adventure related in my last chapter. But that one year makes a good deal of difference. When Smith and I slid down the water-pipe a year ago we were comparatively new friends, now we had grown to love one another like brothers. When the Henniker, on the same occasion, put an end to our scheme of escape, we had endured her persecutions but three months, now we had endured them for fifteen. A great deal of secret working may go on in a fellow's mind during a year, and in that way the interval had wrought a change, for we were a good deal more to one another, Smith and I, and a good deal more desperate at our hard lot, both of us, than we had been a year ago.

It had been a miserable time. My holidays alone with my uncle had been almost as cheerless as my schooldays at Stonebridge House with Miss Henniker. If it hadn't been for Smith I do believe I should have lost every vestige of spirit. But happily he gave me no chance of falling into that condition. He seemed always on the verge of some explosion. Now it was against Hawkesbury, now against the Henniker, now against Mr Ladislaw, and now against the whole world generally, myself included. I had a busy time of it holding him in.

He still showed aversion to Hawkesbury, although I differed from him on this point, and insisted that Hawkesbury was not such a bad fellow. Luckily, however, no outbreak happened. How could it, when Hawkesbury was always so amiable and forgiving and friendly? It was a wonder to me how Jack would persist in disliking this fellow. Sometimes I used to be quite ashamed to see the scornful way in which he repulsed his favours and offers of friendship. On the whole I rather liked Hawkesbury.

The summer term was again drawing to a close, and for fear, I suppose, lest the fact should convey any idea of pleasure to our minds, the Henniker was down on us more than ever. The cane was in constant requisition, and Mr Ladislaw was always being summoned up to administer chastisement.

Even Hawkesbury, who generally managed to escape reproach, came in for her persecution now and then.

One day, I remember, we were all in class, and she for some reason quitted the room, leaving Mr Hashford in charge.

Now, no one minded Mr Hashford very much. He was a good-natured fellow, who did his best to please both us and his mistress; but he was "Henpecked," we could see, like all the rest of us, and we looked upon him more as a big schoolfellow than as a master, and minded him accordingly. We therefore accepted the Henniker's departure as a signal for leaving off work and seizing the opportunity to loosen our tongues and look about us. Hawkesbury happened to be sitting next to me. He put down his pen, and, leaning back against the desk behind him, yawned and said, "I say, Batchelor, I hope you and Smith haven't been quarrelling?"

"Quarrelling!" exclaimed I, astounded at the bare notion. "Why, whatever puts that into your head?"

"Oh," said he, with his usual smile, "only fancy. But I'm glad it isn't the case."

"Of course it isn't," said I, warmly.

"I haven't seen you talking to him so often lately; that's why," said Hawkesbury; "and it always seems a pity when good friends fall out."

I smiled and said, "How can I talk to him, except on the sly, in this place? Never fear, Jack Smith and I know one another too well to fall out."

"Ah, he is a mysterious fellow, and he lets so few people into his secrets."

"Yes," said I, colouring a little. "He doesn't even let me into them."

Hawkesbury looked surprised. "Of course you know where he came from first of all, and all that?"

"No, I don't," I said.

"What, not know about— But I'd better not talk about it. It's not honourable to talk about another boy's affairs."

"Hawkesbury," said Mr Hashford at this moment, "don't talk."

This was quite a remarkable utterance for the meek and mild Mr Hashford to make in the Henniker's absence, and we all started and looked up in a concerned way, as if he must be unwell.

But no, he seemed all right, and having said what he had to say, went on with his work.

Hawkesbury took no notice of the interruption, and went on. "And, on the whole, I think it would be kinder not to say anything about it, as he has kept it a secret himself. You see—"

"Hawkesbury," again said Mr Hashford, "you must not talk."

Hawkesbury smiled in a pitiful sort of way at Mr Hashford, and again turned towards me to resume the conversation. "You see—" began he.

"Hawkesbury," again said Mr Hashford, "this is the third time I have told you not to talk."

"Who was talking?" cried the Henniker, entering at that moment.

"Hawkesbury, I'm sorry to say, Miss Henniker."

"Hawkesbury—a bad mark for—"

"Oh!" said I, starting up, "I was talking—"

"A bad mark to you, Batchelor, for interrupting me, and another for talking. Hawkesbury, a bad mark for talking in class."

We were all astonished. We had hitherto looked upon Hawkesbury as a privileged person who might do as he liked, and upon Mr Hashford as a person who had not a soul of his own. Here was the phenomenon not only of our schoolfellow getting publicly censured, but of Mr Hashford backing up Miss Henniker, and Miss Henniker backing up Mr Hashford.

Flanagan afterwards confided to me his theory of this unwonted event. "I expect," said he, "Hashford's just got his screw raised, and wants to show off a bit before the Hen, and she wants to encourage him to be rather more down on us, you know. She's got the toothache, too, I know, and that accounts for her not being particular who she drops on, though I am surprised she pitched on Hawkesbury. How pleased your chum Smith will be!"

But my friend Smith, when I had a chance of speaking to him, seemed indifferent about the whole affair, being taken up with troubles of his own. A letter had come for him that day, he told me, in tones of fierce anger. It had been opened and read as usual, before being handed to him. He did not complain of that; that was an indignity we had to submit to every time we received a letter. But what he did complain of, and what had roused his temper, was that the last half-sheet of the letter had been deliberately torn off and not given to him.

Directly after class he had marched boldly to the Henniker's parlour and knocked at the door.

"Come in!" snapped she.

Smith did come in, and proceeded to business at once.

"You haven't given me all my letter, ma'am," he said.

Miss Henniker looked at him with some of the same astonishment with which she had regarded me when I once told her she was to see my socks were regularly darned.

Then she pulled herself up, in her usual chilly manner, and replied, "I am aware of that, Smith."

"I want it, please, ma'am," said Smith.

Again the Henniker glared at this audacious youth, and again she replied, "You will not have it, Smith!"

"Why not?"

"Leave the room instantly, sir, for daring to speak like that to me, and write out one hundred lines of Caesar before you get your dinner!" cried the Henniker, indignantly. "You've no right to keep—"

"Smith, follow me!" interrupted Miss Henniker, in her most irresistible voice, as she led the way to Mr Ladislaw's study.

Smith did follow her, and was flogged, of course.

I was as indignant as he was at this tale of injustice; it reminded me of my box of sweets last year, which I had never seen back.

Smith's rage was beyond all bounds. "I won't stand it!" said he; "that's all about it, Fred!"

"What can we do?" asked I.

That was the question. And there was no answering it. So we slunk back to our places, nursing our wrath in our bosoms, and vowing all sorts of vengeance on the Henniker.

Nor were we the only boys in this condition of mind. Whether it was the Henniker was thoroughly upset by her toothache, or by Hawkesbury's bad conduct and Smith's impertinence, I cannot say, but for the next day or two she even excelled herself in the way she went on.

There was nothing we could do, or think, or devise, that she did not pounce upon and punish us for. Some were detained, some were set to impositions, some were flogged, some were reduced to bread and water, some had most if not all of their worldly goods confiscated. Even Hawkesbury shared the general fate, and for a whole week all Stonebridge House groaned as it had never groaned before.

Then we could stand it no longer. We all felt that; and we all found out that everybody else felt it. But as usual the question was, what to do?

It was almost impossible to speak to one another, so closely were we watched, and even when we did, we discovered that we were all at sixes and sevens, and agreed only on one thing, which was that we could not stand it.

At length one day, to our infinite jubilation, as we were dismally walking from the schoolroom to the parlour, we saw the front door open. A fly was standing at it, and as we passed, the Henniker in her Sunday get-up was stepping into it!

What had we done to deserve such a mercy? She was going to pay a state call somewhere, and for one blessed hour at any rate we should be at peace!

A council of war was immediately held. For once in a way Stonebridge House was unanimous. We sunk all minor differences for a time in the grand question, what should we do?

A great many wild suggestions were immediately made.

Rathbone undertook, with the aid of any two other fellows, to inflict personal chastisement on the public enemy.

This was rejected peremptorily. It would be no use, we should catch it all the worse afterwards; besides, bad as she was, the Henniker was a woman, and it would be cowardly to thrash her.

"Tie up her hands and feet and gag her," suggested Philpot.

Wouldn't do again. She'd get Ladislaw to help her out.

"Tie up Ladislaw and Hashford too."

We weren't numerous or strong enough to do it.

"Let's all bolt," suggested Flanagan.

They'd send the police after us. Or if they didn't, how were we to get on, without money or shelter or anywhere to go?

"Suppose," said I, "we shut them out of the schoolroom and barricade the door, and don't let them in till they accept our terms."

"That's more like it," said some one; "but then what about food? We can't store enough, even if we emptied the larder, to stand a long siege."

"Well, then," said Smith, "suppose we screw them up, and don't let them out till they give in."

"That's it," said every one, "the very thing."

"What do you say, Hawkesbury?" inquired I.

"Well," said he, smiling pleasantly, "it's not a nice thing to turn against one's master and mistress; but really Miss Henniker has been very vexing lately."

"Hurrah! then you agree?" And the question was put all round, every one assenting. At least so I thought. But Smith as usual was doubtful of Hawkesbury.

"You agree, Hawkesbury?" said he.

"Really," said the other, with a smile, "it isn't nice to be suspected, Smith. Isn't it enough to say a thing once?"

"Oh yes, yes," cried out every one, impatiently, and most anxious to keep the meeting harmonious. "He said he did, Smith; what more do you want? Do let's pull all together."

"Just what I want," said Smith.

"Well," said Philpot, "I propose we lock them up in the big schoolroom."

"Wouldn't it be better," said Flanagan, "to lock the Henniker up in her own room, and let Ladislaw and Hashford have the parlour? It will be more comfortable for them. There's a sofa there and a carpet. Besides, the window's a worse one to get out of."

"How about feeding them?" some one asked.

"That'll be easy enough," said Smith. "There's a ventilator over all the doors, you know. We can hand the things in there."

"I vote the old Hen gets precious little," interposed Rathbone. "I wouldn't give her any."

This idea was scouted, and it was resolved that all the prisoners should have a sufficient, though, at the same time, a limited amount of provisions. That being arranged, the next question was, when should we begin? We had to take a good many things into account in fixing the important date. To-day was Friday. The butcher, some one said, always brought the meat for the week on Monday; but the baker never came till the Wednesday. So if we began operations on Monday we should have a good supply of meat but very little bread to start with; and it was possible, of course, the baker might smell a rat, and get up a rescue. It would be better, on that account, to defer action till after the baker's visit on Wednesday. But then the washerwoman generally came on the Thursday. We all voted the washerwoman a nuisance. We must either take her a prisoner and keep her in the house, or run the risk of her finding out that something was wrong and going back to the village and telling of us.

"If we could only keep it up a week," said Smith, "I think we could bring them to terms."

"Suppose we drop a line to the washerwoman the day before not to call," suggested I.

The motion met with universal applause, and I was deputed to carry it out at the proper time. The good lady's address I knew was on a slate in Miss Henniker's pantry.

"And I tell you what," said Smith, starting up with the brilliancy of the suggestion; "let's hide away all the bread we can find, except just what will last over to-morrow. Then most likely she'll tell the baker to call on Monday, and we can begin then!"

It was a brilliant suggestion. Two of the company departed forthwith to the larder, and unobserved hid away a few loaves in one of the empty trunks in the box-room.

Our plans were ripening wonderfully. But the most difficult business was yet to come. What terms should we require of our prisoners as the price of their release? And on this point, after long discussion, we found we could not agree. Some were for the immediate dismissal of the Henniker; others demanded that she should not be allowed to speak without special permission; and others that she should remain in her parlour all day long, and come out only for prayers and to give orders to the tradesmen.

These proposals were too absurd to take seriously; and as presently the company began to grow a little quarrelsome over the matter, it was decided for peace' sake that the question should be deferred, and terms arranged when the prisoners themselves offered to give in.

"If I may make a suggestion," said Hawkesbury, who had taken no part in the previous discussion, "it is that you should appoint one fellow captain, and agree to obey his orders. You'll never manage it if you don't."

"Not at all a bad idea," said one or two. "You be the captain, Hawkesbury."

"No, thank you," said he, smiling gratefully. "I really am not used to this sort of thing; but I think Smith, now, would be just the fellow."

I considered this beautiful of Hawkesbury, coming so soon after Smith's rather uncomplimentary behaviour to him.

The proposition was generally approved. Smith was not a favourite, but he had made the only suggestions of any real use in the present case, and appeared to have entered into the scheme so warmly that it was evident no one would make a better captain.

He received his new dignity with great complacency.

"I'll do my best," said he, "if you fellows will back me up and stick to the engagement."

Our time was now getting brief, so after a few more hurried suggestions and discussions we separated and returned to our ordinary duties.

That evening the Henniker was no better than she had been during the day. Her brief sojourn in society that afternoon had not improved her a bit, Flanagan, as usual, suggested a plausible reason.

"I expect," whispered he, "she went after a new pupil and didn't hook him; that's why she's in such a precious tantrum."

"Flanagan!" cried the well-known voice—"Flanagan, come here!"

Flanagan obeyed, and stood meekly before the tyrant.

"This is the eighth time to-day, Flanagan, I have rebuked you for talking. You are detained for the rest of the term. Hold out your hand, Flanagan!"

It was not often the Henniker inflicted corporal punishment herself; when she did it was pretty smart, as Flanagan found. In the absence of a cane she had used the ruler, and as Flanagan—who unsuspectingly supposed she was merely seized with a desire to inspect his nails—held out his hand knuckles upwards, the ruler descended on his knuckles with such force that the luckless youth howled for astonishment, and performed a dance solo in the middle of the floor.

We were sorry for him, yet we inwardly smiled to think how soon the tables would be turned.

That night, just before we went to bed, as I was in the shoe-room looking for my slippers, I had the satisfaction of hearing the Henniker say to the kitchen-maid, "Matilda, we're getting short of bread. Let the baker know to call on Monday next week."

Things could not have promised better for our desperate scheme!



CHAPTER SEVEN.

HOW THERE AROSE A NOTABLE REBELLION AT STONEBRIDGE HOUSE.

Of course we were wrong; of course we were foolish.

But then, reader, please remember we were only boys goaded up to the last pitch, and quite unable, as I have narrated, to stand the Henniker any longer.

It was no game we were embarked on. If you had seen the seriousness of our faces as we inspected the parlour and reconnoitred the Henniker's future prison, that Saturday; if you had heard the seriousness of our voices as we solemnly deliberated whether nails or screws would be best to use in fastening up the doors—you would have found out that, "backward and troublesome" boys as we were, we could be in earnest sometimes.

"Screwing's quieter," said Rathbone.

"Nailing's quicker," said Philpot.

"Isn't that a thing the captain had better decide?" softly suggested Hawkesbury, turning to Smith.

I always got fidgety when the senior boy and my chum got near each other. Smith had such a way of firing up instinctively at whatever the other might say, even when it meant no harm.

He flared up now with his eyes, and then turning to the two boys, said, shortly, "Screws of course; that's been settled long ago."

Hawkesbury smiled gratefully, and said he was sure a matter like that would not be overlooked.

Well, the Henniker went on having her fling that Saturday and Sunday. We caught it right and left, and took it all meekly. Nay, some of us took it so meekly that I was once or twice afraid our secret would be suspected.

The regulation-reading in the parlour on Sunday evening was a shocking time for me. I had no intention of being bad, but somehow, what with the excitement of our scheme, and the dreariness of the reader's voice, and the closeness of the room, I fell asleep and nearly rolled off my form.

The Henniker put down her book.

"Batchelor," said she, "you shall be punished. Stand on the form and read aloud."

And so saying, she handed me the book and pointed to the place.

This was the very refinement of torture, and I draw a veil over the sad spectacle which followed. Nor was I the only victim standing there struggling and perspiring through the long sentences, turned back whenever I made a mistake, to begin the page over again, till the end of the chapter seemed to get farther and farther away; the other boys, too, came in for part of the tragedy, for the Henniker, being now free of her book, had no occupation for her eyes but to glare at them, and no occupation for her tongue but to level bad marks and rebukes and punishments at the head of every offender.

"Reading" lasted that evening until ten o'clock, and to this day I cannot imagine how it ever came to an end even then. I know I never got to the end. This sad experience gave a considerable additional zest to our hopes of freedom on the following day.

Smith was not the sort of fellow to undertake what he did not mean to carry through, and I was astonished to see how carefully his plans were laid, and how precisely he had allotted to every one of us our respective duties.

Monday dawned at length, and we rose from our beds like patriots on the morning of a battle which is to decide their freedom or slavery.

I had two minutes' whisper with Smith as we went down to breakfast.

"Tell the fellows," said he, "that the signal to begin will be just when morning school is over. The Hen goes to get ready for dinner, and Shankley and Philpot are to follow and screw her up. The holes are already bored, so it won't take long."

"Suppose she yells," suggested I.

"Not likely, but if she does—her room's far enough away. Oh! by the way, I've screwed her window already. I thought we can one of us easily smash a pane for her if she wants more ventilation."

"And how about Ladislaw and Hashford?"

"I'm going down, when the Henniker's safe, to ask them both to step up into the parlour. They'll probably think something's wrong, and hurry up. (I've screwed that window, too, by the way.) Then you and Rathbone are to screw their door when they are safe in—I've put the key outside, too—and I've told the other fellows to be ready to bring a lot of desks and things out of the schoolroom and pile them up, in case they kick too hard."

"Upon my word, Jack, you're a regular general. But I say, we've forgotten the two servants."

"No, we haven't. I've told them what's up, and they won't interfere; but—shut up now."

During the morning we continued to pass round word what the arrangements were, and waited feverishly for the close of morning school. As we sat in the class-room we had the satisfaction of seeing first the butcher's pony and then the baker's cart drive up the front garden and drive back again. We were all right for the "sinews of war" for a day or two, anyhow!

The Henniker kept it up till the last, and distributed her favours lavishly and impartially all round. But we heeded it not; we even enjoyed it, for were not we to have our innings next?

It seemed as if morning school would never end. At last a fluttering at our hearts, more convincing even than the clock, told us the hour was come. We rose from our seats. The rebellion at Stonebridge House had begun.

The Henniker marched with stately tread from the room, and up the stairs to her own apartment. It seemed a long journey to us, who sat listening in breathless silence, and at last the closing of her door seemed to resound all over the house.

"Now then," said Smith to Shankley and Philpot, who, with their shoes off and their tools in their hands, stood ready, like two trained assassins, for the word of command. "Now then, and keep quiet, whatever you do!"

They went. There was nothing stately about their march. They darted up the stairs two steps at a time, and the last we saw of them was as they turned the corner into the passage, at the end of which was situate the enemy's fortress.

It seemed a year before they returned!

At last Shankley, with beaming face, burst into our midst.

"It's all right!" said he, in an excited whisper. "She sounded a little like kicking, so Philpot's keeping guard. We had one screw half in before she even heard us."

"What did she say then?" asked three or four eager questioners.

"She wanted to know who was there, and if we wanted to speak to her we must wait till she came down, and a bad mark to whoever it was for coming and disturbing her."

There was a general laugh at this, which Smith hurriedly checked.

"The thing's only half done yet," he said. "Time enough to laugh when the other two are safe."

This was a wise rebuke, and we became serious in an instant.

"Now," said Smith, "have you got the screwdriver and screws all right, Batchelor? The rest of you be ready if I call;" and off he went to summon the two masters to the parlour.

It was a critical moment, for every thing depended on our getting both into the room together.

Smith, so he told us afterwards, found both Mr Ladislaw and Mr Hashford talking together in the study of the former. He entered the room suddenly, and crying, in an agitated voice, "Oh, will you both please step up to Miss Henniker's parlour at once? Please be quick!" as suddenly vanished.

Of course both the masters, making sure Miss Henniker must be in a fit, or else that the house must be on fire, rushed upstairs, gallantly side by side, to the rescue. Rathbone and I, who were in hiding behind the door next to that of the parlour, could hear them scuttling towards us along the passage, and making straight for their trap. They rushed wildly into the room. In a moment we were out after them, the door was slammed to, the key was turned, and the first screw was well on its way home before they even found out that the beloved Henniker was not there!

Then, after a moment's pause (during which screw number two had started on its way), the handle of the door was shaken, and Mr Hashford's voice cried out, "Who is there? What are you doing there, you boys?"

His only answer was a mighty cheer from the assembled pupils of Stonebridge House, which must have been quite as explicit as the longest explanation.

"Now then," cried Smith, as once more the handle of the door was violently agitated; "look sharp, you fellows, with the desks—"

"Smith," cried the voice of Mr Ladislaw, from within; "you shall answer for this, Smith. Undo the door at once, sir."

But it had been agreed no parley should be held with the besieged, and Smith's only answer was to help to drag up the first desk and plant it firmly against the door. The blockade was soon made, but until it was, the fellows kept steadily and seriously to work.

Then ensued a scene I shall never forget, and which told significantly as the most thrilling story what had been our privations and persecutions and unhappiness at Stonebridge House.

The fellows yelled and rushed through the school as if they were mad. They shouted, and sung, and halloed, and laughed. They flung books and rulers and ink-pots to the four winds of heaven. They put the cane in the fire, and one of the Henniker's reading books, which was lying in the study, they tore into a thousand pieces. They burst into every forbidden nook and cranny of the house. They rushed down to the kitchen and up to the attics. They bawled down the speaking-tube, and danced on the dining-room table. Nothing was omitted which could testify to their glee at the new emancipation, or their hatred of the old regime. They held a mock school outside the Henniker's door, and gave one another bad marks and canings with infinite laughter, by way of cheering up their prisoner.

Finally the calls of hunger put an end to this strange demonstration, and with a mighty stampede we made for the kitchen. To our surprise, it was empty.

"Why, where's the cook and housemaid?" cried one and another to Smith.

"Oh," said Smith, who with the cares of generalship upon him had taken only a small part in the jubilation which had just been celebrated, "the servants have gone home. They both live at Felwick, so I said they might take a week's holiday."

The coolness of this announcement was received with much laughter, in the midst of which, however, Hawkesbury was heard to say, "I hope Smith is a good cook, for really I can't eat my food raw."

This was certainly a matter we had not reckoned on, and the idea of raw meat did cast a temporary shadow on our happiness. But Smith replied, "Oh, of course we do the cooking by turns. By the way, Hawkesbury, you and Flanagan have to see to that to-day."

Hawkesbury's smile left him for an instant.

"Nonsense; I'm not going to do anything of the sort."

"Then you'd better be the captain," said Smith glumly, "if you aren't going to obey orders."

Hawkesbury's smile returned.

"Oh, if it's the captain's orders, of course. Come along, Flanagan."

"Come along," said the jovial Flanagan; "I think we'll make a hash of it with a vengeance!"

Whereat this little breeze blew over. As a matter of fact, we all assisted at the cooking of this celebrated meal, and made a terrific hash of it, which, nevertheless, we relished greatly, and declared we had never tasted such a dinner since we came to Stonebridge House. No more we had!

But amid our own feasting it would never do to forget our prisoners. Three parcels were made, containing each a liberal helping of bread and meat, with little parcels of salt and butter thoughtfully added.

"Write on them 'For two days,'" said Smith, "and bring them up."

"How about water?" asked some one.

"There's enough in each room for a day or two," said Smith, who seemed to have taken note of everything.

"I don't see the fun of feeding them up this way," said Rathbone. "You'll never get them to give in as long as you make them so jolly comfortable."

"I'd like to see how you liked it for two days," said Smith. "I don't suppose you'd think yourself overfed or jolly comfortable either. But come on; have you got the string?"

Each parcel was attached to a long piece of string, and conveyed in state by the entire school to its respective destination. The Henniker was first fed. Amid shouts of "Cheer, boys, cheer," and "Rule Britannia," we marched up to her door and halted, while Smith, with the aid of a rake, lifted the parcel on to the small ventilator above the door, and gave it a little shove over the other side.

"Now lower away," said he to the boy who held the string.

"Smith, I hear your voice," cried the Henniker. "Smith, open my door, please."

Except for the last extraordinary expression the Henniker's voice sounded much as usual. No answer, of course, was given, and we waited until the parcel should be detached from the string.

For about five minutes it remained untouched, during which period the holder tried to attract the attention of the prisoner by sundry spasmodic jerkings of the string. At length the fish did bite. Without a word the parcel was detached from the string. We turned to go.

"Plate, knife, and fork in the cupboard," cried out Smith, as we did so.

"You don't mean to say," said Rathbone, as we went along, "that you've put a knife and fork for her?"

"Yes, I have," said Smith, in a manner which did not encourage the truculent Rathbone to pursue the subject.

The feeding of the two masters was a longer process. For to reach their door it was necessary to climb over a perfect jungle of desks and chairs piled up against it; and when reached it was discovered that the glass ventilator, which usually stood open, had been shut and fastened inside. But Smith was not to be baulked by a trifle. He coolly broke the glass with his rake, till he had made a hole big enough to admit the parcels, which, one after the other, were lifted over the opening, and lowered within reach of their respective owners. In the present case the string to which they were attached was double, so, when it was found that neither was taken, Smith gave the order to "run" the string, and let them drop the parcels off on to the floor. This was done, and we were turning to go, when Mr Ladislaw's voice rose in angry tones.

"Listen to me, boys," he cried, authoritatively.

A general yell was the only answer to this, mingled with loud laughter, as Mr Hashford's head suddenly appeared at the broken ventilator. The apparition was the signal for a general fusillade of paper balls, in the midst of which the usher modestly retired from observation.

The evening was spent in the same rollicking manner as the afternoon. We held mock school in Mr Ladislaw's study, and got Flanagan to dress up in an old gown of the Henniker's, which was found in the boot-room, and enact that favourite character's part, which he did to the life. We also made out our own "reports" for home, and played a most spirited game of croquet in the hall, with potatoes for balls and brooms for mallets, besides treating our prisoners to a ravishing concert by an orchestra of one dinner-bell, two dish-covers, two combs and paper, and one iron tray.

We kept it up till rather late, and, indeed, it was not till Smith summoned us to a council of war that the problem of how and where to spend the night occurred to us.

"Some of us ought to stay up as sentinels," said our captain.

"Well, I can't, for one," said Philpot, "for I was never so sleepy in my life."

"I should think," said Hawkesbury, sweetly, "if the captain stayed up we should be quite safe."

Why should Smith glare so whenever Hawkesbury spoke? I wondered. I'm sure there did not seem to be anything offensive in this.

"I'll stay up, Jack," said I, more with a desire to avert a row than because I felt particularly "spry."

"So will I," said Shankley, "if you'll dig me in the ribs when I get sleepy."

"I'll tell you what," said Smith, after having recovered himself. "Suppose we bring all the beds down and camp out on the landing."

This was carried with acclamation, and every one forthwith proceeded to his dormitory, and reappeared staggering under the weight of his bedclothes. One monstrous bed was made in which we all "camped out" in turn, one fellow only remaining awake as sentinel for an hour at a time.

"We shall have to settle to-morrow," said Smith, when he had returned to "camp," after having gone the round and seen that all lights were out, and all doors and bolts fastened—"we shall have to settle to-morrow what to say to them about coming out, you fellows."

"I thought that was left to the captain," said Hawkesbury.

"I vote we stick out against the Henniker having anything to do with us," said Philpot, "in or out of school."

"Yes, and do away with afternoon school and preparation too," said Rathbone; "they are both nuisances."

"And get a holiday to go out of bounds once a week," said Flanagan in the act of dropping asleep.

These sweeping schemes of reform, however, agreeable as they sounded, seemed none of them likely to receive the assent of our prisoners.

Smith's idea was a good deal more moderate. "I don't see that we can stick out for more than leave to talk when we are not in class, and do away with 'detentions.'"

"That really seems hardly worth all the trouble," said Hawkesbury, "does it?"

"It's left to the captain," said Smith, shortly, "and that's my idea, if you agree."

"We ought to bargain they don't take any more notice of this affair, or write home about it," suggested Shankley.

"Who cares what they write home?" scornfully inquired Smith.

"Ah, it may not matter to you," said Hawkesbury, smiling very sweetly, "but to all the rest of us it does."

Smith glared at the speaker, and looked as if he was about to fly at his throat; but he controlled himself, and merely replied, "Very well, then, they are to promise not to say anything about it at home, as well as give in on the other things. Is that settled?"

Everybody said "yes," and shortly afterwards most of the mutineers were peacefully asleep.

"Fred," said Smith to me that night, as we kept watch together, "unless that fellow Hawkesbury lets me alone I shall give the thing up."

"Don't do that," said I. "Really, I don't think that Hawkesbury means it. I'll speak to him if you like." It cost me a great effort to say this.

Smith fired up unwontedly at the suggestion.

"If you do, you and I will never be friends again," he said, passionately. Then recovering himself, he added, repentantly, "Fred, I'm awfully sorry I lost my temper. I know I'm a brute; but please don't think of speaking to any one about it."

"All right, old man," said I.

And so the night wore on, and when presently it came to be our turn to lie down and sleep in the big bed, I, at any rate, did so a good deal disturbed in my spirit, and not altogether sure whether in our present escapade we Stonebridge House boys were not making rather fools of ourselves.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

HOW THE REBELLION COLLAPSED, AND WE LEFT STONEBRIDGE HOUSE.

I was roused next morning early by the sound of voices, and found that a fresh council of war was being held in the big bed on the question of the ultimatum. Smith was away at the time.

"I mean to say," said Rathbone, "Smith's far too mild to suit me."

I felt called upon to stick up for my chum.

"Why did you make him captain?" I said. I had long got past the stage of being afraid either of Rathbone or Philpot at Stonebridge House.

"Well," retorted the malcontent, "why doesn't he go the whole hog?"

"Depends on what you call the whole hog," I replied.

"Why, instead of feeding them up like fighting-cocks I'd starve them—I would. And I'd have locked them all together in an empty garret, and not in rooms with sofas and beds and all that nonsense. And I wouldn't let them out till they came out on their knees and promised to do whatever they were ordered. That's what I'd do, and I'll tell—"

"Now then, Rathbone," cried Smith, entering at that moment, "it's your turn to look after the grub, remember. Look alive, or we shall have no breakfast."

It was a curious indication of the power that was in my friend Smith, that Rathbone—though the words of mutiny were even then on his lips— quietly got up and went off to his allotted duties without saying a word.

"Look here," said Smith, presently, pulling two papers from his pocket, "I've written out the terms we agreed to. How will this do?

"'To Mr Ladislaw, Miss Henniker, and Mr Hashford,—We, the undersigned boys of Stonebridge House, are willing to release you on the following conditions:

"'1. That leave be given to the boys to talk to one another when not in class.

"'2. That detention for bad marks given by Miss Henniker be abolished.

"'3. That you say nothing to any one about all this.

"'As long as you stick to these conditions, and Miss Henniker doesn't plague us, we agree to be steady and not mutiny any more.' That's about all we need say, isn't it?"

"I don't see," said Philpot, "the use of the last clause. We don't want to bind ourselves down."

"There's no harm, though, in saying we won't kick up a row if they treat us properly."

"I don't know," said Philpot, doubtfully. "I don't want to sign away my right to kick up a row."

We laughed at this ingenuous admission, and Smith said, "Well, I think we've a better chance of bringing them to book if we keep it in. What do you say, Flanagan?"

"Oh yes, keep it in. You know I like rows as well as anybody, but what's the use of them when there's nothing to make them about?"

"I think it had better stay in," said I. "What do you say, Hawkesbury?"

Hawkesbury smiled in an amused way, as if it was a joke.

This appeared to incense Smith greatly, as usual.

"Why ever don't you say what you think instead of grinning?" he blurted out.

"Why, you know, my dear fellow, we leave it all to you. I agree to anything!"

I verily believe if Smith had had a boot in his hand it would have found its way in the direction of his enemy's smile. Happily he hadn't; so he turned his back on the speaker, and proceeded, "Very well, then we'd better sign these at once. I've got a pen and ink here. Look sharp, you fellows."

"Don't you think," said Hawkesbury, blandly, once more, "as it's all been left to the captain, he had better sign the paper in the name of the school? You don't mind, Smith, I'm sure?"

Smith snatched up the pen hastily, and signed his name at the foot of each document.

"I'm not afraid, if that's what you mean."

I could watch the working of his face as he hurriedly folded each paper up into the form of a note, and knew the storm that was going on in his own breast. Certainly Hawkesbury, however good his intentions, was a little aggravating.

"Perhaps you'll throw that in over the Henniker's door?" said Smith, handing one of the notes to Hawkesbury.

Again Hawkesbury smiled as he replied, "Really, I'm such a bad shot; I'd much rather you did it."

"Give it me," I cried, interposing before my friend could retort. "I'll throw it in."

Saying which I took the missive, and after one or two bad shots, succeeded in getting it through the ventilator and hearing it drop in the middle of the Henniker's floor.

"A letter for you," I cried by way of explanation. "You've an hour to give an answer."

"Batchelor," replied Miss Henniker from within, in what seemed rather a subdued voice, "you are doing very wrong. Let me out immediately, Batchelor."

"Not till you promise what's written in the note," replied I, quitting the place.

A similar ceremony was enacted by Smith in delivering the "ultimatum" to the two masters, and we then adjourned for breakfast.

"What shall we do to-day?" asked Flanagan, who was quite fresh again after yesterday's hard work.

"Oh, any mortal thing you like," said Shankley. "I mean to go and have a rare walk over the roof."

"I vote we make up a party and go down to the village," said another.

"No, no," said Smith, looking up, "we must stay indoors, or the thing will soon get known. You can do anything you like indoors."

There was a little growling at this, although we knew there was reason in the prohibition.

"I don't see any harm in going out on the heath," said Rathbone; "you did that yourself once."

"Yes, and some one saw me do it," replied Smith. "I say, stay in doors."

His tone was peremptory, and as usual it had its due effect. The fellows ate their breakfast quietly and said no more about it.

The meal was rather a protracted one, owing to Rathbone having forgotten to put the bag in the coffee-pot before he inserted the coffee, and thus spoiling the beverage altogether. He was sent back to make it over again—a circumstance which by no means had the effect of soothing his spirits.

By the time breakfast was done the hour had nearly arrived when our prisoners were to give their answers to our manifesto.

As we were preparing to march up stairs, with a view to ascertain their decision, Hawkesbury met us, coming down with his hat on.

"Where are you going?" demanded Smith.

Hawkesbury looked very pleasant indeed as he replied, "Oh, please don't mind me. I'm going out for a walk. I've got a headache, and really I don't see much use playing about indoors."

Smith's face darkened. "Didn't you hear me say there was no going out?" he said.

Hawkesbury smiled and seemed much amused. Smith's wrath was rising apace. "What I said I'll stick to!" cried he, standing across the step. "You sha'n't go out!"

"Hawkesbury," I interposed, anxious to avert a row, "we've all promised to obey the captain, you know."

"Really," replied Hawkesbury, "I didn't. Please let me pass, Smith."

"Then you were speaking false," exclaimed the irate Smith, "when you said you did promise?"

"Really, Smith, I didn't say I did promise—"

"Wretched liar!" replied Smith.

"That's not a nice name to call a fellow," mildly replied Hawkesbury. "I hope I'm a gentleman, and don't deserve it."

"Bah," said Smith, in tones of utter disgust, standing aside and letting his enemy pass. "Go where you like, we want no sneaks here!"

Hawkesbury walked on, smiling pleasantly.

"Good-bye for the present," said he. "Mind you obey your captain, you fellows. We all know he's a gentleman, don't we?"

And he went out, leaving us all in a state of utter astonishment.

A babel of voices at once arose. Some declared Hawkesbury was quite right not to stand being ordered about; others said he ought to have been stopped going out, and others said, "Who cared if he did go?"

In the midst of this my eyes turned to Jack Smith. His face, which had been flushed and excited, was now pale and solemn. He either did not hear or did not heed the discussion that was going on; and I must confess I felt half-frightened as my eyes suddenly met his. Not that he looked dangerous. He had a strange look—half of baffled rage and half of shame—which was quite new to me, and I waited anxiously to discover what he meant.

As his eye met mine, however, he seemed to recover himself and to make up his mind.

"Batchelor," said he, "get the screwdriver."

"What are you going to do?" asked some one. "Are you going to lock Hawkesbury out?"

"No," said Smith, quietly; "but I'm going to let out the others."

"What!" cried the fellows at this astounding announcement: "without waiting for their answer? We shall all get expelled!"

"No, you won't!" said Smith, doggedly, and rather scornfully.

"You don't mean to say you're going to show the white feather?" said Rathbone.

"I mean to say I'm going to let them out."

"Yes, and get all the credit of it, and leave us to get into the row," said Philpot.

Smith turned round short on the speaker and held out the screwdriver. "Here," said he, "if you want the credit, go and do it yourself!"

Of course, Philpot declined the tempting offer, and, without another word, Smith walked up to the passage and began pulling away the desks from the parlour door.

Flanagan and one or two of us, sorely perplexed, helped him; the others stood aloof and grumbled or sneered.

The two masters within heard the noise, but neither of them spoke.

At last all was clear, and Smith said, "Now then, you'd better go, you fellows!"

We obeyed him, though reluctantly. Our curiosity as well as our anxiety prompted us to stay. We retired to the end of the passage, where from a distant door we nervously watched Smith turn the key and draw out first one screw then the other from the door that divided him and us from our masters.

At last we saw it open. Smith walked into the room and shut the door behind him. What happened inside we never exactly knew. After half an hour, which seemed to us as long as a day, the three emerged, and walked straight down the passage and up the stairs that led to Miss Henniker's room. Smith, with the screwdriver, walked in the middle, very solemn and very pale.

Stealthily we crawled up after them, and hid where we could observe what was to follow.

Mr Ladislaw knocked at the Henniker's door.

"Well?" said a voice within.

The word was mildly spoken, and very unlike the snap to which we had been accustomed in former days.

"It is I," said Mr Ladislaw, "and Mr Hashford."

"I shall be glad if you will immediately have my door opened," was the reply.

"Smith, unscrew the door at once," said Mr Ladislaw.

Smith solemnly proceeded to do as he was bid, and presently the screws were both dislodged.

"Is it done?" said the Henniker when the sound ceased.

"Yes, Miss Henniker; the door is quite free."

"Then," said the Henniker—and there positively seemed to be a tremor in the voice—"please go; I will be down presently."

So the little procession turned and once more walked down the stairs, Smith, with his screwdriver, still walking solemnly in the middle. We who were in hiding were torn by conflicting desires. Our first impulse was to remain and enjoy the spectacle of the crestfallen Henniker marching forth from her late prison. But somehow, rough boys as we were, and not much given to chivalric scruples, the sound of that tremble in the Henniker's voice, and with it the recollection of the part we had taken in her punishment, made us feel as if, after all, the best thing we could do was not to remain, but to follow the others down stairs.

As we were doing so the ten o'clock bell rang for morning classes, and we naturally sought the schoolroom, where, with Mr Hashford in the desk, school was assembled just as if nothing had happened. Hawkesbury was the only absentee.

I certainly admired Mr Hashford on this occasion. He appeared to be the only person in the room who was not thoroughly uncomfortable. Indeed, as we went on with our work, and he, almost pleasantly, entered into it with us, we felt ourselves getting comfortable too, and could hardly believe that the usher now instructing us had, an hour ago, been our prisoner, and that we so recently had been shouting words of mutiny and defiance all over the school. It was like a dream—and, after all, not a very nice dream.

But we were recalled to ourselves when presently, along the passage outside our door, there resounded a footstep which instinct told us belonged to the Henniker. Not much chance of feeling comfortable with that sound in one's ears!

But to our surprise and comfort it passed on and descended the stairs. It was like a reprieve to convicted felons.

Class went on, and the clock was getting on to twelve—the usual hour for a break—when the door opened, and Mr Ladislaw put in his head and said, "Smith, will you step down to my study? Mr Hashford, the mid-day bell will not ring till one to-day."

Smith solemnly followed the master from the room, and for another hour we worked in class—one of us, at any rate—feeling very anxious and not a little uneasy.

When the bell did ring, and we went down stairs, not knowing exactly what was to become of us, my first thought was, what had become of Smith? He was not in the playground, where we wandered about listlessly for a quarter of an hour before dinner, nor was he to be seen when presently we assembled in the memorable parlour for our mid-day repast.

It was not a very grand meal, that dinner. We partook of the cold remains of a joint which one of ourselves had made a woeful attempt to cook the day before, and which now tasted anything but delicious. Miss Henniker was in her usual place, and as we sat with our eyes rigidly fixed on the plates before us, we were conscious of her glancing once or twice towards one and another of us, and then turning away to speak to Mr Ladislaw, who was also present. Except for the whispered conversation of these two not a word was uttered during the meal. Even Flanagan, when, in reaching the salt, he knocked over his water, did not receive the expected bad mark, but was left silently to mop up the spill as best he could.

It was a terrible meal, and my anxiety about my friend Smith made it all the worse.

Dinner was over, and we were descending to afternoon class in Mr Ladislaw's study, when the front door opened and Hawkesbury entered.

We could see he was taken aback and utterly astonished to see Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker at liberty and us once more at our old tasks. For a moment his face looked concerned and doubtful, then, suddenly changing, it broke out into smiles as he ran up to Mr Ladislaw.

"Oh, Mr Ladislaw," cried he, "and Miss Henniker, I am so glad! I really couldn't bear to be in the school while they were treating you so shamefully!"

"Where have you been, Hawkesbury?" said Mr Ladislaw.

"Oh! I went out in hopes of being able to—"

"You have told no one of what has occurred?" said Mr Ladislaw, sternly.

"Oh, no!" said the smiling Hawkesbury; "I really went out because I couldn't bear to be in the school and be unable to do anything for you and Miss Henniker. I am so glad you have got out!"

None of us had the spirit to protest. We could see that Hawkesbury's statement, and his expressed joy at their liberation, had gone down both with Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker—and at our expense, too; and yet we dared not expostulate or do ourselves justice.

Afternoon school went on, and still no Smith appeared. Was he locked up in the coal-hole or in one of the attics up stairs? I wondered; or had he been given into custody, or what? No solution came to the mystery all that afternoon or evening. We worked silently on, conscious that the Henniker's eyes were upon us, but aware that she neither spoke nor interfered with us.

Bedtime came at last, and, in strange trouble and anxiety, I went up. I almost made up my mind to ask Mr Hashford or Mr Ladislaw what had become of Smith, but I could not screw my courage up to the pitch.

As I was undressing, Hawkesbury came near me and whispered, "Where is Smith?"

I vouchsafed no reply. I had been used to give Hawkesbury credit for good intentions, but I had had my confidence shaken by that day's events.

"Don't be cross with me, Batchelor," said he; "I really don't deserve it."

"Why did you desert and leave us all in the lurch?" growled I.

"I did not mean to do it," said he, very meekly; "but really, when I woke this morning I felt I was doing wrong, Batchelor, and could not bear to stay in and stand by while Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker were kept shut up. That's really the reason, and I thought it would be kinder of me to keep out of the way and not spoil your fun. Smith quite misunderstood me, he did really."

"Why didn't you say you wouldn't join before we began?" I asked.

"Why, because you know, Batchelor, I was in a bad frame of mind then, and was angry. But I tried hard to forgive, and I blame myself very much that I even seemed to agree. You mustn't think too hardly of me, Batchelor."

I said nothing, but went on undressing, more perplexed than ever to know what to think. Hawkesbury, after a warm "Good-night," left me, and I was thankful, at any rate, for the prospect of a few hours' sleep and forgetfulness.

I was just getting into bed, and had turned back the clothes to do so, when I suddenly caught sight of a scrap of paper appearing from under my pillow.

I first supposed it must be some remnant of last night's sports, but, on taking it out, found that it was a note carefully rolled up and addressed to me in Smith's well-known hand.

With eager haste I unfolded it and read, "I'm expelled. Good-bye. Write 'J.,' Post-Office, Packworth."

Expelled! sent off at an hour's notice, without even a word of good-bye! My first sensations were selfish, and as I curled myself up in bed, with his note fast in my hand, I felt utterly wretched, to know that my only friend, the only comfort I had at Stonebridge House, had been taken away. What should I do without him?

Expelled! Where had he gone to, then? Packworth, I knew, was a large town about ten miles from Brownstroke, where my uncle now and then went on business. Did Jack live there, then? And if he did, why had he never told me? At any rate, I could get over and see him in the holidays. "Write to me." How was that possible here? unless, indeed— unless I could smuggle the letter into the post. Poor Jack expelled! Why should he be expelled more than any of us, except Hawkesbury? What a fury he had been in with Hawkesbury that very morning! Certainly Hawkesbury was aggravating. Strange that my friend Smith and Hawkesbury—that my friend Jack—that Jack and Hawk—

And here, in a piteous muddle of mind and spirit, I fell asleep.

I remained another year at Stonebridge House after Jack Smith had been expelled. We did not get a single holiday during that period, so that my scheme of walking over from Brownstroke, and finding him out at Packworth, never came off. And I only contrived to write to him once. That was the first time, the Sunday after he had left, when the Henniker saw me dropping my letter into the post. After that I was closely watched, and I need hardly say, if Jack ever wrote to me, I never got his letter. Still I cherished the memory of my friend, and even when Stonebridge House was most desolate, found some consolation in feeling pretty sure I had a friend somewhere, which is more than every one can say.

I made steady progress with my arithmetic and other studies during the year, thanks to Mr Hashford, who, good fellow that he was, took special pains with me, so that at the end of the year I was pronounced competent to take a situation as an office-boy or junior clerk, or any like post to which my amiable uncle might destine me.

I was not sorry to leave Stonebridge House, as you may guess. During the last year, certainly, things were better than they had been. No reference was made on any occasion, either in public or in private, to the great rebellion of that summer. The Henniker never quite got over the shake she had had when we rose in arms against her, and Mr Ladislaw appeared proportionately subdued, so on the whole things were rather more tolerable. And for lack of my lost friend, I managed to improve the acquaintance of the good-natured Flanagan, besides retaining the favour of the smiling Hawkesbury.

So passed another year, at the end of which I found myself a wiser and a sadder boy, with my back turned at length on Stonebridge House, and my face towards the wide, wide world.



CHAPTER NINE.

HOW I REPLIED TO AN ADVERTISEMENT AND WAITED FOR THE ANSWER.

The day that witnessed my departure from Stonebridge House found me, I am bound to confess, very little improved by my year or two's residence under that dull roof. I do not blame it all on the school, or even on Miss Henniker, depressing as both were.

There is no reason why, even at a school for backward and troublesome boys, a fellow shouldn't improve, if he gave his mind to it. But that is just where I failed. I didn't give my mind to it. In fact, I made up my mind it was no use trying to improve, and therefore didn't try. The consequence was, that after Jack Smith left, I cast in my lot with the rest of the backward and troublesome boys, and lost all ambition to be much better than the rest of them.

Flanagan, the fellow I liked best, was always good-humoured and lively, but I'm not sure that he would have been called a boy of good principles. At any rate, he never professed to be particularly ambitious in any such way, and in that respect was very different from Hawkesbury, who, by the time he left Stonebridge House, six months before me, to go to a big public school, had quite impressed me with the worth of his character.

But this is a digression. As I was saying, I left Stonebridge House a good deal wilder, and more rackety, and more sophisticated, than I had entered it two years before. However, I left it also with considerably more knowledge of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division; and that in my uncle's eye appeared to be of far more moment than my moral condition.

"Fred," he said to me the day after I had got home, and after I had returned from a triumphant march through Brownstroke, to show myself off to my old comrades generally, and Cad Prog in particular—"Fred," said my uncle, "I am going to send you to London."

"To London!" cried I, not knowing exactly whether to be delighted, or astonished, or alarmed, or all three—"to London."

"Yes. You must get a situation, and do something to earn your living."

I ruminated over this announcement, and my uncle continued, "You are old enough to provide for yourself, and I expect you to do so."

There was a pause, at the end of which, for lack of any better remark, I said, "Yes."

"The sooner you start the better," continued my uncle. "I have marked a few advertisements in that pile of newspapers," added he, pointing to a dozen or so of papers on his table. "You had better take them and look through them, and tell me if you see anything that would suit you."

Whereat my uncle resumed his writing, and I, with the papers in my arms, walked off in rather a muddled state of mind to my bedroom.

Half way up stairs a sudden thought occurred to me, which caused me to drop my burden and hurry back to my uncle's room.

"Uncle, do you know the Smiths of Packworth?"

My uncle looked up crossly.

"Haven't you learned more sense at school, sir, than that? Don't you know there are hundreds of Smiths at Packworth?"

This was a crusher. I meekly departed, and picking up my papers where I had dropped them, completed the journey to my room.

It had been a cherished idea of mine, the first day I got home to make inquiries about my friend Smith. It had never occurred to me before that Smith was such a very common name; but it now dawned slowly on me that to find a Smith in Packworth would be about as simple as to find a needle in a bottle of hay.

Anyhow, I could write to him now without fear—that was a comfort. So I turned to my newspapers and began to read through a few of the advertisements my uncle had considerately marked.

The result was not absolutely exhilarating. My uncle evidently was not ambitious on my account.

"Sharp lad wanted to look after a shop." That was the first I caught sight of. And the next was equally promising.

"Page wanted by a professional gentleman. Must be clean, well-behaved, and make himself useful in house. Attend to boots, coals, windows, etcetera. Good character indispensable."

I was almost grateful to feel that no one could give me a good character by any stretch of imagination, so that at any rate I was safe from this fastidious professional gentleman. Then came another:

"News-boy wanted. Must have good voice. Apply Clerk, Great Central Railway Station."

Even this did not tempt me. It might be a noble sphere of life to strive to make my voice heard above a dozen shrieking engines all day long, but I didn't quite fancy the idea.

In fact, as I read on and on, I became more and more convinced that my splendid talents would be simply wasted in London. Nothing my uncle had marked tempted me. A "muffin boy's" work might be pleasant for a week, till the noise of the bell had lost its novelty; a "boy to learn the art of making button-holes in braces" might perhaps be a promising opening; and a printer's boy might be all very well, but they none of them accorded with my own ideas, still less with my opinion of my own value.

I was getting rather hopeless, and wondering what on earth I should say to my uncle, when the brilliant idea occurred to me of looking at some of the other advertisements which my uncle hadn't marked. Some of these were most tempting.

"A junior partner wanted in an old-established firm whose profits are L10,000 a year. Must bring L15,000 capital into the concern."

There! If I only had L15,000, my fortune would be made at once!

"Wanted a companion for a nobleman's son about to travel abroad."

There again, why shouldn't I try for that? What could a nobleman's son require more in a companion than was to be found in me?

And so I travelled on, beginning at the top of the ladder and sliding gently down, gradually losing not only the hope of finding a situation to suit me, but also relinquishing my previous strong faith in my own wonderful merits. I was ready to give it up as a bad job, and go and tell my uncle I must decline all his kind suggestions, when, in an obscure corner of one paper, my eye caught the following:

"Junior clerkship. An intelligent lad, respectable, and quick at figures, wanted in a merchant's office. Wages 8 shillings a week to commence. Apply by letter to Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, Hawk Street, London."

I jumped up as if I had been shot, and rushed headlong with the paper to my uncle's study.

"Look at this, uncle! This will do, I say! Read it, please."

My uncle read it gravely, and then pushed the paper from him.

"Absurd. You would not do at all. That is not one of those I marked, is it?"

"No. But they were all awful. I say, uncle, let's try for this."

My uncle stared at me, and I looked anxiously at my uncle.

"Fred," said he sternly, "I'm sorry to see you making a fool of yourself. However, it's your affair, not mine."

"But, uncle, I'm pretty quick at figures," said I.

"And intelligent and respectable too, I suppose?" added my uncle, looking at me over his glasses. "Well, do as you choose."

"Will you be angry?" I inquired.

"Tut, tut!" said my uncle, rising, "that will do. You had better write by the next post, if you are bent on doing it. You can write at my desk."

So saying he departed, leaving me very perplexed and a good deal out of humour with my wonderful advertisement.

However, I sat down and answered it. Six of my uncle's sheets of paper were torn up before I got the first sentence to my satisfaction, and six more before the letter was done. I never wrote a letter that cost me such an agony of labour. How feverishly I read and re-read what I had written! What panics I got into about the spelling of "situation," and the number of l's in "ability"! How carefully I rubbed out the pencil- lines I had ruled, and how many times I repented I had not put a "most" before the "obediently"! Many letters like that, thought I, would shorten my life perceptibly. At last it was done, and when my uncle came in I showed it to him with fear and trembling, and watched his face anxiously as he read it.

"Humph!" said he, looking at me, "and suppose you do get the place, you won't stick to it."

"Oh yes, I will," said I; "I'll work hard and get on."

"You'd better," said my uncle, "for you'll have only yourself to depend on."

I posted my letter, and the next few days seemed interminable. Whenever I spoke about the subject to my uncle he took care not to encourage me over much. And yet I fancied, gruff as he was, he was not wholly displeased at my "cheek" in answering Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's advertisement.

"Successful!" growled he. "Why, there'll be scores of other boys after the place. You don't expect your letter's the best of the lot, do you? Besides, they'd never have a boy up from the country when there are so many in London ready for the place, who are used to the work. Mark my word, you'll hear no more about it."

And so it seemed likely to be. Day after day went by and the post brought no letter; I was beginning to think I should have to settle down as a newspaper-boy or a page after all.

At the end of the week I was so disheartened that I could stay in the house no longer, but sallied out, I cared not whither, for a day in the fresh air.

As I was sauntering along the road, a cart overtook me, a covered baker's cart with the name painted outside, "Walker, Baker, Packworth."

A brilliant idea seized me as I read the legend. Making a sign to the youth in charge to stop, I ran up and asked, "I say, what would you give me a lift for to Packworth?"

"What for? S'pose we say a fifty-pun' note," was the facetious reply. "I could do with a fifty-pun' note pretty comfortable."

"Oh, but really, how much? I want to go to Packworth awfully, but it's such a long way to walk."

"What do you weigh, eh?"

"I don't know; about seven stone, I think."

"If you was eight stun I wouldn't take you, there! But hop up!"

And next moment I found myself bowling merrily along in the baker's cart all among the loaves and flour-bags to Packworth.

My jovial driver seemed glad of a companion, and we soon got on very good terms, and conversed on a great variety of topics.

Presently, as we seemed to be nearing the town, I ventured to inquire, "I say, do you know Jack Smith at Packworth?"

The Jehu laughed.

"Know him—old Jack Smith? Should think I do."

"You do?" cried I, delighted, springing to my feet and knocking over a whole pyramid of loaves. "Oh, I am glad. It's him I want to see."

"Is it now?" said the fellow, "and what little game have you got on with him? Going a grave-diggin', eh?"

"Grave-digging, no!" I cried. "Jack Smith and I were at school together—"

The driver interrupted me with a loud laugh.

"Oh, my eye, that's a good 'un; you at school with old Jack Smith! Oh, that'll do, that'll do!" and he roared with laughter.

"But I really was," repeated I, "at Stonebridge House."

"You was? How long before you was born was it; oh my eye, eh?"

"It was only last year."

"Last year, and old Jack lost the last tooth out of his head last year too."

"What! has he had his teeth out?" cried I, greatly concerned.

"Yes, and all his hair off since you was at school with him," cried my companion, nearly rolling off the box with laughter.

"What do you mean?" I cried, in utter bewilderment at this catalogue of my friend's misfortunes.

"Oh, don't ask me. Old Jack Smith!"

"He's not old," said I, "not very, only about sixteen."

This was too much for my driver, who clapped me on the back, and as soon as he could recover his utterance cried, "My eyes, you will find him growed!"

"Has he?" said I, half envious, for I wasn't growing very quickly.

"Ain't he! He's growed a lump since you was at school together," roared my eccentric friend.

"What is he doing?" I asked, anxious to hear something more definite of poor Jack.

"Oh, the same old game, on'y he goes at it quieter nor he used. Last Sunday that there bell-ringing regular blowed him out, the old covey."

A light suddenly dawned upon me.

"Bell-ringing; old covey. That's not the Jack Smith I mean!"

"What!" roared my companion, "you don't mean him?"

"No, who?" cried I, utterly bewildered.

"Why, old Jack Smith, the sexton, what was eighty-two last Christmas! You wasn't at school with him! Oh, I say; here, take the reins: I can't drive straight no longer!" and he fairly collapsed into the bottom of the cart.

This little diversion, amusing as it was, did not have the effect of allaying my anxiety to hear something about my old schoolfellow.

My driver, however, although he knew plenty of Smiths in the town, knew no one answering to Jack's description; and, now that Packworth was in sight, I began to feel rather foolish to have come so far on such a wild-goose chase.

Packworth is a large town with about 40,000 inhabitants; and when, having bidden farewell to the good-natured baker, I found myself in its crowded bustling streets, any chance of running against my old chum seemed very remote indeed.

I went to the post-office where my two letters had been addressed, the one I wrote a year ago, just after Jack's expulsion, and the other written last week from Brownstroke.

"Have you any letters addressed to 'J'?" I asked.

The clerk fumbled over the contents of a pigeon-hole, from which he presently drew out my last letter and gave it to me.

"Wait a bit," said he, as I was taking it up, and turning to leave the office. "Wait a bit."

He went back to the pigeon-hole, and after another sorting produced, very dusty and dirty, my first letter. "That's for 'J' too," said he.

Then Jack had never been to Packworth, or got my letter, posted at such risk. He must have given me a false address. Surely, if he lived here, he would have called for the letter. Why did he tell me to write to Post-Office, Packworth, if he never meant to call for my letters?

A feeling of vexation crossed my mind, and mingled with the disappointment I felt at now being sure my journey here was a hopeless one.

I wandered about the town a bit, in the vague hope of something turning up. But nothing did. Nothing ever does when a fellow wants it. So I turned tail, and faced the prospect of a solitary ten-mile walk back to Brownstroke.

I felt decidedly down. This expedition to Packworth had been a favourite dream of mine for many months past, and somehow I had never anticipated there would be much difficulty, could I once get there, in discovering my friend Smith. But now he seemed more out of reach than ever. There were my two neglected letters, never called for, and not a word from him since the day I left Stonebridge House. I might as well give up the idea of ever seeing him again, and certainly spare myself the trouble of further search after him.

I was walking on, letters in hand, engaged in this sombre train of thought, when suddenly, on the road before me, I heard a clatter of hoofs accompanied by a child's shriek. At the same moment round a corner appeared a small pony galloping straight towards where I was, with a little girl clinging wildly round its neck, and uttering the cries I had heard.

The animal had evidently taken fright and become quite beyond control, for the reins hung loose, and the little stirrup was flying about in all directions.

Fortunately, the part of the road where we were was walled on one side, while the other bank was sloping. I had not had much practice in stopping runaway horses, but it occurred to me that if I stood right in the pony's way, and shouted at him as he came up, he might, what with me in front and the wall and slope on either side, possibly give himself a moment for reflection, and so enable me to make a grab at his bridle.

And so it turned out. I spread out my arms and yelled at him at the top of my voice, with a vehemence which quite took him aback. He pulled up dead just as he reached me, so suddenly, indeed, that the poor child slipped clean off his back, and then, before he could fling himself round and continue his bolt in another direction, I had him firmly by the snaffle.

The little girl, who may have been twelve or thirteen, was not hurt, I think, by her fall. But she was dreadfully frightened, and sat crying so piteously that I began to get quite alarmed. I tied the pony up to the nearest tree, and did what I could to relieve the young lady's tribulation, a task in which I was succeeding very fairly when a female, the child's nurse, arrived on the scene in a panic. Of course my little patient broke out afresh for the benefit of her protectress, and an affecting scene ensued, in the midst of which, finding I was not wanted, and feeling a little foolish to be standing by when so much crying and kissing was going on, I proceeded on my way, half wishing it had been my luck to secure that lively little pony for my journey home.

However, ten miles come to an end at last, and in due time I turned up at Brownstroke pretty tired, and generally feeling somewhat down in the mouth by my day's adventures.

But those adventures, or rather events, were not yet over; for that same evening brought a letter with the London postmark and the initials M., B., and Company on the seal of the envelope!

You may fancy how eagerly I opened it. It ran as follows:

"Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company are in receipt of Frederick Batchelor's application for junior clerkship, and in reply—"

"What?" I gasped to myself, as I turned over the leaf.

"—would like to see Batchelor at their office on Saturday next at 10:15."

I could hardly believe my eyes. I rushed to my uncle and showed him the letter.

"Isn't it splendid?" I cried.

"Not at all," replied he. "Don't be too fast, you have not got the place yet."

"Ah, I know," said I, "but I've a chance at least."

"You have a chance against a dozen others," said my uncle, "who most likely have got each of them a letter just like this."

"Well, but, of course, I must go on Saturday?"

"You still mean to try?" said my uncle.

"Why yes," said I resolutely. "I do."

"Then you had better go to town on Saturday."

"Won't you go with me?" I inquired nervously.

"No," said my uncle; "Merrett, Barnacle, and Company want to see you, not me."

"But—" began I. But I didn't say what I was going to say. Why should I tell my uncle I was afraid to go to London alone?

"Where am I to live if I do get the place? London's such a big place to be in."

"Oh, we'll see to that," said my uncle, "in due time. Time enough for that when you get your place."

This was true; and half elated, half alarmed by the prospect before me, I took to my bed and went to sleep.

My dreams that night were a strange mixture of Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, the little girl who fell from the pony, Jack Smith, and the jovial baker; but among them all I slept very soundly, and woke like a giant refreshed the next day.

If only I had been easy in my mind about Jack Smith, I should have been positively cheerful. But the thought of him, and the fact of his never having called for my letters, sorely perplexed and troubled me. Had he forgotten all about me, then? How I had pictured his delight in getting that first letter of mine, when I wrote it surreptitiously in the playground at Stonebridge House a year ago! And I had meant it to be such a jolly comforting letter, too; and after all here it was in my pocket unopened. I must just read it over again myself. And I put my hand in my pocket to get it. To my surprise, however, only the last of the two letters was there, and high or low I could not find the other. It was very strange, for I distinctly remembered no having it in my hand after leaving Packworth. Then suddenly it occurred to me I must have had it in my hand when I met the runaway pony, and in the confusion of that adventure have dropped it. So I had not even the satisfaction of reading over my own touching effusion, which deprived me of a great intellectual treat.

However, I had other things to think of, for to-morrow was Saturday, the day on which I was to make my solitary excursion to London in quest of the junior clerkship at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's.



CHAPTER TEN.

HOW I RAN AGAINST MY FRIEND SMITH IN AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER.

I suppose my uncle thought it good discipline to turn a young fellow like me adrift for a whole day in London to shift for myself, and wrestle single-handed with the crisis that was to decide my destiny.

He may have been right, but when, after an hour's excited journey in the train, I found myself along with several hundred fellow-mortals standing in a street which seemed to be literally alive with people, I, at any rate, neither admired his wisdom nor blessed him for his good intentions.

Every one but myself seemed to be in a desperate hurry. Had I not been sure it was the way of the place, I should have been tempted to suppose some tremendous fire, or some extraordinary event was taking place at the other end of the street, and that every one was rushing to get a glimpse of it. I stood a minute or two outside the station, hoping to be left behind; but behold, no sooner had the tail of the race passed me, when another, indeed two other train-loads of humanity swarmed down upon me, and, hustling me as they swept by, fairly carried me along with them.

One thing alarmed me prodigiously. It was not the crowd, or the noise, or the cabs, or the omnibuses, or the newspaper-boys, or the shops, or the policemen, or the chimney-pot hats. These all astonished me, as well they might. But what terrified me was the number of boys like myself who formed part of the procession, and who, every one of them as I imagined, were hurrying towards Hawk Street.

My uncle had told me that I should find Hawk Street turning out at the end of the street in which the station stood, and this was precisely the direction in which these terrible boys were all going.

How knowing they all looked, and how confident! There was not one of them, I was certain, but was more intelligent than I, and quicker at figures. How I hated them as they swaggered along, laughing and joking with one another, looking familiarly on the scene around them, crossing the road in the very teeth of the cab-horses, and not one of them caring or thinking a bit about me. What chance had I among all these?

There was not much conceit left in me, I assure you, as I followed meekly in their wake towards Hawk Street that morning.

My uncle's directions had been so simple that I had never calculated on having any difficulty in finding my destination. But it's all very well in a quiet country town to find one street that turns out of another, but in London, between nine and ten in the morning, it's quite a different matter. At least so I found it. Half a dozen streets turned out of the one which I and the stream descended, and though I carefully studied the name of each in turn, no Hawk Street was there.

"Can you tell me where Hawk Street is?" I inquired at last of a fellow- passenger after a great inward struggle.

"Hawk Street? Yes. Go through Popman's Alley, and up the second court to the left—that'll bring you to Hawk Street."

"But uncle said it turned—" My guide had vanished!

I diligently sought for Popman's Alley, which I found to be a long paved passage between two high blocks of buildings, and leading apparently nowhere; at least I could discover no outlet, either at the end or either side. Every one was in such a hurry that I dared not "pop the question" as to the whereabouts of Hawk Street again, but made my way back once more to the entrance. By this time I was so muddled that for the life of me I could not tell which was the street I had come down, still less how I could get back to it.