He did not say how.

"Oh, never mind, not if you don't pay at all," replied the genial Cripps. "You'll be having more tin soon, I bet."

"Not till June," said Stephen.

"Well, leave it till June—no matter. But you may as well have the use of the bat now. Good-day, Master Green—"

"Greenfield, Stephen Greenfield," said Stephen.

"Good-day, and give my respects to Mr Loman, and I hope I shall see you both again."

Stephen hoped so too, and went off, highly elated, with Loman's rod under his arm.

Loman pulled rather a long face at hearing the price, and pulled a still longer face when Stephen told him about the bat. He read his fag a long lecture about getting into debt and pledging his pocket-money in advance.

That evening Stephen was solemnly tossed up for by the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles. "Heads, Guinea-pigs; tails, Tadpoles." It turned up heads, and from that time forward Greenfield junior was a Guinea-pig.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE "DOMINICAN," NUMBER ONE.

The eventful day had come at last. Anthony and his confederates had worked hard, evening after evening, in the secrecy of their studies, and the first number of the Dominican was ready for publication. The big frame had been smuggled in, and the big sheet was now safely lodged behind the glass, with its eight broad columns of clearly-written manuscript all ready to astonish Saint Dominic's. Two nails had surreptitiously been driven into the wall outside the Fifth Form room, on which the precious document was to be suspended, and Tony only waited for "lights out" to creep down and, with the aid of Ricketts and Bullinger, fix it in position. Everything succeeded well. The secret had been kept most carefully, and when, next morning, Saint Dominic's woke up and swarmed down the passage past the Fifth Form class-room, the sight of a huge frame, with the words The Dominican staring out from it, and several yards of writing underneath, fairly startled them. Master Paul, the fag who had been deputed to the no easy task of preserving the structure from injury, had a hard time of it, there was such a hustling and crowding in front of it whenever classes were not going on. The little boys squeezed in front; the bigger boys read over their heads; the Sixth examined it from the back of the crowd, and the Fifth Form from various positions watched with complacency the effect of this venture.

At first it was looked upon as a curiosity, then as a joke; then gradually it dawned on Saint Dominic's that it was a Fifth Form production, and finally it appeared in its true light as a school newspaper.

Loman, attracted by the crowd of boys, strolled down the passage to the place and joined the group, just as a small boy was reading aloud the following descriptive extract from:

"Our Special Correspondent in Guinea-pig Land.

"Last night the ceremony of admitting a new member into the ancient and honourable craft of Guinea-pigs was celebrated with the usual mysteries. The event took place in the fourth junior class-room. The Guinea-pigs assembled in force, with blackened faces and false whiskers. The lights being put out, Brother Bilke proposed, and Brother Smudge seconded, the election of the new aspirant, and the motion being put to the Guinea-pigs, was received with a unanimous grunt. The Guinea-pig elect was then admitted. He was classically attired in a pair of slippers and a collar, and the ceremony of initiation at once commenced. The candidate was stretched across the lowest desk, face downwards, and in this position greeted with the flat side of a cricket-bat by the junior brother present. He was then advanced to the next desk, where a similar compliment was paid by the next youngest; and so on to the senior brother present. Half way through the ceremony the new member expressed a desire to withdraw his candidature, but this motion was negatived by a large majority. When our reporter left, the ceremony was being repeated with the round side of the bat. We understand the new Guinea-pig is keeping his bed to-day after the exciting ceremony of initiation."

This was capital fun, and greatly appreciated by all—even by Stephen, who knew it was intended to represent his own experience, which, mercifully, had not been nearly so sore as pictured.

But the next extract was not quite as pleasing.

"Cricket Notice.

"The Alphabet Match will be played on Saturday. The following are the two elevens [and here the list followed]. Of these twenty-two players, it is worthy of mention that fourteen are from the Fifth, and only eight from the Sixth. What is our Sixth coming to?"

This was not at all gratifying to the Sixth Form fellows present. It was unfortunately true, but they did not at all fancy such prominence being given to the fact. The next extract was still more pointed.

"Sixth Form Debating Society.

"The usual meeting of the Sixth Form Debating Society was held last week, the Doctor in the chair. A sprinkling of lads from the Fifth, in their Sunday coats and collars, was present, by kind permission. The subject for discussion was, 'That the present Sixth is degenerate.' In the absence of any member of the Sixth to open the discussion, Master Bramble, captain of the Tadpoles, kindly undertook the task. He had no hesitation in asserting that the Sixth were degenerate. They had fallen off in cricket since he could remember, and in intellect, he was sorry to say, the falling oil was still worse. If they would take his advice, they would avoid the playground during the present season, and by all means withdraw their candidate for the Nightingale Scholarship, as he was certain to be beaten by boys in a lower form. As to behaviour, he could point to virtuous behaviour among the Tadpoles, quite equal to that of the monitors. He didn't wish to ask questions, but would like to know what they all found so attractive in Maltby. Then, too, they all oiled their hair. No previous Sixth had ever been guilty of this effeminacy, or of wearing lavender kid gloves on Sundays. He repeated, 'What were we coming to?'"

"Mr R-g-h opened in the negative. He denied all the charges made by the young gentleman who had last spoken. He undertook to get up an eleven to beat any eleven the Tadpoles could put into the field; and as to intellect, why, didn't the Tadpoles, some of them, get their sums done by the Sixth? Besides, even if their intellect was weak, couldn't they use cribs? He didn't use them himself, but he knew one or two who did. He didn't understand the objection to the hair-oil; he used it to make the hair sit down on his head. [Raleigh, it should be said, had a most irrepressible bunch of curls on his head.] He wore kid gloves on Sunday because he had had a pair given him by his great-aunt Jane Ann. He maintained the Sixth was not degenerate.

"Mr L-m-n followed on the same side. He thought it the greatest liberty of any one to discuss the Sixth. He was a Sixth Form fellow, and a monitor, and if he wasn't looked up to he ought to be, and he intended to be. He was in the cricket eleven, and he was intellectual— very, very much so. He was going in for the Nightingale Scholarship, and had no doubt in his own mind as to the result. He hardly understood his friend's reference to Maltby. Why shouldn't he go there and take his fag too if he chose? He didn't see what right the Fifth had to fags at all. He had a fag, but then he was in the Sixth. His fag admired him, and he never told him not to. The Sixth could not be degenerate so long as he was in it."

"Other speakers followed, including Mr W-r-n, who maintained that Michael Angelo was a greater musician than Queen Anne. He was here called to order, and reminded that Michael Angelo had nothing to do with the degeneracy of the Sixth. He begged leave to explain—

"At this point our reporter fell asleep."

The laughter which greeted the reading of this extract was by no means shared by the Sixth Form boys present, who, had the next selection been in a similar strain, would have quitted the scene and taken their chance of satisfying their curiosity as to the rest of the contents of the paper at a more convenient season.

But the next lucubration was the unfortunate Stephen's examination paper, with the answers thereto embellished, and in many cases bodily supplied, by the fertile Anthony. The luckless Stephen, who was wedged up in the front row of readers, could have sunk into the earth on meeting once more that hateful paper face to face, and feeling himself an object of ridicule to the whole school. For the wonderful answers which now appeared were hardly any of them his own composition, and he did not even get credit for the few correct things he had said. Shouts of laughter greeted the reading, during which he dared not lift his eyes from the ground. But the answer to Question 6, "What is a minus?" was more than human flesh and blood could endure.

"What is a Minus?"

"'Minus' is derived from two English words, 'my,' meaning my, and 'nus,' which is the London way of pronouncing 'nurse.' My nurse is a dear creature; I love her still, especially now she doesn't wash my face. I hated having my face washed. My nurse's name is Mrs Blake, but I always call her my own Noodle-oodle-oo. I do love her so! How I would like to hug her! She sewed the strings of my little flannel vest on in front just before I came here because she knew I couldn't tie them behind by myself—"

"She didn't!" shouted Stephen, in a voice trembling with indignation.

Poor boy! The laughter which greeted this simple exclamation was enough to finish up any one, and, with a bursting heart, and a face crimson with confusion, he struggled out of the crowd and ran as fast as his legs would take him to his own class-room.

But if he imagined in his misery that the whole school was going to spend the entire day jeering at him, and him alone, he was greatly mistaken, for once out of sight Stephen soon passed out of mind in presence of the next elegant extract read out for the benefit of the assembled audience. This was no other than Simon's "Love-Ballad."

Simon, it should be known, was one of the dullest boys in Saint Dominic's, and it was a standing marvel how he ever came to be in the Fifth, for he was both a dunce and an idiot. But he had one ambition and one idea, which was that he could write poetry; and the following touching ballad from his pen he offered to the Dominican, and the Dominican showed its appreciation of real talent by inserting it:—

"A Love-Ballad.

"I wish I was a buttercup, Upon the mountain top, That you might sweetly pick me up, And sweetly let me drop. I wish I was a little worm, All rigling in the sun, That I myself towards thee might turn When thou along didst come. Oh, I wish I was a doormat, sweet, All prostrate on the floor, If only thou wouldst wipe thy feet, On me, what could I want more?"

["Rigling" is possibly "wriggling".]

Simon, who, with true poet's instinct, was standing among the crowd listening to his own poem, was somewhat perplexed by the manner in which his masterpiece was received. That every one was delighted there could be no doubt. But he had an impression he had meant the ballad to be pathetic. Saint Dominic's, however, had taken it up another way, and appeared to regard it as facetious. At any rate his fame was made, and looking as if a laurel wreath already encircled his brow, he modestly retired, feeling no further interest, now his own piece was ended.

Oliver's poem on the Tadpoles, with its marvellous rhymes, fell comparatively flat after this; and Bullinger's first chapter of the History of Saint Dominic's failed to rivet the attention of the audience, which, however, became suddenly and painfully absorbed in the "Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse," from the pen of Wraysford. We must inflict a few passages from this document on the reader, as the paper was the cause of some trouble hereafter.

"Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.

"Monday.—Up early and took a good breakfast in one of the desks where there was a jam sandwich and several toffee-drops. The Sixth seem to like jam sandwiches and toffee-drops, there are some of them in nearly every desk. The desk I was in had a packet of cigarettes in one corner. They were labelled 'Mild.' I wonder why the Sixth like their cigarettes mild. In the same desk were one or two books written by a man called Bohn; they seemed queer books, for they had Latin and Greek names outside, but all the reading inside was English. It is sad to see the quarrelling that goes on in this room. You would not suppose, to see these monitors walking grandly up and down the passages striking terror into the hearts of all the small boys, that they could possibly condescend to quarrel over the possession of an inkpot or the ownership of an acid-drop found among the cinders. Alas! it is very sad. They don't seem anything like the Sixth of old days. I shall emigrate if this goes on.

"Wednesday.—A great row to-day when the Doctor was out of the room. The two senior monitors engaged in a game of marbles—knuckle down—in the course of which one player accused the other of cheating. There was nearly a fight, only neither seemed exactly to like to begin, and both appeared relieved when the Doctor came in and confiscated the marbles."

And so the diary went on, in a strain highly offensive to the Sixth and equally delighting to the lower forms. After this the Sixth withdrew, not caring to face further taunts of the kind, and leaving a free field to the rest of Saint Dominic's, who perused this wonderful broadside to the end with unflagging interest. Some of the advertisements with which Tony had filled up the gaps caused considerable mirth—such as this: "A gentleman about to clear out his desk, begs to give notice that he will Sell by Auction to-morrow after 'Lights out,' all those rare and valuable articles, to wit:—one and a half gross best cherry-stones, last year's, in excellent condition. About twelve assorted bread crusts, warranted dry and hard—one with a covering of fossilised sardine. Six quires of valuable manuscript notes on various subjects, comprising Latin, Greek, Mathematics, French, and Crambo. One apple, well seasoned, and embellished with a brilliant green fur of two years' growth. And many other miscellaneous treasures, such as slate pencils, nutshells, an antique necktie, several defunct silkworms, a noble three-bladed knife (deficient of the blades), and half a pound of putty. No reserve price. Must be cleared out at whatever sacrifice."

And this was another:—

"This is to give notice, that whereas certain parties calling themselves Guinea-pigs have infringed on our patent rights, we, the Tadpoles of Saint Dominic's, have been and are from time immemorial entitled to the exclusive privilege of appearing in public with dirty faces, uncombed hair, and inky fingers. We have also the sole right of making beasts of ourselves on every possible occasion; and we hereby declare that it is our intention to institute proceedings against all parties, of whatever name, who shall hereafter trespass on these our inalienable rights. By order, B. Smudgeface and T. Blacknose, Secretaries."

This final onslaught broke up the party. The aggrieved Tadpoles rushed to their quarters and fumed and raged themselves into a state bordering on, madness; and vowed revenge till they were hoarse.

It was a curious fact, nevertheless, that at prayers that evening there were more clean faces among the Tadpoles than had been seen there since the formation of that ancient and honourable fraternity.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A QUARREL AND A CRICKET MATCH.

The first number of the Dominican had undoubtedly caused a sensation; and it would have created far more sensation but for the fact that the Alphabet Match was to be played on the following day. But even this counter-attraction could not wholly divert the mind of Saint Dominic's from this new literary marvel; and a skirmish took place on the very afternoon of its appearance.

Pembury and his friends had quite expected that the Sixth would attempt a high-handed blow at their paper, and they were not disappointed. For no sooner had Loman and his peers stalked away from the scene of their indignation, and found themselves in the retirement of their own room, than they fell to talking in terms the reverse of pleasant about the event of the morning. The least important of their number was specially wroth.

"There's a great row out in the passage to-day," said Raleigh, who was blissfully ignorant of the whole matter; "why can't some of you monitors keep a little better order? The Doctor will be wanting to know what it's all about!"

"All very well," said Raikes, one of the monitors; "but if the Fifth will stick their tomfoolery out in the passage, there's sure to be a row."

"What tomfoolery? Some of you are for ever grumbling at the Fifth."

"And so would you if you saw the complimentary remarks they make about you in this precious newspaper of theirs."

"Oh, the Dominican? I must have a look at it by and by; but meanwhile something had better be done to stop that row, or we shall catch it ourselves."

And so saying, the captain left these injured youths to their own counsels, which it is to be feared were moved more by dislike for the Dominican than by a burning desire for the good order of the school.

However, they must do something; and there would be nothing inconsistent with their dignity in demanding the withdrawal of the obnoxious broadside on account of the noise it caused. This would be a safe move, and might be checkmate. Loman was deputed to wait upon the Fifth with the demand of the monitors, and lost no time in carrying out this welcome task. Class was just over, and the Fifth were just about to clear out of their room when Loman entered. It was not often that a Sixth Form fellow penetrated into their camp, and had they not guessed his mission they might have resented the intrusion.

"Oh, you fellows," began Loman, feeling not quite so confident now as he had felt five minutes ago, "we can't have that thing of yours hanging out in the passage like that. It makes a crowd—too much row. Whose is it?"

"Not mine," said Wraysford, laughing; "ask Bully—perhaps it's his."

"Not a bit of it," said Bullinger; "it's yours, isn't it, Simon?"

"Only part," said the poet of the "Love-Ballad", "and I presented that to the paper."

"Suppose it was mine?" said Oliver, with a drawl.

"Then," said Loman, losing his temper, "all I can say is, the sooner you clear it away the better."

"Oh! all right; only it's not mine."

"Look here," said Loman, "I'm not going to fool about with you. You may think it all very funny, but I'll report it to the Doctor, and then you'll look foolish."

"How nice! So pleasant it will be to look for once like what you look always," observed Pembury, gnawing the top of his crutch.

At that moment there was a loud shout of laughter in the passage outside, confirming the monitor's complaint. Wraysford walked hastily to the door.

"The next time there's a row like that outside our door," called he to the group outside, "we'll—what do you mean by it, you young blackguard?"

So saying, he caught Master Bramble, who happened to be the nearest offender within reach, by the collar of his coat, and lugged him bodily into the class-room.

"There, now! Do you know this gentleman? He's a monitor. Have a good look at him. He's been complaining of the row you are making, and quite rightly. Take that, and tell all the little Pigs outside that if they don't hold their noise they will find themselves, every man jack of them, mentioned by name in the next number!"

So saying, with a gentle cuff he handed the ill-starred Master Bramble out again to his fellows, and from that time there was scarcely a sound audible from the passage.

"Good-bye," said Pembury, kissing his hand to Loman, who all this time had been standing in the middle of the room, in a white heat, and perplexed what to do or say next.

"You aren't going to live here, are you?" asked Bullinger.

"Any one got a toffee-drop?" drily inquired Oliver. To his surprise, and to the surprise of every one, Loman wheeled round towards the last speaker, and without a word struck him a blow on the mouth with his hand.

He saw he had made a mistake, and looked ashamed the moment the deed was done. All eyes turned to Oliver, whose face was crimson with a sudden flush of pain and anger. He sprang to his feet, and Braddy, the bully, was already beginning to gloat over the prospect of a fight, when, to every one's amazement, Oliver coolly put his hands back into his pockets, and walking up to Loman said, quietly, "Hadn't you better go?"

Loman stared at him in astonishment. He had at least expected to be knocked down, and this, behaviour was quite incomprehensible.

He turned on his heel and quitted the room without a word; and somehow or other from that time the Fifth heard no more protests from the monitors on the subject of the Dominican.

But Oliver's conduct, much as it had astonished the person chiefly concerned, had astonished the Fifth still more. For the first time in the history of their class, as far as they could recollect, a blow struck had not been returned, and they could not tell what to make of it.

The blow had been a cowardly one, and certainly unmerited, and by all schoolboy tradition one fairly demanding a return. Could it be possible their man was lacking in courage? The idea was a shock to most present, who, although Oliver was never very popular among them, as has been said, had never before suspected his pluck. In fact, it was an awkward moment for all, and it was quite a relief when Simon broke silence by asking Oliver, "Why didn't you knock him down, I say?"

"Because I did not choose, if you want to know," replied Oliver, shortly.

"Oh! I beg your pardon," replied Simon, rather taken aback by this brusque answer.

This was not satisfactory. Had the offender been a Guinea-pig, one could have understood the thing; but when it was a Sixth Form fellow—a good match in every respect, as well as a rival—the Fifth were offended at their man for drawing back as he had done.

"I suppose you will fight him?" said Ricketts, in a voice which implied that there was no doubt about it.

"Do you?" replied Oliver, briefly.

The boy's manner was certainly not winsome, and, when once put out, it was evident he took no trouble to conceal the fact. He refused to answer any further questions on the subject, and presently quitted the room, leaving more than half his class-fellows convinced that, after all, he was a coward.

An angry discussion followed his departure.

"He ought to be made to fight, whether he likes or not," said Braddy the bully.

"Some one ought to pay Loman out," suggested Ricketts, "if Greenfield doesn't."

"A nice name we shall get, all of us," said Bullinger, "when it gets abroad all over the school."

"It's a shame, because one fellow funks, for the whole Form to be disgraced; that's what I say," said some one else.

There were, however, two boys who did not join in this general cry of indignation against Oliver, and they were Wraysford and Pembury. The latter was always whimsical in his opinions, and no one was surprised to see him come out on the wrong side. As for Wraysford, he always backed his friend up, whether others thought him right or wrong. These two scouted the idea of Oliver being a coward; the one with his usual weapon of ridicule, the other with all the warmth of friendship.

"Who calls him a coward?" exclaimed Wraysford, glaring at the last speaker.

Wraysford was not a coward, and looked so ready to avenge his friend by hard knocks, that the boy who had insinuated that Greenfield was afraid withdrew his charge as mildly as he could. "I only meant, it looks as if he didn't like to fight," he said.

"And what business of yours is it what it looks like?" demanded Wraysford.

"Come, old man," said Pembury; "don't eat him up! I fancy Greenfield might screw up courage to pull his nose, whoever else he lets off, eh? It's my private opinion, though, Oliver knew what he was about."

"Of course he did," sneered Braddy; "he knew jolly well what he was about."

"Dear me! Is that you, Mr Braddy? I had not noticed you here, or I should not have ventured to speak on a matter having to do with pluck and heroism. I'm glad you agree with me, though, although I didn't say he knew jolly well what he was about. That is an expression of your own."

Braddy, who as usual felt and looked extinguished when Pembury made fun of him, retired sulkily, and the editor of the Dominican thereupon turned his attack on another quarter. And so the dispute went on, neither party being convinced, and all satisfied only on one point—that a cloud had arisen to mar the hitherto peaceful horizon of Fifth Form existence.

The cricket match of the following day, however, served to divert the thoughts of all parties for a time.

As it was only the prelude to a much more important match shortly to follow, I shall not attempt to describe it fully here, as the reader will probably be far more interested in the incidents of Sixth versus School Match when it comes off.

The Alphabet Match was, to tell the truth, not nearly as interesting an affair as it promised to be, for from the very first the N's to Z's had the best of it. Stephen, who with a company of fellow-Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs was perched on the palings, looking on, felt his heart sink within him as first one and then another of his brother's side lost their wickets without runs. For once he and Bramble were in sympathy, and he and Paul were at difference. The row these small boys kicked up, by the way, was one of the most notable features of the whole match. Every one of them yelled for his own side. There had, indeed, been a question whether every Guinea-pig, whatever his private initial, ought not to yell for the G's, and every Tadpole for the T's; but it was eventually decided that each should yell "on his own hook," and the effect was certainly far more diverting.

The first four men of the A to M went out for two runs between them, and Stephen and Bramble sat in gloomy despair. The next man in knocked down his wicket before he had played a single ball. It was frightful, and the jeers of the Z's were hateful to hear.

But Stephen brightened as he perceived that the next batsman was his brother. "Now they'll pick up!" said he.

"No they won't! Greenfield senior skies his balls too much for my taste," cheeringly replied the small Bramble.

But Stephen was right. For the first time that afternoon the A's made a stand. Oliver's partner at the wickets was Callonby, of the Sixth, a steady, plodding player, who hardly ever hit out, and got all his runs (if he got any) from the slips. This afternoon he hardly scored at all, but kept his wicket carefully while Oliver did the hitting.

Things were looking up. The telegraph went up from 2 to 20. Wraysford, who had hitherto been bowling with Ricketts against his friend, gave up the ball to Raikes, and the field generally woke up to the importance of getting rid of this daring player.

Stephen's throat was too hoarse to roar any more, so he resigned that duty to Bramble, and looked on in delighted silence. The score crept up, till suddenly Callonby tipped a ball into cover-slip's hand and was caught, to the great delight of the Z's, who guessed that, once a separation had been effected, the survivor would soon be disposed of.

The next man in was Loman. He was better as a bowler than a batsman; but he followed Callonby's tactics and played a steady block, leaving the boy he had struck yesterday to do the hitting.

Oliver was certainly playing in fine form, and for a moment his class-fellows forgot their resentment against him in applauding his play. The score was at 35, and the new coalition promised to be as formidable as the last, when Oliver cut a ball past point.

"Run! no! yes, run!" he shouted. Loman started, then hesitated, then started again—but it was too late. Before he could get across, the ball was up and he was run out. He was furious, and it certainly was hard lines for him, although there would have been time enough for the run had he not pulled up in the middle. Forgetful of all the rules of cricket, he turned round to Oliver and shouted, "You are a fool!" as he left the wicket.

Stephen luckily was too much engrossed in watching the telegraph to hear or notice this remark; which, however, was not lost on the Fifth generally, who experienced a return of their former discontent when they observed that Oliver (though he must have heard it) took not the slightest notice of the offensive expression.

The match passed off without further incident. The Z's won in the end by two wickets, after a closer match than it had promised to be at first, and Stephen was comforted for the reverse by feeling sure that his brother at any rate had played his best, and would certainly get his place in the School Eleven.



CHAPTER NINE.

A ROD IN PICKLE.

Loman, who had arrived at the same conclusion respecting Oliver's bravery as the majority in the Fifth, did not allow his conscience to trouble him as to his share of the morning's business. He never had liked Oliver, and lately especially he had come to dislike him. He was therefore glad to have made him smart; and now, since the blunder in the cricket match, he felt greatly inclined to repeat the blow, particularly as there did not seem much to fear if he did so.

He was quick, too, to see that Oliver had lost favour with his comrades, and had no hesitation in availing himself of every opportunity of widening the breach. He affected to be sorry for the poor fellow, and to feel that he had been too hard on him, and so on, in a manner which, while it offended the Fifth, as applied to one of their set, exasperated them all the more against Oliver. And so matters went on, getting more and more unsatisfactory.

Loman, however, had other things to think of than his rival's cowardice, and foremost among these was his new fishing-rod—or rather, the rod which he coveted for his own. Until the day after the Alphabet Match he had not even had time to examine his treasure. Three pounds ten was an appalling figure to pay for a rod; "But then," thought Loman, "if it's really a good one, and worth half as much again, it would be a pity to miss such a bargain;" and every one knew the Crippses, father and son, were authorities on all matters pertaining to the piscatorial art. Loman, too, was never badly off for pocket-money, and could easily raise the amount, he felt sure, when he represented the case at home. So he took the rod out of its canvas bag, and began to put it together.

Now, a boy's study is hardly the place in which to flourish a fishing-rod, and Loman found that with the butt down in one bottom corner of the room, the top joint would have to be put on up in the opposite top corner. When this complicated operation was over, there was no room to move it from its position, still less to judge of its weight and spring, or attach the winch and line. Happy thought! the window! He would have any amount of scope there. So, taking it to pieces, and putting it together again in this new direction, he had the satisfaction of testing it at its full length. He was pleased with the rod, on the whole. He attached the line, with a fly at the end, in order to give it a thorough trial, and gave a scientific "cast" into an imaginary pool. It was a splendid rod, just right for him; how he wished he was up above Gusset Weir at that moment! Why, he could—

Here he attempted to draw up the rod. There was an ugly tug and a crack as he did so, and he found, to his disgust, that the hook, having nothing else to catch, had caught the ivy on the wall, and, what was worse, that the top joint of the rod had either snapped or cracked in its inability to bring this weighty catch to shore. It was a long time before Loman was able to disengage his line, and bring the rod in again at the window. The top joint was cracked. It looked all right as he held it, but when he tried to bend it it had lost its spring, and the crack showed only too plainly. Another misfortune still was in store. The reel in winding up suddenly stuck. Loman, fancying it had only caught temporarily, tried to force it, and in so doing the spring broke, and the handle turned uselessly round and round in his hand. This was a streak of bad luck, and no mistake! The rod was not his, and what was worse, it was (so Cripps said) a rod of extraordinary excellence and value. Loman had his doubts now about this. A first-rate top-piece would bend nearly double and then not break, and a reel that broke at the least pressure could hardly be of the best kind. Still, Cripps thought a lot of it, and Loman had undoubtedly himself alone to blame for the accidents which had occurred. As it was, the rod was now useless. He knew there was no place in Maltby where he could get it repaired, and it was hardly to be expected that Cripps would take it back.

What was to be done? Either he must pay 3 pounds 10 shillings for a rod of no value, or—

He slowly took the rod to pieces and put it back into the canvas bag. The top joint after all did not look amiss; and, yes, there was a little bit of elasticity in it. Perhaps the crack was only his fancy; or perhaps the crack was there when he got it. As to the reel, it looked as if it ought to work, and perhaps it would if he only knew the way. Ah! suppose he just sent the rod back to Cripps with a message that he found he did not require it? He would not say he had not used it, but if Cripps chose to imagine he received it back just as he sent it, well, what harm? Cripps would be sure to sell it to some one else, or else put it by (he had said he possessed a rod of his own). If he, Loman, had felt quite certain that he had damaged the rod himself, of course he would not think of such a thing; but he was not at all certain the thing was not defective to begin with. In any case it was an inferior rod—that he had no doubt about—and Cripps was not acting honestly by trying to pass it off on him as one of the best make. Yes, it would serve Cripps right, and be a lesson to him, and he was sure, yes, quite sure now, it had been damaged to begin with.

And so the boy argued with himself and coquetted with the tempter. Before the afternoon was over he felt (as he imagined) quite comfortable in his own mind over the affair. The rod was tied up again in its bag exactly as it had been before, and only wanted an opportunity to be returned to Mr Cripps.

After that Loman settled down to an evening's study. But things were against him again. Comfortable as his conscience was, that top joint would not let him alone. It seemed to get into his hand in place of the pen, and to point out the words in the lexicon in place of his finger. He tried not to mind it, but it annoyed him, and, what was worse, interfered with his work. So, shutting up his books, and imagining a change of air might be beneficial, he went off to Callonby's study, there to gossip for an hour or two, and finally rid himself of his tormentor.

Stephen, meanwhile, had had Mr Cripps on his mind too, for that afternoon his bat had come home. It was addressed to "Mr Greenfield, Saint Dominic's," and of course taken to Oliver, who wondered much to receive a small size cricket-bat in a parcel. Master Paul, however, who was in attendance, was able to clear up the mystery.

"Oh! that's your young brother's, I expect; he said he had got a bat coming."

"All I can say is, he must be more flush of cash than I am, to go in for a thing like this. Send him here, Paul."

So Paul vanished, and presently Stephen put in an appearance, blushing, and anxious-looking.

"Is this yours?" asked the elder brother.

"Yes; did Mr Cripps send it?"

"Mr Cripps the lock-keeper?"

"No, his son. He said he would get it for me. I say, is that a good bat, Oliver?"

"Nothing out of the way. But, I say, young 'un, how much have you given for it?"

"Not anything yet. Mr Cripps said I could pay in June, when I get my next pocket-money."

"What on earth has he to do with when you get your pocket-money?" demanded Oliver. "Who is this young Cripps? He's a cad, isn't he?"

"He seemed a very nice man," said Stephen.

"Well, look here! the less you have to do with men like him the better. What is the price of the bat?"

"I don't know; it's one Mr Cripps had himself when he was a boy. He says it's a beauty! I say, it looks as good as new, Oliver."

"You young muff!" said the elder brother; "I expect the fellow's swindling you. Find out what he wants for it at once, and pay him; I'm not going to let you run into debt."

"But I can't; I've only two shillings left," said Stephen, dejectedly.

"Why, whatever have you done with the five shillings you had last week?"

Stephen blushed, and then faltered, "I spent sixpence on stamps and sixpence on—on brandy-balls!"

"I thought so. And what did you do with the rest?"

"Oh! I—I—that is—I—gave them away."

"Gave them away! Who to—to Bramble?"

"No," said Stephen, laughing at the idea; "I gave them to a poor old man!"

"Where?—when? Upon my word, Stephen, you are a jackass—who to?"

And then Stephen confessed, and the elder brother rated him soundly for his folly, till the little fellow felt quite miserable and ashamed of himself. In the end, Oliver insisted on Stephen finding out at once what the price of the bat was, and promised he would lend his brother the money for it. In return for this, Stephen promised to make no more purchases of this kind without first consulting Oliver, and at this juncture Wraysford turned up, and Stephen beat a retreat with his bat over his shoulder.

The two friends had not been alone together since the fracas in the Fifth two days before, and both now appeared glad of an opportunity of talking over that and subsequent events.

"I suppose you know a lot of the fellows are very sore at you for not thrashing Loman?" said Wraysford.

"I guessed they would be. Are you riled, too, Wray?"

"Not I! I know what I should have done myself, but I suppose you know your own business best."

"I was greatly tempted to let out," said Oliver, "but the fact is—I know you'll jeer, Wray—the fact is, I've been trying feebly to turn over a new leaf this term."

Wraysford said "Oh!" and looked uncomfortable.

"And one of the things I wanted to keep out of was losing my temper, which you know is not a good one."

"Not at all," said Wraysford, meaning quite the opposite to what he said.

"Well, if you'll believe me, I've lost my temper oftener in trying to keep this resolution than I ever remember to have done before. But on Friday it came over me just as I was going to thrash Loman. That's why I didn't."

Wraysford looked greatly relieved when this confession was over. "You are a rum fellow, Noll," said he, after a pause, "and of course it is all right; but the fellows don't know your reason, and think you showed the white feather."

"Let them think!" shouted Oliver, in a voice so loud and angry that Master Paul came to the door and asked what he wanted.

"What do I care what they think?" continued Oliver, forgetting all about his temper; "they can think what they like, but they had better let me alone. I'd like to knock all their heads together! so I would!"

"Steady, old man!" said Wraysford, good-humouredly; "I quite agree with you. But I say, Noll, I think it's a pity you don't put yourself right with them and the school generally, somehow. Everybody heard Loman call you a fool yesterday, and you know our fellows are so clannish that they think, for the credit of the Fifth, something ought to be done."

"Let them send Braddy to thrash him, then; I don't intend to fight to please them!"

"Oh! that's all right. And if they all knew what you've told me they would understand it; but as it is, they don't."

"They'll find out some day, most likely," growled Oliver; "I'm not going to bother any more about it. I say, Wray, do you know anything of Cripps's son?"

"Yes. Don't you know he keeps a dirty public-house in Maltby?—a regular cad, they say. The fishing-fellows have seen him up at the Weir now and then."

"I don't know how he came across him, but my young brother has just been buying a bat from him, and I don't much fancy it."

"No, the youngster won't get any good with that fellow; you had better tell him," said Wraysford.

"So I have, and he won't do it again."

Shortly after this Pembury hobbled in on his way to bed.

"You're a pretty fellow," said he to Oliver; "not one of our fellows cares a rush about the Dominican since you made yourself into the latest sensation."

"Oh, don't let us have that up again," implored Oliver.

"All very well, but what is to become of the Dominican?"

"Oh, have a special extra number about me. Call me a coward, and a fool, and a Tadpole, any mortal thing you like, only shut up about the affair now!"

Pembury looked concerned.

"Allow me to feel your pulse," said he to Oliver.

"Feel away," said Oliver, glad of any diversion.

"Hum! As I feared—feverish. Oliver, my boy, you are not well. Wandering a bit in your mind, too; get to bed. Be better soon. Able to talk like an ordinary rational animal then, and not like an animated tom-cat. Good-bye!"

And so saying he departed, leaving the friends too much amused to be angry at his rudeness.

The two friends did a steady evening's work after this, and the thought of the Nightingale Scholarship drove away for the time all less pleasant recollections.

They slept, after it all, far more soundly than Loman, whose dreams were disturbed by that everlasting top joint all the night long.

The reader will no doubt have already decided in his own mind whether Oliver Greenfield did rightly or wrongly in putting his hands into his pockets instead of using them to knock down Loman. It certainly did not seem to have done him much good at the time. He had lost the esteem of his comrades, he had lost the very temper he had been trying to keep— twenty times since the event—and no one gave him credit for anything but "the better part of valour" in the whole affair.

And yet that one effort of self-restraint was not altogether an unmanly act. At least, so thought Wraysford that night, as he lay meditating upon his friend's troubles, and found himself liking him none the less for this latest singular piece of eccentricity.



CHAPTER TEN.

THE FOURTH JUNIOR AT HOME.

Stephen, before he had been a fortnight in the school, found himself very much at home at Saint Dominic's. He was not one of those exuberant, irrepressible boys who take their class-fellows by storm, and rise to the top of the tree almost as soon as they touch the bottom. Stephen, as the reader knows, was not a very clever boy, or a very dashing boy, and yet he somehow managed to get his footing among his comrades in the Fourth Junior, and particularly among his fellow Guinea-pigs.

He had fought Master Bramble six times in three days during his second week, and was engaged to fight him again every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday during the term. He had also taken the chair at one indignation meeting against the monitors, and spoken in favour of a resolution at another. He had distributed brandy-balls in a most handsome manner to his particular adherents, and he had been the means of carrying away no less than two blankets from the next dormitory. This was pretty good for a fortnight. Add to this that he had remained steadily at the bottom of his class during the entire period, and that once he had received an "impot" (or imposition) from Mr Rastle, and it will easily be understood that he soon gained favour among his fellows.

This last cause of celebrity, however, was one which did not please Stephen. He had come to Saint Dominic's with a great quantity of good resolutions, the chief of which was that he would work hard and keep out of mischief, and it grieved him much to find that in neither aim was he succeeding.

The first evening or two he had worked very diligently at preparation. He had taken pains with his fractions, and looked out every word in his Caesar. He had got Oliver to look over his French, and Loman had volunteered to correct the spelling of his "theme;" and yet he stuck at the bottom of the class. Other boys went up and down. Some openly boasted that they had had their lessons done for them, and others that they had not done them at all. A merry time they had of it; but Stephen, down at the bottom, was in dismal dumps. He could not get up, and he could not get down, and all his honest hard work went for nothing.

And so, not content to give that system a longer trial, he grew more lax in his work. He filched the answers to his sums out of the "Key," and copied his Caesar out of the "crib." It was much easier, and the result was the same. He did not get up, and he could not get down.

Oliver catechised him now and then as to his progress, and received vague answers in reply, and Loman never remembered a fag that pestered him less with lessons. Stephen was, in fact, settling down into the slough of idleness, and would have become an accomplished dunce in time, had not Mr Rastle come to the rescue. That gentleman caught the new boy in an idle mood, wandering aimlessly down the passage one afternoon.

"Ah, Greenfield, is that you? Nothing to do, eh? Come and have tea with me, will you, in my room?"

Stephen, who had bounded as if shot on hearing the master's unexpected voice behind him, turned round and blushed very red, and said "Thank you," and then looked like a criminal just summoned to the gallows.

"That's right, come along;" and the master took the lad by the arm and marched him off to his room.

Here the sight of muffins and red-currant jam, in addition to the ordinary attractions of a tea-table, somewhat revived Stephen's drooping spirits.

"Make yourself comfortable, my boy, while the tea is brewing," said Mr Rastle, cheerily. "Have you been playing any cricket since you came?"

"Only a little, sir," said Stephen.

"Well, if you only turn out as good a bat as your brother—how well he played in the Alphabet Match!"

Stephen was reviving fast now, and embarked on a lively chat about his favourite sport, by the end of which the tea was brewed, and he and Mr Rastle sitting "cheek by jowl" at the table, with the muffins and jam between them.

Presently Mr Rastle steered the talk round to Stephen's home, a topic even more delightful than cricket. The boy launched out into a full account of the old house and his mother, till the tears very nearly stood in his eyes and the muffins very nearly stuck in his throat. Mr Rastle listened to it all with a sympathetic smile, throwing in questions now and then which it charmed the boy to answer.

"And how do you like Saint Dominic's?" presently inquired the master. "I suppose you've made plenty of friends by this time?"

"Oh yes, sir. It's not as slow as it was at first."

"That's right. You'll soon get to feel at home. And how do you think you are getting on in class?"

Stephen was astonished at this question. If any one knew how he was getting on in class Mr Rastle did, and, alas! Mr Rastle must know well enough that Stephen was getting on badly.

"Not very well, I'm afraid, sir, thank you," replied the boy, not feeling exactly comfortable.

"Not? That's a pity. Are the lessons too hard for you?" kindly inquired Mr Rastle.

"No, I don't think so—that is—no, they're not, sir."

"Ah, your Latin exercise I thought was very fair in parts to-day."

Stephen stared at his master, and the master looked very pleasantly at Stephen.

"I copied it off Raddleston," said the boy, in a trembling voice, and mentally resigning himself to his fate.

"Ah!" said Mr Rastle, laughing; "it's a funny thing, now, Greenfield, I knew that myself. No two boys could possibly have translated 'nobody' into 'nullus corpus' without making common cause!"

Stephen was desperately perplexed. He had expected a regular row on the head of his confession, and here was his master cracking jokes about the affair!

"I'm very sorry I did it. I won't do it again," said he. "That's right, my boy; Raddleston isn't infallible. Much better do it yourself. I venture to say, now, you can tell me what the Latin for 'nobody' is without a dictionary."

"Nemo," promptly replied Stephen.

"Of course! and therefore if you had done the exercise yourself you wouldn't have made that horrid—that fearful mistake!"

Stephen said, "Yes, sir," and meditated.

"Come now," said Mr Rastle, cheerily, "I'm not going to scold you. But if you take my advice you will try and do the next exercise by yourself. Of course you can't expect to be perfect all at once, but if you always copy off Raddleston, do you see, you'll never get on at all."

"I'll try, sir," said Stephen, meaning what he said.

"I know you will, my boy. It's not easy work to begin with, but it's easier far in the long run. Try, and if you have difficulties, as you are sure to have, come to me. I'm always here in the evenings, and we'll hammer it out between us. School will not be without its temptations, and you will find it hard always to do your duty. Yet you have, I hope, learnt the power of prayer; and surely the Saviour is able not only to forgive us our sins, but also to keep us from falling. At school, my boy, as elsewhere, it is a safe rule, whenever one is in doubt, to avoid everything, no matter who may be the tempter, of which one cannot fearlessly speak to one's father or mother, and above all to our Heavenly Father. Don't be afraid of Him—He will always be ready to help you and to guide you with His Holy Spirit. Have another cup of tea?"

This little talk, much as he missed at the time its deeper meaning, saved Stephen from becoming a dunce. He still blundered and boggled over his lessons, and still kept pretty near to the bottom form in his class, but he felt that his master had an interest in him, and that acted like magic to his soul. He declined Master Raddleston's professional assistance for the future, and did the best he could by himself. He now and then, though hesitatingly, availed himself of Mr Rastle's offer, and took his difficulties to head-quarters; and he always, when he did so, found the master ready and glad to help, and not only that, but to explain as he went along, and clear the way of future obstacles of the same sort.

And so things looked up with Stephen. He wrote jubilant letters home; he experienced all the joys of an easy conscience, and he felt that he had a friend at court.

But as long as he was a member of the honourable fraternity of Guinea-pigs, Stephen Greenfield was not likely to be dull at Saint Dominic's.

The politics of the lower school were rather intricate. The Guinea-pigs were not exactly the enemies of the Tadpoles, but the rivals. They were always jangling among themselves, it was true; and when Stephen, for the second time in one week, had hit Bramble in the eye, there was such jubilation among the Guinea-pigs that any one might have supposed the two clans were at daggers drawn. But it was not so—at least, not always—for though they fell out among themselves, they united their forces against the common enemy—the monitors!

Monitors, in the opinion of these young republicans, were an invention of the Evil One, invented for the sole purpose of interfering with them. But for the monitors they could carry out their long-cherished scheme of a pitched battle on the big staircase, for asserting their right to go down the left side, when they chose, and up on the right. As it was, the monitors insisted that they should go up on the left and come down on the right. It was intolerable tyranny! And but for the monitors their comb-and-paper musical society might give daily recitals in the top corridor and so delight all Saint Dominic's. What right had the monitors to forbid the performance and confiscate the combs? Was it to be endured? And but for the monitors, once more, they might perfect themselves in the art of pea-shooting. Was such a thing ever heard of, as that fellows should be compelled to shoot peas at the wall in the privacy of their own studies, instead of at one another in the passages? It was a shame—it was a scandal—it was a crime!

On burning questions such as these, Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles sunk all petty differences, and thought and felt as one man; and not the least ardent among them was Stephen.

"Come on, quick! Greenfield junior," squeaked the voice of Bramble, one afternoon, as he and Stephen met on the staircase.

Stephen had fought Bramble yesterday at four o'clock, and was to fight him again to-morrow at half-past twelve, but at the call of common danger he forgot the feud and tore up the stairs, two steps at a time, beside his chronic enemy.

"What's the row?" he gasped, as they flew along.

"Row? Why, what do you think? Young Bellerby has been doctored for tying a string across the passage!"

"Had up before the Doctor? My eye, Bramble!"

"It is your eye indeed! One of the monitors tripped over it, and got in a rage, and there's Bellerby now catching it in the Black Hole. Come on to the meeting; quick!"

The two rushed on, joined by one and another of their fellows who had heard the terrible news. The party rushed pellmell into the Fourth Junior class-room, where were already assembled a score or more youths, shouting, and stamping, and howling like madmen. At the sight of Bramble, the acknowledged leader of all malcontents, they quieted down for a moment to hear what he had to say.

"Here's a go!" classically began that hero.

At this the clamour, swelled twofold by the new additions, rose louder than ever. It was a go!

"I wish it had been me!" again yelled Bramble; "I have let them know."

Once more the shouts rose high and loud in approval of this noble sentiment.

"I'd have kicked their legs!" once more howled Bramble, as soon as he could make himself heard.

"So would we; kicked their legs!"

"They ought to be hanged!" screamed Bramble.

"I'll not fag any more for Wren!" bellowed Bramble.

"I'll not fag any more for Greenfield senior!" thundered Paul.

"I'll not fag any more for Loman!" shrieked Stephen.

"Why don't some of you put poison in their teas?" cried one.

"Or blow them up when they're in bed with gunpowder?"

"Or flay them alive?"

"Or boil them in tar?"

"Or throw them into the lions' den?"

"Those who say we won't stand it any longer," shouted Bramble, jumping up on to a form, "hold up your hands!"

A perfect forest of inky hands arose, and a shout with them that almost shook the ceiling.

At that moment the door opened, and Wren appeared. The effect was magical; every one became suddenly quiet, and looked another way.

"The next time there's a noise like that," said the monitor, "the whole class will be detained one hour," and, so saying, departed.

After that the indignation meeting was kept up in whispers. Now and then the feelings of the assembly broke out into words, but the noise was instantly checked.

"If young Bellerby has been flogged," said Bramble, in a most sepulchral undertone, "I've a good mind to fight every one of them!"

"Yes, every one of them," whispered the multitude.

"They're all as bad as each other!" gasped Bramble.

"We'll let them know," muttered the audience.

"I'll tell you what I've a good mind to—to—ur—ur—I've a good mind to—ugh!"

Again the door opened. This time it was Callonby.

"Where's young Raddleston?—What are you young beggars up to?—is Raddleston here?"

"Yes," mildly answered the voice of Master Raddleston, who a moment ago had nearly broken a blood-vessel in his endeavours to scream in a whisper.

"Come here, then."

The fag meekly obeyed.

"Oh, and Greenfield junior," said Callonby, as he was turning to depart, "Loman wants to know when you are going to get his tea; you're to go at once, he says."

Stephen obeyed, and was very humble in explaining to Loman that he had forgotten (which was the case) the time. The meeting in the Fourth class-room lasted most of the afternoon; but as oratory in whispers is tedious, and constant repetition of the same sentiments, however patriotic, is monotonous, it flagged considerably in spirit towards the end, and degenerated into one of the usual wrangles between Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, in the midst of which Master Bramble left the chair, and went off in the meekest manner possible to get Wren to help him with his sums for next day.

Stephen meanwhile was engaged in doing a little piece of business for Loman, of which more must be said in a following chapter.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

IN THE TOILS.

The afternoon of the famous "indignation meeting" in the Fourth Junior was the afternoon of the week which Mr Cripps the younger, putting aside for a season the anxieties and responsibilities of his "public" duties in Maltby, usually devoted to the pursuit of the "gentle craft," at his worthy father's cottage by Gusset Weir. Loman, who was aware of this circumstance, and on whose spirit that restless top joint had continued to prey ever since the evening of the misadventure a week ago, determined to avail himself of the opportunity of returning the unlucky fishing-rod into the hands from which he had received it.

He therefore instructed Stephen to take it up to the lock-house with a note to the effect that having changed his mind in the matter since speaking to Cripps, he found he should not require the rod, and therefore returned it, with many thanks for Mr Cripps's trouble.

Stephen, little suspecting the questionable nature of his errand, undertook the commission, and duly delivered both rod and letter into the hands of Mr Cripps, who greatly astonished him by swearing very violently at the contents of the letter. "Well," said he, when he had exhausted his vocabulary (not a small one) of expletives—"well, of all the grinning jackanapeses, this is the coolest go! Do you take me for a fool?"

Stephen, to whom this question appeared to be directly applied, disclaimed any idea of the kind, and added, "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you, my young master? All right! Tell Mr Loman I'll wait upon him one fine day, see if I don't! Here's me, given up a whole blessed day to serve him, and a pot of money out of my pocket, and here he goes! not a penny for my pains! Chucks the thing back on my 'ands as cool as a coocumber, all because he's changed his mind. I'll let him have a bit of my mind, tell him, Mr Gentleman Schoolboy, see if I don't. I ain't a-going to be robbed, no! not by all the blessed monkeys that ever wrote on slates! I'll wait upon him, see if I don't!"

Stephen, to whom the whole of this oration, which was garnished with words that we can hardly set down in print, or degrade ourselves by suggesting, was about as intelligible as if it had been Hebrew, thought it better to make no reply, and sorrowed inwardly to find that such a nice man as Mr Cripps should possess so short a temper. But the landlord of the Cockchafer soon recovered from his temporary annoyance, and even proceeded to apologise to Stephen for the warmth of his language.

"You'll excuse me, young gentleman," said he, "but I'm a plain-spoken man, and I was—there, I won't deny it—I was a bit put out about this here rod first go off. You'll excuse me—of course I don't mean no offence to you or Mister Loman neither, who's one of the nicest young gentlemen I ever met. Of course if you'd a' paid seventy bob out of your own pocket it would give you a turn; leastways, if you was a struggling, honest working man, like me."

"That's it," snivelled, old Mr Cripps, who had entered during this last speech; "that's it, Benny, my boy, honest Partisans, that's what we is, who knows what it are to be in want of a shillin' to buy a clo' or two for the little childer."

What particular little "childer" Mr Cripps senior and his son were specially interested in no one knew, for neither of them was blessed with any. However, it was one of old Mr Cripps's heart-moving phrases, and no one was rude enough to ask questions.

Stephen did not, on the present occasion, feel moved to respond to the old man's lament, and Cripps junior, with more adroitness than filial affection, hustled the old gentleman out of the door.

"Never mind him," said he to Stephen. "He's a silly old man, and always pretends he's starvin'. If you believe me, he's a thousand pounds stowed away somewheres. I on'y wish," added he, with a sigh, "he'd give me a taste of it, for its 'ard, up-'ill work makin' ends meet, particular when a man's deceived by parties. No matter. I'll pull through; you see!"

Stephen once more did not feel called upon to pursue this line of conversation, and therefore changed the subject.

"Oh, Mr Cripps, how much is that bat?"

"Bat! Bless me if I hadn't nearly forgot all about it. Ain't it a beauty, now?"

"Yes, pretty well," said Stephen, whose friends had one and all abused the bat, and who was himself a little disappointed in his expectations.

"Pretty well! I like that. You must be a funny cricketer, young gentleman, to call that bat only pretty well. I suppose you want me to take that back, too?" and here Mr Cripps looked very fierce.

"Oh, no," said Stephen, hurriedly. "I only want to know what I am to pay for it."

"Oh, come now, we needn't mind about that. That'll keep, you know. As if I wanted the money. Ha, ha!"

Even a green boy like Stephen could not fail to wonder why, if Mr Cripps was as hard up as he had just described himself, he should now be so anxious to represent himself as not in want of money.

"Please, I want to know the price."

"As if I was a-going to name prices to a young gentleman like you! Please yourself about it. I shall not be disappointed if you gives me only eighteenpence, and if you thinks twelve bob is handsome, well, let it be. I can struggle on somehow."

This was uncomfortable for Stephen, who, too green, fortunately, to comprehend the drift of Mr Cripps's gentle hints, again asked that he would name a price.

This time Mr Cripps answered more precisely.

"Well, that there bat is worth a guinea, if you want to know, but I'll say a sovereign for cash down."

Stephen whistled a long-drawn whistle of dismay.

"A sovereign! I can't pay all that! I thought it would be about seven shillings!"

"Did you? You may think what you like, but that's my price, and you are lucky to get it at that."

"I shall have to send it back. I can't afford so much," said Stephen, despondingly.

"Not if I know it! I'll have none of your second-hand bats, if I know it. Come, young gentleman, I may be a poor man, but I'm not a fool, and you'll find it out if I've any of your nonsense. Do you suppose I've nothing to do but wait on jackanapeses like you and your mates? No error! There you are. That'll do, and if you don't like it—well, the governor shall know about it!"

Stephen was dreadfully uncomfortable. Though, to his knowledge, he had done nothing wrong, he felt terribly guilty at the bare notion of the Doctor being informed of his transactions with Mr Cripps, besides greatly in awe of the vague threats held out by that gentleman. He did not venture on further argument, but, bidding a hasty farewell, returned as fast as he could to Saint Dominic's, wondering whatever Oliver would say, and sorely repenting the day when first he was tempted to think of the unlucky bat.

He made a clean breast of it to his brother that evening, who, of course, called him an ass, and everything else complimentary, and was deservedly angry. However, Stephen had reason to consider himself lucky to possess an elder brother at the school who had a little more shrewdness than himself. Oliver was determined the debt should be paid at once, without even waiting to write home, and by borrowing ten shillings from Wraysford, and adding to it the residue of his own pocket-money, the sovereign was raised and dispatched that very night to Mr Cripps; after which Oliver commanded his brother to sit down and write a full confession of his folly home, and ask for the money, promising never to make such a fool of himself again. This task the small boy, with much shame and trembling at heart, accomplished; and in due time an answer came from his mother which not only relieved his mind but paid off his debts to Oliver and Wraysford, and once for all closed the business of the treble-cane splice bat.

It would have been well for Loman if he could have got out of his difficulties as easily and as satisfactorily.

Ever since he had gathered from Stephen Mr Cripps's wrath on receiving the returned rod, he had been haunted by a dread lest the landlord of the Cockchafer should march up to Saint Dominic's, and possibly make an exposure of the unhappy business before the Doctor and the whole school. He therefore, after long hesitation and misgiving, determined himself to call at the Cockchafer, and try in some way to settle matters. One thing reassured him. If Cripps had discovered the crack or the fracture in the rod, he would have heard of it long before now; and if he had not, then the longer the time the less chance was there of the damage being laid at his door. So he let three weeks elapse, and then went to Maltby. The Cockchafer was a small, unpretentious tavern, frequented chiefly by carriers and tradesmen, and, I regret to say, not wholly unknown to some of the boys of Saint Dominic's, who were foolish enough to persuade themselves that skittles, and billiards, and beer were luxuries worth the risk incurred by breaking one of the rules of the school. No boy was permitted to enter any place of refreshment except a confectioner's in Maltby under the penalty of a severe punishment, which might, in a bad case, mean expulsion. Loman, therefore, a monitor and a Sixth Form boy, had to take more than ordinary precautions to reach the Cockchafer unobserved, which he succeeded in doing, and to his satisfaction—as well as to his trepidation—found Mr Cripps the younger at home.

"Ho, he! my young shaver," was that worthy's greeting, "here you are at last."

This was not encouraging to begin with. It sounded very much as if Mr Cripps had been looking forward to this visit. However, Loman put as bold a face as he could on to it, and replied, "Hullo, Cripps, how are you? It's a long time since I saw you; jolly day, isn't it?"

"Jolly!" replied Mr Cripps, looking very gloomy, and drawing a glass of beer for the young gentleman before he ordered it. Loman did not like it at all. There was something about Cripps's manner that made him feel very uncomfortable.

"Oh, Cripps," he presently began, in as off-hand a manner as he could assume under the depressing circumstances—"Oh, Cripps, about that rod, by the way. I hope you didn't mind my sending it back. The fact is," (and here followed a lie which till that moment had not been in the speaker's mind to tell)—"the fact is, I find I'm to get a present of a rod this summer at home, or else of course I would have kept it."

Mr Cripps said nothing, but began polishing up a pewter pot with a napkin.

"I hope you got it back all right," continued Loman, who felt as if he must say something. "They are such fragile things, you know. I thought I'd just leave it in the bag and not touch it, but send it straight back, for fear it should be damaged."

There was a queer smile about Mr Cripps's mouth as he asked, "Then you didn't have a look at it even?"

"Well, no, I thought I would—I thought I wouldn't run any risk."

Loman was amazed at himself. He had suddenly made up his mind to tell one lie, but here they were following one after another, as if he had told nothing but lies all his life! Alas, there was no drawing back either!

"The fact is," he began again, speaking for the sake of speaking, and not even knowing what he was going to say—"the fact is—" Here the street door opened, and there entered hurriedly a boy whom Loman, to his confusion and consternation, recognised as Simon of the Fifth, the author of the "Love-Ballad." What could the monitor say for himself to explain his presence in this prohibited house?

"Hullo, Loman, I say, is that you?" remarked Simon.

"Oh, Simon, how are you?" faltered the wretched Loman; "I've just popped in to speak to Cripps about a fishing-rod. You'd better not come in; you might get into trouble."

"Oh, never mind. You won't tell of me, and I won't tell of you. Glass of the usual, please, Cripps. I say, Loman, was that the fishing-rod you were switching about out of your window that afternoon three weeks ago?"

Loman turned red and white by turns, and wished the earth would swallow him! And to think of this fellow, the biggest donkey in Saint Dominic's, blurting out the very thing which of all things he had striven to keep concealed!

Mr Cripps's mouth worked up into a still more ugly smile.

"I was below in the garden, you know, and could not make out what you were up to. You nearly had my eye out with that hook. I say, what a smash you gave it when it caught in the ivy. Was it broken right off, or only cracked, eh? Cripps will mend it for you, won't you, Cripps?"

Neither Mr Cripps nor Loman spoke a word. The latter saw that concealment was no longer possible; and bitterly he rued the day when first he heard the name of Cripps.

That worthy, seeing the game to have come beautifully into his own hands, was not slow to take advantage of it. He beckoned Loman into the inner parlour, whither the boy tremblingly followed, leaving Simon to finish his glass of "the usual" undisturbed.

I need not repeat the painful conversation that ensued between the sharper and the wretched boy. It was no use for the latter to deny or explain. He was at the mercy of the man, and poor mercy it was. Cripps, with many oaths and threats, explained to Loman that he could, if he chose, have him up before a magistrate for fraud, and that he would do so for a very little. Loman might choose for himself between a complete exposure, involving his disgrace for life, or paying the price of the rod down and 20 besides, and he might consider himself lucky more was not demanded.

The boy, driven to desperation between terror and shame, implored mercy, and protested with tears in his eyes that he would do anything, if only Cripps did not expose him.

"You know what it is, then," replied Cripps.

"But how am I to get the 20 pounds? I daren't ask for it at home, and there's no one here will lend it me. Oh, Cripps, what shall I do?" and the boy actually caught Mr Cripps's hand in his own as he put the question.

"Well, look here," said Mr Cripps, unbending a little, "that 20 pounds I must have, there's no mistake about it; but I don't want to be too hard on you, and I can put you up to raising the wind."

"Oh, can you?" gasped Loman, eager to clutch at the faintest straw of hope. "I'll do anything."

"Very good; then it's just this: I've just got a straight tip about the Derby that I know for certain no one else has got—that is, that Sir Patrick won't win, favourite and all as he is. Now there's a friend of mine I can introduce you to, who's just wanting to put a twenty on the horse, if he can find any one to take it. It wouldn't do for me to make the wager, or he'd smell a rat; but if you put your money against the horse, you're bound to win, and all safe. What do you say?"

"I don't know anything about betting," groaned Loman. "Are you quite sure I'd win?"

"Certain. If you lose I'll only ask 10 pounds of you, there! that's as good as giving you 10 pounds myself on the horse, eh?"

"Well," said Loman, "I suppose I must. Where is he?"

"Wait here a minute, and I'll bring him round."

Loman waited, racked by a sense of ignominy and terror. Yet this seemed his only hope. Could he but get this 20 pounds and pay off Cripps he would be happy. Oh, how he repented listening to that first temptation to deceive!

In due time Mr Cripps returned with his friend, who was very civil on hearing Loman's desire to bet against Sir Patrick.

"Make it a 50 pounds note while you are about it," said he.

"No, 20 pounds is all I want to go for," replied Loman.

"Twenty then, all serene, sir," said the gentleman, booking the bet. "What'll you take to drink?"

"Nothing, thank you," said Loman, hurriedly rising to leave.

"Good-day, sir," said Cripps, holding out his hand.

Loman looked at the hand and then at Mr Cripps's face. There was the same ugly leer about the latter, into which a spark of anger was infused as the boy still held back from the proffered hand.

With an inward groan Loman gave the hand a spiritless grasp, and then hurried back miserable and conscience-stricken to Saint Dominic's.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE "DOMINICAN" AGAIN.

The circumstances which had attended the publication of the first number of the Dominican had been such as to throw a damper over the future success of that valuable paper. It was most uncomfortably connected in the minds of the Fifth with the cowardice of Oliver Greenfield, and with the stigma which his conduct had cast upon the whole Form, and they one and all experienced a great diminution of interest in its future.

The Fifth were far more intent on vindicating their reputation with the Sixth—and, indeed, with the rest of the school. They sought every opportunity of bringing on a collision with the monitors. One or two of their number went, so far as to pick quarrels with members of the rival class, in hopes of a fight. But in this they were not successful. The Sixth chose to look upon this display of feeling among their juniors as a temporary aberration of mind, and were by no means to be tempted into hostilities. They asserted their authority wherever they could enforce it, and sacrificed it whenever it seemed more discreet to do so. Only one thing evoked a temporary display of vexation from them, and that was when Ricketts and Braddy appeared one day, arm-in-arm, in the passages with tall hats on their heads. Now, tall hats on week-days were the exclusive privilege of the Sixth at Saint Dominic's, and, worn by them during school hours, served as the badge of monitorship. This action on the part of the Fifth, therefore, was as good as a usurpation of monitorial rights, and that the Sixth were not disposed to stand. However, Raleigh, the captain, when appealed to, pooh-poohed the matter. "Let them be," said he; "what do you want to make a row about it for? If the boys do mistake them for monitors, so much the less row in the passages."

Raleigh was always a man of peace—though it was rumoured he could, if he chose, thrash any two Dominicans going—and the monitors were much disgusted to find that he did not authorise them to interfere with the Fifth in the matter. But the Fifth were interfered with in another quarter, and in a way which caused them to drop their chimney-pots completely. One afternoon the entire Fourth Junior appeared in the corridors in their Sunday tiles! In their Sunday tiles they slid down the banisters; in their Sunday tiles they played leapfrog; in their Sunday tiles they executed a monster tug-of-war in the bottom corridor! Stephen and Bramble fought their usual battle in top hats, and Master Paul insisted on wearing the same decoration while washing up Oliver's tea-things. It was a splendid hit, and for once in a way Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles scored one, for the Fifth appeared next day in their ordinary "boilers," and the dignity of the monitors was vindicated.

But the blood was up between Fifth and Sixth, and each Form looked forward to the match, Sixth versus School, with redoubled interest.

"Were not these boys fools?" some one asks.

To be sure they were, sir. But what of that? they were none the less boys, and most of them fine young fellows, too, with all their nonsense.

However, as has been said, all this came out of the circumstances which attended the bringing out of the first number of the Dominican, and there seemed but a poor look-out for Number 2, which was now nearly due, in consequence.

"What on earth am I to do?" asked Pembury of Tom Senior one day; "I've not got a single contribution yet. There's you making out you're too busy, and Rick the same. It's all humbug, I know! What are you busy at I'd like to know? I never saw you busy yet."

"Upon my word, old man," said Tom, "I'm awfully sorry, but I've got a tremendous lot to do. I'm going to try for the French prize; I am, really."

"And you'll get it, too; rather! Wasn't it you who translated 'I know the way to write' into 'Je non le chemin a writer' eh? Oh, stick to French by all means, Tom; it's in your line! But you might just as well write for Number 2."

"I really can't this time," said Tom.

Ricketts had an excuse very similar. Bullinger had hurt his foot, he said, and could not possibly write; and Braddy had begun to study fossils, he said, and was bound to devote all his spare time to them. To all of whom Master Pembury gave a piece of his mind.

"Wray, old man," said he, that evening, "you and Noll and I shall have to do the whole thing between us, that's all about it."

"Awfully sorry!" said Wraysford; "you'll have to let me off this time. I'm working like nails for the Nightingale."

"Bother the Nightingale, I say! What is it to the Dominican? Come, I say, old man, that won't do! you aren't going to leave me in the lurch like all the rest?"

But Wraysford was; he would gladly have helped if he could, but he really must not this time; perhaps he would for the next.

Oliver was as bad; he declared the things he had written before—even with Pembury's assistance—had taken him such ages to do, that he wasn't going in for the next number. He was very sorry to disappoint, and all that; but if Tony was in for a scholarship next Michaelmas he would understand the reason. Why not let the thing drop this month?

This, however, by no means met Tony's views. A pretty figure he would cut if it were to be said he couldn't keep up a paper for two numbers running! No! his mind was made up. Number 2 should come out, even if he wrote every word of it himself! And with that determination he hobbled off to his study. Here he met Simon waiting for him.

"Oh," said the poet; "I only brought this, if you'll put it in. I think it's not bad. I could make it longer if you like. I find poetry comes so easily, you know!"

Tony glanced over the paper and grinned. "Thanks, awfully! This will do capitally; it would spoil it to make it any longer. You're a brick, Simon! I wish I could write poetry."

"Oh, never mind. I could do some more bits about other things, you know, if you like."

Pembury said he didn't think he should require any more "bits," but was awfully obliged by this one, which was first-rate, a recommendation which sent Simon away happy to his study, there immediately to compose the opening stanza of his famous epic, "The Sole's Allegery—a sacred Poem."

With one contribution in hand, Tony locked his door and sat down to write. There was something out of the common about Pembury. With the body of a cripple he had the heart of a lion, and difficulties only made it more dauntless. Any one else would have thought twice, indeed, before undertaking the task he was now setting himself to do, and ninety-nine out of every hundred would have abandoned it before it was half done. But Tony was indomitable. Every night that week he locked his study-door, and threats and kicks and entreaties would not open it even to his dearest friends. And slowly the huge white sheet before him showed the signs of his diligence. The great long columns, one after another, filled up; paragraph followed paragraph, and article article. He coolly continued the "History of Saint Dominic's" begun last month by Bullinger, and the "Reports of the Sixth Form Debates" commenced by Tom Senior. And the "Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse" went on just as if Wraysford had never abandoned it; and the poem on the Guinea-pigs, promised in Number 1, by the author of "To a Tadpole," duly appeared also. Besides this, there were the continuations of Tony's own articles, and his "Personal Notes," and "Squeaks from Tadpoleopolis," and advertisements just as usual; until, in due time, the last column was filled up, the sheet triumphantly fixed in its frame, and as triumphantly hung up on its own particular nails on the wall outside the Fifth Form door.

It was a feat to be proud of, and Tony was justly and pardonably proud. It was at least a gratification next morning to see not only that the school generally took unabated interest in the Dominican, but that he had fairly astonished his own class-fellows. Their admiration of the editor was unbounded and undisguised. Their consciences had all, more or less, reproached them for backing out of their responsibilities in the way they had; and now it quite touched them to see how, notwithstanding, Anthony had by his own labour made up for their defect, and sustained the reputation of the Fifth before all the school.

The crush outside the door was greater than ever this time, and Master Paul, who again acted as policeman, was obliged to summon Stephen to his assistance in watching to see that no damage came to the precious document.

The account of the Alphabet Match was very graphic, and written quite in the usual absurd "sporting style," greatly to the amusement of most of those who had taken part in it. Here is a specimen:—

"At 4.30, sharp, the leather was taken into custody by 'Gamey' Raikes, at the wash-house end, who tried what his artful 'yorkers' could do in the way of dissolving partnership. But Teddy Loman kept his willow straight up, and said 'Not at home' to every poser, leaving Noll to do all the smacking. This pretty business might have gone on till to-morrow week had the men's upper stories been as 'O.K.' as their timbers, but they messed about over a pretty snick of Noll's, and, after popping the question three times, Teddy got home just in time to see his two bails tumble out of their groove. Teddy didn't like this, and bowled his partner a wide compliment, which Noll, like a sensible man, didn't walk out to, and Teddy was astonished to find his party could get on without him;" and so on.