This version of the incident was by no means pleasant to Loman, but to every one else it was highly diverting, and it actually made one or two of the Fifth think that Oliver, after all, had not done such a very discreditable thing in taking that angry word in silence. If only he had shown more spirit about the blow, they could have forgiven the rest.

Then followed more from the "Sixth Form Mouse":—

"The Sixth held a Cabinet Council to-day to discuss who should go out for nuts. The choice fell on Callonby. I wonder why the Sixth are so fond of nuts. Why, monkeys eat nuts. Perhaps that is the reason. What a popular writer Mr Bohn is with the Sixth! they even read him at lesson time! I was quite sorry when the Doctor had to bone Wren's Bohn. I wonder, by the way, why that bird found it so hard to translate the simplest sentence without his Bohn! The Doctor really shouldn't—I hope he will restore to Wren his backbone by giving him back his Bohn. Hum! I heard some one smiling. I'll go."

The Sixth, a good many of them, were imprudent enough to look very guilty at the reading of this extract, a circumstance which appeared to afford keenest delight to the Fifth. But as Simon's poem followed, they had other food for thought at the moment. The poem was entitled—

A Revverie.

I.

I walked me in the garden, all in the garden fair, And mused upon my hindmost sole all in the open air. When lo! I heard above my head a sound all like a wisk, I stepped me aside thereat out of the way so brisk.

[Hindmost sole, possibly "inmost soul"; wisk, possibly "whisk."]

II.

I looked me up, and there behold! and lo! a window broad, And out thereof I did dizzern a gallant fishing-rod, All sporting in the breaze untill the hook in ivy caught, And then the little lad he tried to pull it harder than he ought.

III.

It broke, alas! and so messeems fades life's perplecksing dreems, And vanish like that fishing-rod all in the dark messeems. I wonder if my perplecksing dreems will vanish like the rod in the dark, And I shall rise and rise and rise and rise all like a lark.

IV.

Oh wood I was a lark, a lark all lofty in the sky, I do not know what I should do to quench my blazing eye. I'd look me down on Dominic's, and think of the days when I was young, Or would I was an infant meek all sucking of my thumb.

Again Simon, who had watched with intense interest the reception of his poem, was perplexed to notice the amusement it had caused. Even Pembury Had mistaken its "inmost soul," for he had placed it in the column devoted to "Facetiae." Nor could Simon understand why, for the next week, every one he met had his thumb in his mouth. It was very queer— one of life's mysteries—and he had thoughts of embodying the fact in his "Sole's Allegery," which was now rapidly approaching completion.

After this bubbling up of pure verse there followed a few remarks about Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, which had the effect of highly incensing those young gentlemen. The paragraph was entitled—

"Market Intelligence.

"Half a dozen mixed Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were offered for sale by auction on the centre landing yesterday. There was only a small attendance. The auctioneer said he couldn't honestly recommend the lot, but they must be got rid of at any cost. He had scrubbed their faces and combed their hair for the occasion, but couldn't guarantee that state of things to last. But they might turn out to be of use as substitutes in case worms should become scarce; and, any way, by boiling down their fingers and collars, many gallons of valuable ink could be obtained. The first bid was a farthing, which seemed to be far beyond the expectation of the salesman, who at once knocked the lot down. The sale was such a success that it is proposed to knock down several more lots in a like manner."

The rage of the Fourth Junior on reading this paragraph was something awful to witness. Bramble, feeling he must kick somebody on the legs, kicked Stephen, who, forgetting that he was on police duty, seized Bramble by the hair of his head and rushed off with him to the "meeting," closely followed by Paul and the whole swarm. That meeting lasted from three to five. What awful threats were uttered, and what awful vows taken, no one knew. At five o'clock Stephen's fight with Bramble came off as usual, and all that evening Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles did nothing but make paper darts. It was certain a crisis had come in their history. The "dogs of war" were let loose! They would be revenged on somebody! So they at once began to be revenged on one another, till it should be possible to unite their forces against the common foe.

But the remainder of the crowd stayed on to read one more extract from the Dominican. Under the title of "Reviews of Books," Anthony had reviewed in style the last number of the Sixth Form Magazine as follows:—

"This book appears to be the praiseworthy attempt of some ambitious little boys to enter the field of letters. We are always pleased to encourage juvenile talent, but we would suggest that our young friends might have done better had they kept to their picture-books a little longer before launching out into literature on their own account. In the words of the poet we might say—

"Babies, wait a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger, Then you'll fly away."

"Nevertherless, we would refer to one or two of these interesting attempts. Take, for example, the essay on the 'Character of Julius Caesar,' by one who signs himself Raleigh. This is very well written. Pains have been taken about the formation of the letters, and some of the capitals are specially worthy of praise. For one so young, we rarely saw the capital D so well done. Dr Smith, were he alive, would be pleased to see his remarks on Caesar so well and accurately copied out. Master Wren gives us some verse—a translation out of Horace. We wonder if Mr Wren is any relation to the late Jenny Wren who married Mr Cock Robin. We should imagine from these verses that Mr Wren must be well acquainted with Robbin. Take one more, Master Loman's 'A Funny Story.' We are sorry to find Master Loman tells stories. Boys shouldn't tell stories; it's not right. But Master Loman unfortunately does tell stories, and this is one. He calls it 'A Funny Story.' That is a story to begin with, for it is not funny. We don't know what Master Loman thinks funny; perhaps he calls being run out at cricket funny, or hitting another boy in the mouth when he's looking another way. In any case, we can't make out why he calls this story funny. The only funny thing about it is its title, and his spelling 'attach' 'attatch.' The last is really funny. It shows how partial Mr Loman is to tea. If this funny story is the result of his partiality to tea, we are afraid it was very weak stuff."

Loman, who had already been made dreadfully uncomfortable by Simon's poem, made no secret of his rage over this number of the Dominican. He was one of those vain fellows who cannot see a jest where it is levelled at themselves. The rest of the Sixth had the sense, whatever they felt, to laugh at Anthony's hard hits. But not so Loman; he lost his temper completely. He ordered the Dominican to be taken down; he threatened to report the whole Fifth to the Doctor. He would not allow the junior boys to stand and read it. In short, he made a regular ass of himself.

Undoubtedly Anthony had put a great deal of venom into his pen. Still, by taking all the poison and none of the humour to himself Loman made a great mistake, and displayed a most unfortunate amount of weakness.

He shut himself up in his study in a fume; he boxed Stephen's ears for nothing at all, and would see no one for the rest of the evening. He knew well he could not have given his enemies a greater crow over him than such conduct, and yet he could not command his vanity to act otherwise.

But that evening, just before tea-time, something happened which gave Loman more to think about than the Dominican. A letter marked "Immediate" came to him by the post. It was from Cripps, to say that, after all, Sir Patrick had won the Derby!



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

COMPANY AT THE COCKCHAFER.

Cripps's letter was as follows:

"Hon. Sir,—This comes hoping you are well. You may like to know Sir Patrick won. The tip was all out. Honourable Sir,—My friend would like his ten pounds sharp, as he's a poor man. Please call in on Saturday afternoon. Your very humble servant, Ben Cripps."

This letter was startling enough to drive fifty Dominicans out of Loman's head, and for a long time he could hardly realise how bad the news it contained was.

He had reckoned to a dead certainty on winning the bet which Cripps had advised him to make with his friend. Not that Loman knew anything about racing matters, but Cripps had been so confident, and it seemed so safe to bet against this one particular horse, that the idea of events turning out otherwise had never once entered his head.

He went to the door and shouted for Stephen, who presently appeared with a paper dart in his hand.

"Greenfield," said Loman, "cut down at once to Maltby and bring me a newspaper."

Stephen stared.

"I've got my lessons to do," he said.

"Leave them here, I'll do them," replied Loman; "look sharp."

Still Stephen hesitated.

"We aren't allowed out after seven without leave," he faltered, longing to get back to the war preparations in the Fourth Junior.

"I know that, and I give you leave—there!" said Loman, with all the monitorial dignity he could assume. This quite disarmed Stephen. Of course a monitor could do no wrong, and it was no use objecting on that score.

Still he was fain to find some other excuse.

"I say, will it do in the morning?" he began.

Loman's only reply was a book shied at his fag's head—quite explicit enough for all practical purposes. So Stephen hauled down his colours and prepared to start.

"Look sharp back," said Loman, "and don't let any one see you going out. Look here, you can get yourself some brandy-balls with this."

Stephen was not philosopher enough to argue with himself why, if he had leave to go out, he ought to avoid being seen going out. He pocketed Loman's extra penny complacently, and giving one last longing look in the direction of the Fourth Junior, slipped quietly out of the school and made the best of his way down to Maltby.

It was not easy at that time of day to get a paper. Stephen tried half a dozen stationers' shops, but they were all sold out. They were evidently more sought after than brandy-balls, of which he had no difficulty in securing a pennyworth at an early stage of his pilgrimage. The man in the sweet-shop told him his only chance of getting a paper was at the railway station.

So to the station he strolled, with a brandy-ball in each cheek. Alas! the stall was closed for the day.

Stephen did not like to be beaten, but there was nothing for it now but to give up this "paper-chase," and return to Loman with a report of his ill-success.

As he trotted back up High Street, looking about everywhere but in the direction in which he was going (as is the habit of small boys), and wondering in his heart whether his funds could possibly stand the strain of another pennyworth of brandy-balls, he suddenly found himself in sharp collision with a man who expressed himself on the subject of clumsy boys generally in no very measured terms.

Stephen looked up and saw Mr Cripps the younger standing before him.

"Why!" exclaimed that worthy, giving over his irascible expletives, and adopting an air of unfeigned pleasure, "why, if it ain't young Master Greenhorn. Ha, ha! How do, my young bantam? Pretty bobbish, eh?"

Stephen did not know exactly what was meant by "bobbish," but replied that he was quite well, and sorry he had trodden on Mr Cripps's toes.

"Never mind," said Mr Cripps, magnanimously, "you're a light weight. And so you're taking a dander down town, are you? looking for lollipops, eh?"

Stephen blushed very red at this. However had Mr Cripps guessed about the brandy-balls?

"I came to get a paper for Loman," he said, "but they're all sold out."

"No, are they? I wonder what Mr Loman wants with a paper, now?"

"He said it was very important, and I was to be sure to get one of to-day's," said Stephen. "Do you know where I can get one?"

"Of course. Come along with me; I've got one at home you can have. And so he said it was very important, did he? That's queer. There's nothing in to-day's paper at all. Only something about a low horse-race. He don't want it for that, I guess; eh?"

"Oh, no, I shouldn't think," said Stephen, trotting along beside his amiable acquaintance.

Mr Cripps was certainly a very friendly man, and as he conducted Stephen to the Cockchafer, Stephen felt quite a liking for him, and couldn't understand why Oliver and Wraysford both ran him down.

True, Mr Cripps did use some words which didn't seem exactly proper, but that Stephen put down to the habit of men in that part. The man seemed to take such an interest in boys generally, and in Stephen in particular, and was so interested and amused to hear all about the Guinea-pigs, and the Dominican, and the Sixth versus School, that Stephen felt quite drawn out to him. And then he told Stephen such a lot of funny stories, and treated him with such evident consideration, that the small boy felt quite flattered and delighted.

So they reached the Cockchafer. Here Stephen, whose former visits had all been to the lock-house, pulled up.

"I say," said he, "is this a public-house?"

"Getting on that way," said Mr Cripps.

"We aren't allowed to go in public-houses," said Stephen, "it's one of the rules."

"Ah, quite right too; not a good thing for boys at all. We'll go in by the private door into my house," said Mr Cripps.

Stephen was not quite comfortable at this evasion, but followed Mr Cripps by the side door into his bar parlour.

"You won't forget the paper," he said, "please. I've got to be back in school directly."

"I'll have a look for it. Now, I guess you like ginger-beer, don't you?"

Stephen was particularly partial to ginger-beer, as it happened, and said so.

"That's the style," said Mr Cripps, producing a bottle. "Walk into that while I go and get the paper."

Stephen did walk into it with great relish, and began to think Mr Cripps quite a gentleman. He was certain, even if that bat had been a poor one, it was quite worth the money paid for it, and Oliver was unjust in calling Cripps hard names.

The landlord very soon returned with the paper.

"Here you are, young governor. Now don't hurry away. It's lonely here all by myself, and I like a young gentleman like you to talk to. I knew a nice little boy once, just your age, that used to come and see me regular once a week and play bagatelle with me. He was a good player at it too!"

"Could he get clear-board twice running with two balls?" asked Stephen, half jealous of the fame of this unknown rival.

"Eh!—no, scarcely that. He wasn't quite such a dab as that."

"I can do it," said Stephen with a superior smile.

"You? Not a bit of you!" said Mr Cripps, incredulously.

"Yes, I can," reiterated Stephen, delighted to have astonished his host.

"I must see it before I can believe that," said Mr Cripps. "Suppose you show me on my board."

Stephen promptly accepted the challenge, and forgetting in his excitement all about school rules or Loman's orders accompanied Cripps to the bagatelle-room, with its sanded floor, smelling of stale tobacco and beer-dregs. His first attempt, greatly to Mr Cripps's glee, was unsuccessful.

"I knew you couldn't," exclaimed that worthy.

"I know I can do it," said Stephen, excitedly. "Let's try again."

After a few more trials he made the two clear-boards, and Mr Cripps was duly astonished and impressed.

"That's what I call smart play," said he. "Now, if I was a betting man, I'd wager a sixpence you couldn't do it again."

"Yes, I can, but I won't bet," said Stephen. He did do it again, and Mr Cripps said it was a good job for him the young swell didn't bet, or he would have lost his sixpence. Stephen was triumphant.

How long he would have gone on showing off his prowess to the admiring landlord of the Cockchafer, and how far he might have advanced in the art of public-house bagatelle, I cannot say, but the sudden striking of a clock and the entry of visitors into the room reminded him where he was.

"I must go back now," he said, hurriedly.

"Must you? Well, come again soon. I've a great fancy to learn that there stoke. I'm a born fool at bagatelle. What do you say to another ginger-beer before you go?"

Stephen said "Thank you," and then taking the newspaper in his hand bade Cripps good-bye.

"Good-bye, my fine young fellow. You're one of the right sort, you are. No stuck-up nonsense about you. That's why I fancy you. Bye-bye. My love to Mr Loman."

Stephen hurried back to Saint Dominic's as fast as his legs would carry him. He was not quite comfortable about his evening's proceedings, although he was not aware of having done anything wicked. Loman, a monitor, had given him leave to go down to Maltby, so that was hardly a crime; and as to the Cockchafer—well, he had only been in the private part of the house, and not the public bar, and surely there had been no harm in drinking ginger-beer and playing bagatelle, especially when he had distinctly refused to bet on the latter. But, explain it as he would, Stephen felt uncomfortable enough to determine him to say as little as possible about his expedition.

He found Loman impatiently awaiting him.

"Wherever have you been to all this time?" he demanded.

"The papers were all sold out," said Stephen. "I tried seven places."

Loman had eagerly caught up and opened the paper while Stephen nervously made this explanation, and he took no further heed of his fag, who presently, seeing he was no longer wanted, and relieved to get out of reach of questions, prudently retired.

A glance sufficed to confirm the bad news about the Derby. Sir Patrick had won, and it was a fact therefore that Loman owed Cripps and his friend between them thirty pounds, without the least possibility of paying them.

One thing was certain. He must see Cripps on Saturday, and trust to his luck (though that of late had not been very trustworthy) to pull him through, somehow.

Alas! what a spirit this, in which to meet difficulties! Loman had yet to learn that it is one thing to regret, and another thing to repent; that it is one thing to call one's self a fool, and another thing, quite, to cease to be one.

But, as he said to himself, he must go through with it now, and the first step took him deeper than ever into the mire.

For the coming Saturday was the day of the great cricket match, Sixth versus School, from which a Dominican would as soon think of deserting as of emigrating.

But Loman must desert if he was to keep his appointment, and he managed the proceeding with his now characteristic untruthfulness; a practice he would have scorned only a few months ago. How easy the first wrong step! What a long weary road when one, with aching heart, attempts to retrace the way! And at present Loman had made no serious effort in that direction.

On the Friday morning, greatly to the astonishment of all his class-fellows, he appeared in his place with his arm in a sling.

"Hullo, Loman!" said Wren, the first whom he encountered, "what's the row with you?"

"Sprained my wrist," said Loman, to whom, alas!—so easy is the downward path when once entered on—a lie had become an easy thing to utter.

"How did you manage that?" exclaimed Callonby. "Mind you get it right by to-morrow, or we shall be in a fix."

This little piece of flattery pleased Loman, who said, "I'm afraid I shan't be able to play."

"What! Who's that won't be able to play?" said Raleigh, coming up in unwonted excitement.

"Loman; he's sprained his wrist."

"Have you shown it to Dr Splints?" said Raleigh.

"No," said Loman, beginning to feel uncomfortable. "It's hardly bad enough for that."

"Then it's hardly bad enough to prevent your playing," said Raleigh, drily.

Loman did not like this. He and Raleigh never got on well together, and it was evident the captain was more angry than sympathetic now.

"Whatever shall we do for bowlers?" said some one.

"I'm awfully sorry," said Loman, wishing he was anywhere but where he was; "but how am I to help?"

"Whatever induced you to sprain your wrist?" said Wren. "You might just as well have put it off till Monday."

"Just fancy how foolish we shall look if those young beggars beat us, as they are almost sure to do," said Winter.

Loman was quickly losing his temper, for all this was, or seemed to be, addressed pointedly to him.

"What's the use of talking like that?" he retorted. "You ass, you! as if I could help."

"Shouldn't wonder if you could help," replied Winter.

"Perhaps," suggested some one, "it was the Dominican put him out of joint. It certainly did give him a rap over the knuckles."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Loman, angrily, and half drawing his supposed sprained hand out of the sling.

"Shut up, you fellows," interposed Raleigh, authoritatively. "Baynes will play in the eleven to-morrow instead of Loman, so there's an end of the matter."

Loman was sorely mortified. He had expected his defection would create quite a sensation, and that his class-fellows would be inconsolable at his accident. Instead of that, he had only contrived to quarrel with nearly all of them, alienating their sympathy; and in the end he was to be quietly superseded by Baynes, and the match was to go on as if he had never been heard of at Saint Dominic's.

"Never mind; I'm bound to go and see Cripps. Besides," said he to himself, "they'll miss me to-morrow, whatever they say to-day."

Next day, just when the great match was beginning, and the entire school was hanging breathless on the issue of every ball, Loman quietly slipped out of Saint Dominic's, and walked rapidly and nervously down to the Cockchafer in Maltby.

"What shall I say to Cripps?" was the wild question he kept asking himself as he went along; and the answer had not come by the time he found himself standing within that worthy's respectable premises.

Mr Cripps was in his usual good humour.

"Why, it's Mr Loman! so it is!" he exclaimed, in a rapture. "Now who would have thought of seeing you here?"

Loman was perplexed.

"Why, you told me to come this afternoon," said he.

"Did I? Ah, I dare say! Never mind. Very kind of a young gentleman like you to come and see the likes of me. What'll you take?"

Loman did not know what to make of this at all.

"I came to see you about that—that horse you told me to bet against," he said.

"I remember. What's his name? Sir Patrick, wasn't it? My friend told me that he'd had the best of that. What was it? Ten bob?"

This affected ignorance of the whole matter in hand was utterly bewildering to Loman, who had fully expected that, instead of having to explain himself, he would have the matter pretty plainly explained to him by his sportive acquaintance.

"No, ten pounds. That was what I was to pay if the horse won; and, Cripps, I can't pay it, or the twenty pounds either, to you."

Cripps whistled.

"That's a go and no mistake!" he said. "Afraid it won't do, mister."

"You told me Sir Patrick was sure not to win," said Loman.

"Ah, there was several of us took in over that there horse," coolly said Mr Cripps. "I lost a shilling myself over him. Nice to be you, flush of cash, and able to pay straight down."

"I can't pay," said Loman.

"Ah, but the governor can, I'll wager," insinuated Cripps.

"He would never do it! It's no use asking him," said Loman.

Cripps whistled again.

"That's awkward. And my friend wants his money, too, and so do I."

"I really can't pay," said Loman. "I say, Cripps, let us off that twenty pounds. I really didn't mean about that rod."

Mr Cripps fired up in righteous indignation.

"Ah, I dare say, mister. You'll come and snivel now, will you? But you were ready enough to cheat a honest man when you saw a chance. No, I'll have my twenty or else there'll be a rumpus. Make no mistake of that!"

The bare idea of a "rumpus" cowed Loman at once. Anything but that.

"Come, now," said Cripps, encouragingly, "I'll wager you can raise the wind somewheres."

"I wish I knew how. I see no chance whatever, unless—" and here a brilliant idea suddenly struck him—"unless I get the Nightingale. Of course; I say, Cripps, will you wait till September?"

"What! Three months! And how do you suppose I'm to find bread to eat till then?" exclaimed Mr Cripps.

"Oh, do!" said Loman. "I'm certain to be able to pay then. I forgot all about the Nightingale."

"The Nightingale? It must be an uncommon spicy bird to fetch in thirty pound!"

"It's not a bird," said Loman, laughing; "it's a scholarship."

"A what?"

"A scholarship. I'm in for an exam, you know, and whoever's first gets fifty-pounds a year for three years."

"But suppose you ain't first? what then?"

"Oh, but I'm sure to be. I've only got Fifth Form fellows against me, and I'm certain to beat them!"

"Well," said Mr Cripps, "I don't so much care about your nightingales and cock-sparrows and scholarships, and all them traps, but I'd like to oblige you."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Loman, delighted, and feeling already as if the debt was paid. "And you'll get your friend to wait too, won't you?"

"Can't do that. I shall have to square up with him and look to you for the lot, and most likely drop into the workhouse for my pains."

"Oh, no. You can be quite certain of getting the money."

"Well, blessed if I ain't a easy-going cove," said Mr Cripps, with a grin. "It ain't every one as 'ud wait three months on your poll-parrot scholarships, or whatever you call 'em. Come, business is business. Give us your promise on a piece of paper—if you must impose upon me." Loman, only too delighted, wrote at Mr Cripps's dictation a promise to pay the thirty pounds, together with five pounds interest, in September, and quitted the Cockchafer with as light a heart as if he had actually paid off every penny of the debt.

"Of course I'm safe to get it! Why ever didn't I think of that before? Won't I just work the rest of the term! Nothing like having an object when you're grinding."

With this philosophical reflection he re-entered Saint Dominic's, and unobserved rejoined the spectators in the cricket-field, just in time to witness a very exciting finish to a fiercely contested encounter.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

SIXTH VERSUS SCHOOL.

Never had a Sixth versus School Match been looked forward to with more excitement at Saint Dominic's than the present one. Party feeling had been running high all the term, intensified on the one hand by the unpopularity of some of the monitors, and on the other by the defiant attitude of the Fifth and the tone of their organ, the Dominican.

The lower school naturally looked on with interest at this rivalry between the two head forms, the result of which, as might have been expected, was the reverse of beneficial for the discipline of the school generally. If the big boys set a bad example and disregard rules, what can one expect of the little ones?

So far, anything like conflict had been avoided. The Fifth had "cheeked" the Sixth, and the Sixth had snubbed the Fifth; but with the exception of Loman's assault on Oliver, which had not led to a fight, the war had been strictly one of words. Now, however, the opposing forces were to be ranged face to face at cricket; and to the junior school the opportunity seemed a grand one for a display of partisanship one side or the other.

The School Eleven, on this occasion, moreover, consisted exclusively of Fifth Form boys—a most unusual circumstance, and one which seemed to be the result quite as much of management as of accident. At least so said the disappointed heroes of the Fourth.

The match was, in fact—whatever it was formally styled—a match between the Sixth and the Fifth, and the partisans of either side looked upon it as a decisive event in the respective glories of the two top forms.

And now the day had come. All Saint Dominic's trooped out to the meadows, and there was a rush of small boys as usual for the front benches. Stephen found himself along with his trusty ally, Paul, and his equally trusty enemy, Bramble, and some ten other Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, wedged like sardines upon a form that would comfortably hold six, eagerly canvassing the prospects of the struggle.

"The Sixth are going to win in a single innings, if you fellows want to know," announced Bramble, with all the authority of one who knows.

"Not a bit of it," replied Paul. "The Fifth are safe to win, I tell you."

"But they've got no decent bowlers," said Raddleston.

"Never mind," said Stephen. "Loman's not going to play for the Sixth. He's sprained his wrist."

"Hip, hip, hurrah?" yelled Paul, "that is jolly! They are sure to be licked now. Are you sure he's out of it?"

"Yes. Look at him there with his arm in a sling."

And Stephen pointed to where Loman stood in his ordinary clothes talking to some of his fellows.

"Well, that is a piece of luck!" said Paul. "Who's to take his place?"

"Baynes, they say. He's no use, though."

"Don't you be too cock-sure, you two," growled Bramble. "I say we shall beat you even if Loman don't play. Got any brandy-balls left, Greenfield?"

Similar speculations and hopes were being exchanged all round the field, and when at last the Fifth went out to field, and Callonby and Wren went in to bat for the Sixth, you might have heard a cat sneeze, so breathless was the excitement.

Amid solemn silence the first few balls were bowled. The third ball of the first over came straight on to Wren's bat, who played it neatly back to the bowler. It was not a run, only a simple block; but it was the first play of the match, and so quite enough to loosen the tongues of all the small boys, who yelled, and howled, and cheered as frantically as if a six had been run or a wicket taken. And the ice once broken, every ball and every hit were marked and applauded as if empires depended on them.

It was in the midst of this gradually rising excitement that Loman slipped quietly and unobserved from the scene, and betook himself to the errand on which we accompanied him in the preceding chapter.

The two Sixth men went quickly to work, and at the end of the second over had scored eight. Then Callonby, in stepping back to "draw" one of Wraysford's balls, knocked down his wicket.

How the small boys yelled at this!

But the sight of Raleigh going in second soon silenced them.

"They mean hard work by sending in the captain now," said Paul. "I don't like that!"

"No more do I," said Stephen. "He always knocks Oliver's bowling about."

"Oh, bother; is your brother bowling?" said Master Paul, quite unconscious of wounding any one's feelings. "It's a pity they've got no one better."

Stephen coloured up at this, and wondered what made Paul such a horrid boy.

"Better look-out for your eyes," said Bramble, cheerily. "The captain always knocks up this way, over square-leg's head."

There was a general buzz of youngsters round the field, as the hero of the school walked up to the wicket, and coolly turned to face Oliver's bowling.

The scorer in the tent hurriedly sharpened his pencil. The big fellows, who had been standing up to watch the opening overs, sat down on the grass and made themselves comfortable. Something was going to happen, evidently. The captain was in, and meant business.

Oliver gripped the ball hard in his hand, and walked back to the end of his run. "Play!" cried the umpire, and amid dead silence the ball shot from the bowler's hand.

Next moment there rose a shout loud enough to deafen all Saint Dominic's. The ball was flying fifty feet up in the air, and Raleigh was slowly walking, bat in hand, back to the tent he had only a moment ago quitted!

The captain had been clean bowled, first ball!

Who shall describe the excitement, the yelling, the cheering, the consternation that followed? Paul got up and danced a hornpipe on the bench; Bramble kicked the boy nearest to him. "Well bowled, sir!" shouted some. "Hard lines!" screamed others. "Hurrah for the Fifth!"

"You'll beat them yet, Sixth!" such were a few of the shouts audible above the general clamour.

As for Stephen, he was wild with joy. He was a staunch partisan of the Fifth in any case, but that was nothing to the fact that it was his brother, his own brother and nobody else's, who had bowled that eventful ball, and who was at that moment the hero of Saint Dominic's. Stephen felt as proud and elated as if he had bowled the ball himself, and could afford to be absolutely patronising to those around him, on the head of this achievement.

"That wasn't a bad ball of Oliver's," he said to Paul. "He can bowl very well when he tries."

"It was a beastly fluke!" roared Bramble, determined to see no merit in the exploit.

"Shut up and don't make a row," said Stephen, with a bland smile of forgiveness.

Bramble promised his adversary to shut him up, and after a little more discussion and altercation and jubilation, the excitement subsided, and another man went in. All this while the Fifth were in ecstasies. They controlled their feelings, however, contenting themselves with clapping Oliver on the back till he was nearly dead, and speculating on the chances of beating their adversaries in a single innings.

But they had not won the match yet.

Winter was next man in, and he and Wren fell to work very speedily in a decidedly business-like way. No big hits were made, but the score crawled up by ones and twos steadily, and the longer they were at it the steadier they played. Loud cheers announced the posting of thirty on the signal-board, but still the score went on. Now it was a slip, now a bye, now a quiet cut.

"Bravo! well played!" cried Raleigh and his men frequently. The captain, by the way, was in excellent spirits, despite his misfortune.

Thirty-five, forty! The Fifth began to look hot and puzzled. The batsmen were evidently far too much at home with the bowling. A change must be made, even though it be to put on only a second-rate bowler.

Tom Senior was put on. He was nothing like as good a bowler as either Wraysford, or Oliver, or Ricketts. He bowled a very ordinary slow lob, without either twist or shoot, and was usually knocked about plentifully; and this appeared likely to be his fate now, for Wren got hold of his first ball, and knocked it right over into the scorer's tent for five. The Fifth groaned, and could have torn the wretched Tom to pieces. But the next ball was more lucky; Winter hit it, indeed, but he hit it up, sky-high, over the bowler's head, and before it reached the ground Bullinger was safe underneath it. It was with a sigh of relief that the Fifth saw this awkward partnership broken up. The score was at forty-eight for three wickets; quite enough too!

After this the innings progressed more evenly. Men came in and went out more as usual, each contributing his three or four, and one or two their ten or twelve. Among the latter was Baynes, who, at the last moment, it will be remembered, had been put into the eleven to replace Loman. By careful play he managed to put together ten, greatly to his own delight, and not a little to the surprise of his friends.

In due time the last wicket of the Sixth fell, to a total of eighty-four runs.

The small boys on the bench had had leisure to abate their ardour by this time. Bramble had recovered his spirits, and Paul and Stephen looked a little blue as they saw the total signalled.

"Eighty-four's a lot," said Stephen.

Paul nodded glumly.

"Ya, ha! How do you like it, Guinea-pigs?" jeered Bramble. "I hope you'll get half as much. I knew how it would be."

The two friends listened to these taunts in silent sorrow, and wished the next innings would begin.

It did presently, and not very brilliantly either. The Fifth only managed to score fifty-one, and to this total Wraysford was the only player who made anything like good scoring. Oliver got out for six, Ricketts for nine, and Tom Senior and Braddy both for a "duck's-egg." Altogether it was a meagre performance, and things looked very gloomy for the Fifth when, for a second time, their adversaries took the wickets.

Things never turn out at cricket as one expects, however, and the second innings of the Sixth was no exception to the rule. They only made thirty-six runs. Stephen and Paul were hoarse with yelling, as first one wicket, then another, went down for scarcely a run. Raleigh and Baynes seemed the only two who could stand up at all to the bowling of Oliver and Wraysford, but even their efforts could not keep the wickets up for long.

Every one saw now that the final innings would be a desperate struggle. The Fifth wanted sixty-nine to be equal and seventy to win, and the question was, Would they do it in time?

Stephen and his confederate felt the weight of this question so oppressive that they left the irritating company of Mr Bramble, and walked off and joined themselves to a group of Fourth Form fellows, who were watching the match with sulky interest, evidently sore that they had none of their men in the School Eleven.

"They'll never do it, and serve them right!" said one. "Why didn't they put Mansfield in the eleven, or Banks? They're far more use than Fisher or Braddy."

"For all that, it'll be a sell if the Sixth lick," said another.

"I wouldn't much care. If we are going to be sat upon by those Fifth snobs every time an eleven is made up, it's quite time we did go in with the Sixth."

"Jolly for the Sixth!" retorted the other; whereupon Stephen laughed, and had his ears boxed for being cheeky. The Fourth Senior could not stand "cheek."

But Saint Dominic's generally was "sweet" on the Fifth, and hoped they would win. When, therefore, Tom Senior and Bullinger went in first and began to score there was great rejoicing.

But the Fourth Form fellows, among whom Stephen now was, refused to cheer for any one; criticism was more in their line.

"Did you ever see a fellow hit across wickets more horribly than Senior?" said one.

"Just look at that!" cried another. "That Bullinger's a downright muff not to get that last ball to leg! I could have got it easily."

"Well, with that bowling, it's a disgrace if they don't score; that's all I can say," remarked a third.

And so these Fourth Form grandees went on, much to Stephen's wrath, who, when Oliver went in, removed somewhere else, so as to be out of ear-shot of any offensive remarks.

Oliver, however, played so well that even the Fourth Form critics could hardly run him down. He survived all the other wickets of his side, and, though not making a brilliant score, did what was almost as useful—played steadily, and gradually demoralised the bowling of the enemy.

As the game went on the excitement increased rapidly; and when at length the ninth wicket went down for sixty-one, and the last man in appeared, with nine to win, the eagerness on both sides scarcely knew bounds. Every ball, every piece of fielding, was cheered by one side, and every hit and every piece of play was as vehemently cheered by the other. If Raleigh and Wren had been nervous bowlers, they would undoubtedly have been disconcerted by the dead silence, followed by terrific applause, amid which every ball—even a wide—was delivered. But happily they were not.

It was at this critical juncture that Loman reappeared on the scene, much consoled to have the interview with Cripps over, and quite ready now to hear every one lament his absence from the match.

The last man in was Webster, a small Fifth boy, who in the last innings had signalised himself by making a duck's-egg. The Fifth scarcely dared hope he would stay in long enough for the nine runs required to be made, and looked on now almost pale with anxiety.

"Now," said Pembury, near whom Loman, as well as our two Guinea-pigs, found themselves, "it all depends on Oliver, and I back Oliver to do it, don't you, Loamy?"

Loman, who since the last Dominican had not been on speaking terms with Pembury, did not vouchsafe a reply, "I do!" said Stephen, boldly.

"Do you, really?" replied Pembury, looking round at the boy. "Perhaps you back yourself to talk when you're not spoken to, eh, Mr Greenhorn?"

"Bravo! bravo! Well run, sir! Bravo, Fifth!" was the cry as Oliver, following up the first ball of the over, pilfered a bye from the long-stop.

"Didn't I tell you!" exclaimed Pembury, delighted; "he'll save us; he's got down to that end on purpose to take the bowling. Do you twig, Loamy? And he'll stick to that end till the last ball of the over, and then he'll run an odd number, and get up to the other end. Do you comprehend?"

"You seem to know all about it," growled Loman, who saw the force of Pembury's observations, but greatly disliked it all the same.

"Do I, really?" replied the lame boy; "how odd that is, now— particularly without a crib!"

Loman was fast losing patience—a fact which seemed to have anything but a damping effect on the editor of the Dominican. But another hit or two by Oliver created a momentary diversion. It was quite clear that Pembury's version of Oliver's tactics was a correct one. He could easily have run three, but preferred to sacrifice a run rather than leave the incompetent and flurried Webster to face the bowling.

"Six to win!" cried Stephen; "I'm certain Oliver will do it!"

"Yes, Oliver was always a plodding old blockhead!" drily observed Pembury, who seemed to enjoy the small boy's indignation whenever any one spoke disrespectfully of his big brother.

"He's not a blockhead!" retorted Stephen, fiercely.

"Go it! Come and kick my legs, young 'un; there's no one near but Loamy, and he can't hurt."

"Look here, you lame little wretch!" exclaimed Loman, in a passion; "if I have any more of your impudence I'll box your ears!"

"I thought your wrist was sprained?" artlessly observed Pembury. "Here, young Paul, let's get behind you, there's a good fellow, I am in such a funk!"

Whether Loman would have carried out his threat or not is doubtful, but at that moment a terrific shout greeted another hit by Oliver—the best he had made during the match—for which he ran four. One to tie, two to win! will they do it?

It was a critical moment for Saint Dominic's. Had the two batsmen been playing for their lives they could not have been more anxiously watched; even Pembury became silent.

And now the last ball of the over is bowled in dead silence. Onlookers can even hear the whizz with which it leaves Wren's hand.

It is almost wide, but Oliver steps out to it and just touches it. Webster is half across the wickets already—ready for a bye. Oliver calls to him to come on, and runs. It is a desperate shave—too desperate for good play. But who cares for that when that run has pulled the two sides level, and when, best of all, Oliver has got up to the proper end for the next over?

Equal! What a shout greets the announcement! But it dies away suddenly, and a new anxious silence ensues. The game is saved, but not won; another run is wanted.

No one says a word, but the Fifth everywhere look on with a confidence which is far more eloquent than words.

Raleigh is the bowler from the lower end, and the Sixth send out their hearts to him. He may save them yet!

He runs, in his usual unconcerned manner, up to the wicket and delivers the ball. It is one which there is but one way of playing—among the slips.

Oliver understands it evidently, and, to the joy of the Fifth, plays it. But why does their cheer drop suddenly, and why in a moment is it drowned, over and over and over again, by the cheers of the Sixth and their partisans, as the crowd suddenly breaks into the field, and the ball shoots high up in the air?

A catch! Baynes, the odd man, had missed a chance a few overs back from standing too deep. This time he had crept in close, and saved the Sixth by one of the neatest low-catches that had ever been seen in a Dominican match.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A LOWER SCHOOL FESTIVAL.

"I tell you what, Wray," said Oliver one evening about a week after the match, "I heartily wish this term was over."

"Why, that's just what I heard your young brother say. He is going to learn the bicycle, he says, in the holidays."

"Oh, it's not the holidays I want," said Oliver. "But somehow things have gone all wrong. I've been off my luck completely this term."

"Off your luck!—You great discontented, ungrateful bear. Haven't you got the English prize? Aren't you in the School Eleven? and didn't you make top score in the match with the Sixth last Saturday? Whatever do you mean by 'off your luck'?"

"Oh, it's not that, you know," said Oliver, pulling a quill pen to bits. "What I mean is—oh, bother!—a fellow can't explain it."

"So it seems," laughed Wraysford; "but I wish a fellow could, for I've not a notion what you're driving at."

"Well, I mean I'm not doing much good. There's that young brother of mine, for instance. What good have I been to him? There have I let him go and do just what he likes, and not looked after him a bit ever since he came here."

"And I wager he's got on all the better for not being tied up to your apron strings. He's a fine honest little chap, is young Greenfield."

"Oh, I dare say; but somehow I don't seem to know as much of him now as I used to do before he came here."

"That's Loman's fault, I bet you anything," exclaimed Wraysford. "I'm sure he won't do the kid any good. But Rastle was saying only yesterday how well Stephen was getting on in class."

"Was he? It's little thanks to me if he is," said Oliver, gloomily.

"And what else have you got to grumble about?" asked his friend.

"Why, you know how I'm out with the Fifth over that affair with Loman. They all set me down as a coward, and I'm not that."

"Of course you aren't," warmly replied the other. "But, Noll, you told me a little while ago you didn't care a snap what they thought."

"No more I do, in a way. But it's very uncomfortable."

"Why don't you tell them straight out why you didn't let out at Loman? They are sure to respect your motive."

"Yes, and set me down as posing as a martyr or a saint! No! I'd sooner pass as a coward than set up as a saint when I'm not one. Why, Wray, if you'll believe me, I've been a worse Christian since I began to try to be one, than I ever was before. I'm for ever losing my temper, and—"

"Shut up that tune, now," interposed Wraysford, hurriedly. "If you are beginning at that again, I'll go. As if you didn't know you were the best fellow in the school!"

"I'm not the best, or anything like," said Oliver, warmly; "I hate your saying so—I wish almost I had never told you anything about it."

"Well, I don't know," said Wraysford, walking to the window and looking out. "Ever since you told me of it, I've been trying myself in a mild way to go straight. But it's desperate hard work."

"Desperate hard work even if you try in more than a mild way," said Oliver.

Both were silent for a little, and then Oliver, hurriedly changing the subject, said, "And then, to proceed with my growl, I'm certain to come a howler over the Nightingale."

Wraysford turned from the window with a laugh.

"I suppose you expect me to sympathise with you about that, eh? The bigger the howler the better for me! I only wish you were a true prophet, Noll, in that particular."

"Why, of course you'll beat me—and if you don't Loman will. I hear he's grinding away like nuts."

"Is he, though?" said Wraysford.

"Yes, and he's going to get a 'coach' in the holidays too."

"More likely a dog-cart. Anyhow, I dare say he will run us close. But he's such a shifty fellow, there's no knowing whether he will stay out."

Just at that moment a terrific row came up from below.

"Whatever's up down there?"

"Only the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles. By the way," said Wraysford, "they've got a grand 'supper,' as they call it, on to-night to celebrate their cricket match. Suppose we go and see the fun?"

"All right!" said Oliver. "Who won the match?"

"Why, what a question! Do you suppose a match between Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles ever came to an end? They had a free fight at the end of the first innings. The Tadpole umpire gave one of his own men 'not out' when he hit his wicket, and they made a personal question of it, and fell out. Your young brother, I hear, greatly distinguished himself in the argument."

"Well, it doesn't seem to interfere with their spirits now, to judge of the row they are making. Just listen!"

By this time they had reached the door of the Fourth Junior room, whence proceeded a noise such as one often hears in a certain popular department of the Zoological Gardens. Amid the tumult and hubbub the two friends had not much difficulty in slipping in unobserved and seating themselves comfortably in an obscure corner of the festive apartment, behind a pyramid of piled-up chairs and forms.

The Junior "cricket feast" was an institution in Saint Dominic's, and was an occasion when any one who had nerves to be excruciated or ear-drums to be broken took care to keep out of the way. In place of the usual desks and forms, a long table ran down the room, round which some fifty or sixty urchins sat, regaling themselves with what was left of a vast spread of plum-cake, buns, and ginger-beer. How these banquets were provided was always a mystery to outsiders. Some said a levy of threepence a head was made; others, that every boy was bound in honour to contribute something eatable to the feast; and others averred that every boy had to bring his own bag and bottle, and no more. Be that as it might, the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles at present assembled looked uncommonly tight about the jackets after it all, and not one had the appearance of actual starvation written on his lineaments.

The animal part of the feast, however, was now over, and the intellectual was beginning. The tremendous noise which had brought Oliver and Wraysford on to the scene had indeed been but the applause which followed the chairman's opening song—a musical effort which was imperatively encored by a large and enthusiastic audience.

The chairman, by the way, was no other than our friend Bramble, who by reason of seniority—he had been two years in the Fourth Junior, and showed no signs of rising higher all his life—claimed to preside on all such occasions. He sat up at the top end in stately glory, higher than the rest by the thickness of a Liddell and Scott, which was placed on his chair to lift him up to the required elevation, blushingly receiving the applause with which his song was greeted, and modestly volunteering to sing it again if the fellows liked.

The fellows did like. Mr Bramble mounted once more on to the seat of his chair, and saying, "Look-out for the chorus!" began one of the time-honoured Dominican cricket songs. It consisted of about twelve verses altogether, but three will be quite enough for the reader.

"There was a little lad, (Well bowled!) And a little bat he had; (Well bowled!) He skipped up to the wicket, And thought he'd play some cricket, But he didn't, for he was— Well bowled!

"He thought he'd make a score (So bold), And lead-off with a four (So bold); So he walked out to a twister, But somehow sort of missed her, And she bailed him, for he was Too bold.

"Now all ye little boys (So bold), Who like to make a noise (So bold), Take warning by young Walker, Keep your bat down to a yorker, Or, don't you see? you'll be— Well bowled!"

The virtue of the pathetic ballad was in the chorus, which was usually not sung, but spoken, and so presented a noble opportunity for variety of tone and expression, which was greedily seized upon by the riotous young gentlemen into whose mouths it was entrusted. By the time the sad adventures of Master Walker had been rehearsed in all their twelve verses, the meeting was so hoarse that to the two elder boys it seemed as if the proceedings must necessarily come abruptly to a close for want of voice.

But no! If the meeting was for the moment incapable of song, speech was yet possible and behold there arose Master Paul in his place to propose a toast.

Now Master Paul was a Guinea-pig, and accounted a mighty man in his tribe. Any one might have supposed that the purpose for which he had now risen was to propose in complimentary terms the health of his gallant opponents the Tadpoles. This, however, was far from his intention. His modesty had another theme. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began. There were no ladies present, but that didn't matter. Tremendous cheers greeted this opening. "You all know me; I am one of yourselves." Paul had borrowed this expression from the speech of a Radical orator, which had appeared recently in the papers. Every one knew it was borrowed, for he had asked about twenty of his friends during the last week whether that wouldn't be "a showy lead-off for his cricket feast jaw?"

The quotation was, however, now greeted as vociferously as if it had been strictly original, and shouts of "So you are!"

"Bravo, Paul!" for a while drowned the orator's voice. When silence was restored his eloquence took a new and unexpected departure. "Jemmy Welch, I'll punch your head when we get outside, see if I don't!" Jemmy Welch was a Guinea-pig who had just made a particularly good shot at the speaker's nose with a piece of plum-cake. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I shall not detain you with a speech (loud cheers from all, and 'Jolly good job!' from Bramble). I shall go on speaking just as long as I choose, Bramble, so now! (Cheers.) I've as much right to speak as you have. (Applause.) You're only a stuck-up duffer. (Terrific cheers, and a fight down at the end of the table.) I beg to drink the health of the Guinea-pigs. (Loud Guinea-pig cheers.) We licked the old Tadpoles in the match. ('No you didn't!' 'That's a cram!' and groans from the Tadpoles.) I say we did! Your umpire was a cheat—they always are! We beat you hollow, didn't we, Stee Greenfield?"

"Yes, rather!" shouted Stephen, snatching a piece of cake away from a Tadpole and shying it to a Guinea-pig.

"That's eight matches we've won," proceeded Paul; "and—all right, Spicer! I saw you do it this time! See if I don't pay you for it!" whereat the speaker hurriedly quitted his seat and, amid howls and yells, proceeded to "pay out" Spicer.

Meanwhile Stephen heard his name suddenly called upon for a song, an invitation he promptly obeyed. But as the clamour was at the time deafening, and the attention of the audience was wholly monopolised by the commercial transactions taking place between Paul and Spicer, the effect of the performance was somewhat lost. Oliver certainly did see his young brother mount up on the table, turn very red in the face, open his mouth and shut it, smile in one part, look sorrowful in another, and wave his hand above his head in another. But that was the only intimation he had of a musical performance proceeding. Words and tune were utterly inaudible by any one except the singer himself—even if he heard them.

This was getting monotonous, and the two visitors were thinking of withdrawing, when the door suddenly opened, and a dead silence prevailed. The new-comer was the dirtiest and most ferocious-looking of all the boys in the lower school, who rushed into the room breathless, and in what would have been a white heat had his face been clean enough to show it. "What do you think?" he gasped, catching hold of the back of a chair for support; "Tony Pembury's kept me all this while brushing his clothes! I told him it was cricket feast, but he didn't care! What do you think of that? Of course, you've finished all the grub; I knew you would!"

This last plaintive wail of disappointment was drowned in the clamour of execration which greeted the boy's announcement. Lesser feuds were instantly forgotten in presence of this great insult. The most sacred traditions of Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were being trampled upon by the tyrants of the upper school! Not even on cricket feast night was a fag to be let off fagging!

It was enough! The last straw breaks the camel's back, and the young Dominicans had now reached the point of desperation.

It was long before silence enough could be restored, and then the redoubtable Spicer yelled out, "Let's strike!"

The cry was taken up with yells of enthusiasm—"Strike! No more fagging!"

"Any boy who fags after this," screamed Bramble, "will be cut dead! Those who promise hold up your hands—mind, it's a promise!"

There was no mistaking the temper of the meeting, every hand in the room was held up.

"Mind now, no giving in!" cried Paul. "Let's stick all together. Greenfield senior shall kill me before I do anything more for him!"

"Poor fellow!" whispered Oliver, laughing; "what a lot of martyrdoms he'll have to put up with!"

"And Pembury shall kill me," squealed the last comer, who had comforted himself with several crusts of plum-cakes and the dregs of about a dozen bottles of ginger-beer. And every one protested their willingness to die in the good cause.

At this stage Oliver and Wraysford withdrew unobserved. "I'm afraid we've been eavesdropping," said Oliver. "Anyhow, I don't mean to take advantage of what I've heard."

"What a young ruffian your brother is!" said Wraysford; "he looked tremendously in earnest!"

"Yes, he always is. You'll find he'll keep his word far better than most of them."

"If he does, I'm afraid Loman will make it unpleasant for him," said Wraysford.

"Very likely."

"Then you'll have to interfere."

"Why, what a bloodthirsty chap you are, Wray! You are longing for me to quarrel with Loman. I'll wait till young Stephen asks me to."

"Do you think he will? He's a proud little chap."

Oliver laughed. "It'll serve him right if he does get a lesson. Did ever you see such a lot of young cannibals as those youngsters? Are you coming to have supper with me?"

The nine o'clock bell soon rang, and, as usual, Oliver went to his door and shouted for Paul.

No Paul came.

He shouted again and again, but the fag did not appear. "They mean business," he said. "What shall I do? Paul!"

This time there came a reply down the passage—"Shan't come!"

"Ho, he!" said Oliver; "this is serious; they are sticking to their strike with a vengeance! I suppose I must go and look for my fag, eh, Wray? Discipline must be maintained."

So saying, Oliver stepped out into the passage and strolled off in the direction from which the rebel's voice had proceeded. The passages were empty; only in the Fourth Junior room was there a sound of clamour.

Oliver went to the door; it was shut. He pushed; it was fortified. He kicked on it; a defiant howl greeted him from the inside. He called aloud on his fag; another "Shan't come!" was his only answer.

It was getting past a joke, and Oliver's temper was, as we have seen not of the longest. He kicked again, angrily, and ordered Paul to appear.

The same answer was given, accompanied with the same yell, and Oliver's temper went faster than ever. He forgot he was making himself ridiculous; he forgot he was only affording a triumph to those whom he desired to punish; he forgot the good resolutions which had held him back on a former occasion, and, giving way to sudden rage, kicked desperately at the door once more.

This time his forcible appeal had some effect. The lower panel of the door gave way before the blow and crashed inwards, leaving a breach large enough to admit a football.

It was an unlucky piece of success for Oliver, for next moment he felt his foot grabbed by half a dozen small hands within and held firmly, rendering him unable to stir from his ridiculous position. In vain he struggled and raged; he was a tight prisoner, at the mercy of his captors.

It was all he could do to stand on his one foot, clinging wildly to the handle of the door. In this dignified attitude Wraysford presently found his friend, and in such a state of passion and fury as he had never before seen him.

To rap the array of inky knuckles inside with a ruler, and so disengage the captive foot, was the work of a minute. Oliver stood for a moment facing the door and trembling with anger, but Wraysford, taking him gently by the arm, said, "Come along, old boy!"

There was something in his voice and look which brought a sudden flush into the pale face of the angry Oliver. Without a word, he turned from the door and accompanied his friend back to the study. There were no long talks, no lectures, no remorseful confessions that evening. The two talked perhaps less than usual, and when they did it was about ordinary school topics.

No reference was made either then or for a long while afterwards to the events of the evening. And yet Oliver and Wraysford, somehow, seemed more than ever drawn together, and to understand one another better after this than had ever been the case before.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

GUINEA-PIGS AND TADPOLES ON STRIKE.

If anything had been required to make the "strike" of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles a serious matter, the "affair of Greenfield senior's right foot" undoubtedly had that effect. The eclat which that heroic exploit lent to the mutiny was simply marvellous. The story was told with fifty exaggerations all over the school. One report said that the whole body of the monitors had besieged the Fourth Junior door, and had been repulsed with heavy slaughter. Another declared that Oliver had been captured by the fags, and branded on the soles of his feet with a G and a T, to commemorate the emancipation of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles; and a third veracious narrative went so far as to say that the Upper Fifth and several members of the Sixth had humbly come and begged forgiveness for their past misdeeds, and were henceforth to become the fags of their late victims.

True or untrue as these stories were, any amount of glory accompanied the beginning of the strike, and there was sufficient sense of common danger to unite the youngsters in very close bonds. You rarely caught a Guinea-pig or a Tadpole alone now; they walked about in dozens, and were very wide awake. They assembled on every possible occasion in their room, and fortified their door with chairs and desks, and their zeal with fiery orations and excited conjurations. One wretched youth who the first evening had been weak enough to poke his master's fire, was expelled ignominiously from the community, and for a week afterwards lived the life of an outcast in Saint Dominic's. The youngsters were in earnest, and no mistake. Stephen Greenfield, as was only natural, did not altogether find cause for exultation over the event which led to the strike. For a whole day he was very angry on his brother's account, and threatened to stand aloof from the revolution altogether; but when it was explained to him this would lead to a general "smash-up" of the strike, and when it was further explained that the fellows who caught hold of his big brother's right foot couldn't possibly be expected to know to whom that foot belonged, he relented, and entered as enthusiastically as any one into the business. Indeed, if all the rebels had been like Stephen, the fags at Saint Dominic's would be on strike to this day. He contemplated martyrdom with the utmost equanimity, and the Inquisition itself never saw a more determined victim.

The morning after the famous "cricket feast" gave him his first opportunity of sacrificing himself for the good of his country. Loman met him in the passage after first-class.

"Why didn't you turn up and get my breakfast, you idle young vagabond?" inquired the Sixth Form boy, half good-humouredly, and little guessing what was in the wind. "I'm not idle," said Stephen.

"Then what do you mean by not doing your work?"

"It's not my work."

Loman opened his eyes in amazement, and stared at this bold young hero as if he had dropped from the clouds. "What!" he cried; "what do you say?"

"It's not my work," repeated Stephen, blushing, but very determined.

"Look here, young fellow," said Loman, when he was sure that he had really heard correctly, "don't you play any of your little games with me, or you'll be sorry for it."

Stephen said nothing, and waited with a tremor for what was to follow.

Loman was hardly a bully naturally. It was always easier for him to be civil than to be angry, especially with small boys, but this cool defiance on the part of his fag was too much for any one's civility, and Loman began to be angry.

"What do you mean by it?" he said, catching the boy by the arm.

Stephen wrenched away his arm and stood dogged and silent.

Nothing could have irritated Loman more. To be defied and resisted by a youngster like this was an experience quite new to him.

"Just come to my room," said he, gripping his fag angrily by the shoulder. "We'll see who's master of us two!"

Stephen was forced to submit, and allowed himself to be dragged to the study.

"Now!" said Loman shutting the door.

"Now!" said Stephen, as boldly as he could, and wondering what on earth was to become of him.

"Are you going to do what you're told, or not?" demanded Loman.

"Not what you tell me," replied Stephen, promptly, but not exactly cheerfully.

"Oh!" said Loman, his face becoming crimson, "you're quite sure?"

"Yes," said Stephen.

"Then take that!" said Loman.

It was a sharp box on the ears, suddenly administered. Stephen recoiled a moment, but only a moment. He had expected something a good deal worse. If that was all, he would brave it out yet.

"Don't you hit me!" he said, defiantly.

Loman could not stand to be defied. His vanity was his weak point, and nothing offended his vanity so much as to find any one as determined as himself.

He took up a ruler, and in his passion flung it at the luckless Stephen's head. It struck him hard on the cheek. The blood flushed to the boy's face as he stood a moment half-stunned and smarting with the pain, confronting his adversary. Then he rushed blindly in and flung himself upon the bully.

Of course it was no match. The small boy was at the mercy of the big one. The latter was indeed taken aback for a moment at the fury of his young assailant, impotent as it was, but that was all. He might have defended himself with a single hand; he might have carried the boy under one arm out into the passage. But the evil spirit had been roused within him, and that spirit knew no mercy. He struck out and fought his little foeman as if he had been one of his own size and strength. For every wild, feeble blow Stephen aimed, Loman aimed a hard and straight blow back. If Stephen wavered, Loman followed in as he would in a professional boxing match, and when at last the small boy gave up, exhausted, bleeding, and scarcely able to stand, his foe administered a parting blow, which, if he had struck no other, would have stamped him as a coward for ever.

"Now!" exclaimed Loman, looking down on his victim, "will you do what you're told now, eh?"

It was a critical moment for poor Stephen. After all, was the "strike" worth all this hardship? A single word would have saved him; whereas if he again defied his enemy, it was all up with him.

He did waver a moment; and lucky for him he did. For just then the door opened, and Simon entered. Stephen saw his chance. Slipping to the open door, he mustered up energy to cry as loud as he could, "No, I won't;" and with that made good his escape into the passage, as done up as a small boy well could be without being quite floored.

A dozen eager friends were at hand to aid in stopping the bleeding of their hero's nose, and to apply raw steak to his black eye. The story of his desperate encounter flew on the wings of fame all over the school, and the glory and pride of the youngsters reached its climax when, that afternoon, Stephen with his face all on one side, his eye a bright green and yellow, and his under lip about twice its ordinary thickness, took his accustomed place in the arithmetic class of the Fourth Junior.

"Why, Greenfield," exclaimed Mr Rastle, when in due time the young hero's turn came to stand up and answer a question, "what have you been doing to yourself?"

"Nothing, sir," remarked Stephen, mildly.

"How did you come by that black eye?" asked the master.

"Fighting, sir," said Stephen, rather pompously.

"Ah! what did you say forty-eight sixths was equal to?"

This was Mr Rastle's way. He very rarely hauled a boy over the coals before the whole class.

But after the lesson he beckoned Stephen into his study.

"I'm afraid you got the worst of that fight," he said.

Stephen, who by this time knew Mr Rastle too well to be afraid of him, and too well, also, not to be quite frank with him, answered meekly, "The fellow was bigger than me."

"I should guess that by the state of your face. Now, I don't want to know what the fight was about, though I dare say you'd like to tell me [Stephen was boiling to tell him]. You small boys have such peculiar reasons for fighting, you know, no one can understand them."

"But this was because—"

"Hush! Didn't I tell you I won't hear what it was about, sir!" said Mr Rastle, sharply. "Did you shake hands afterwards?"

"No, I didn't, and I won't!" exclaimed Stephen, forgetting, in his indignation, to whom he was speaking.

"Then," said Mr Rastle, quietly, "write me out one hundred lines of Caesar, Greenfield; and when you have recollected how to behave yourself, we will talk more about this. You can go."

Mr Rastle was a queer man; he never took things as one expected. When Stephen expected him to be furious he was as mild as a lamb. There was no making him out.

But this was certain: Stephen left his room a good deal more crestfallen than he entered it. He had hoped to win Mr Rastle's sympathy and admiration by an account of his grievances, and, instead of that, he was sent off in disgrace, with an imposition for being rude, and feeling anything but a hero.

Even the applause of his friends failed to console him quite. Besides, his head ached badly, and the bruise on his cheek, which he had scarcely felt among his other wounds, now began to swell and grow painful. Altogether, he was in the wars.

He was groaning over his imposition late that evening in the class-room, feeling in dreadful dumps, and wishing he had never come to Saint Dominic's, when a hand laid on his shoulder made him start. He looked up and saw Mr Rastle.

"Greenfield," said the master, kindly, "how much of your imposition have you done?"

"Seventy lines, sir."

"Hum! That will do this time. You had better get to bed."

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Stephen, moved far more by Mr Rastle's kind tone than by his letting him off thirty lines of the Caesar, "I'm so sorry I was rude to you."

"Well, I was sorry, too; so we'll say no more about that. Why, what a crack you must have got on your cheek!"

"Yes, sir; that was the ruler did that."

"The ruler! Then it wasn't a fair fight? Now don't begin telling me all about it. I dare say you were very heroic, and stood up against terrible odds. But you've a very black eye and a very sore cheek now, so you had better get to bed as fast as you can."

And certainly the pale, bruised, upturned face of the boy did not look very bright at that moment.

Stephen Greenfield went off to bed that night in a perturbed state of mind and body. He had stuck loyally to his promise not to fag, and he had earned the universal admiration of his comrades. But, on the other hand, he had been awfully knocked about, and, almost as bad, he had been effectively snubbed by Mr Rastle. He did not exactly know what to think of it all. Had he done a fine deed or a foolish one? and what ought he to do to-morrow?

Like a sensible little man, he went sound asleep over these questions, and forgot all about them till the morrow.

When he woke Stephen was like a giant refreshed. His eye was certainly a rather more brilliant yellow than the day before, and his cheek still wore a dull red flush. But somehow he felt none of the misgivings and dumps that had oppressed him the night before. He was full of hope again and full of courage. The Guinea-pigs should never charge him with treachery and desertion, and what he had gone through already in the "good cause" he would go through again.

With this determination he dressed and went down to school. Loman, whose summons he expected every moment to hear, did not put him to the necessity of a renewed struggle. From all quarters, too, encouraging reports came in from the various insurgents. Paul announced that Greenfield senior took it "like a lamb"; Bramble recounted how his "nigger-driver," as he was pleased to call Wren, had chased him twice round the playground and over the top of the cricket-shed without being able to capture him; and most of the others had exploits equally heroic to boast of. Things were looking up in the Fourth Junior.

They spent a merry morning, these young rebels, wondering in whispers over their lessons what this and that Sixth or Fifth Form fellow had done without them. With great glee they imagined Raleigh blacking his own boots and Pembury boiling his own eggs, and the very idea of such wonders quite frightened them. At that rate Saint Dominic's would come to a standstill altogether.

"Serve 'em right!" said Bramble; "they want a lesson. I wish I'd two fellows to strike against instead of one!"

"One's enough if he strikes you back," said Stephen, with a rueful grin.

Master Bramble evinced his sympathy by laughing aloud. "I say, you look just like a clown; doesn't he, Padger, with his eye all sorts of colours and his cheek like a house on fire?"

"All very well," said Stephen; "I wish you'd got my cheek."

"Bramby's got cheek enough of his own, I guess," put in Paul; whereat Master Bramble fired up, and a quarrel became imminent.

However, Stephen prevented it by calling back attention to his own picturesque countenance. "I don't mind the eye, that don't hurt; but I can tell you, you fellows, my cheek's awful!"

"I always said you'd got an awful cheek of your own, young Greenfield," said Bramble, laughing, as if he was the inventor of the joke. Stephen glowered at him.

"Well, you said so yourself," put in Bramble, a little mildly, for since Stephen's exploit yesterday that young hero had advanced a good deal in the respect of his fellows. "But, I say, why don't you stick some lotion or something on it? It'll never get right if you don't, will it, Padger?"

Padger suggested that young Greenfield might possibly have to have his cheek cut off if he didn't look-out, and Paul said the sooner he "stashed his cheek" the better.

The result of this friendly and witty conference was that Stephen took it into his head to cure his cheek, and to that end applied for leave from Mr Rastle to go down that afternoon to Maltby to get something from the chemist.

Mr Rastle gave him leave, and told him the best sort of lotion to ask for, and so, as soon as afternoon school was over, our young champion sallied boldly forth on his errand. He felt very self-satisfied and forgiving to all the world as he walked along. There was no doubt about it, he was a hero. Every one seemed to take an interest in his black eye and sore cheek, from Mr Rastle downwards. Very likely that fight of his with Loman yesterday would be recorded as long as Saint Dominic's remained, as the event which saved the lower school from the tyranny of the upper!

His way to the chemist's lay past the turning up to the Cockchafer, and the idea occurred to him to turn in on the way back and talk over the event of the hour with Mr Cripps, whom he had not seen since the bagatelle-lesson a week ago. He was sure that good gentleman would sympathise with him, and most likely praise him; and in any case it would be only civil, after promising to come and see him sometimes, to look in.

The only thing was that the Cockchafer, whatever one might say about it, was a public-house. The private door at the side hardly sufficed to satisfy Stephen that he was not breaking rules by going in. He would not have entered by the public door for worlds, and the thought did occur to him, Was there very much difference after all between one door and the other? However, he had not answered the question before he found himself inside, shaking hands with Mr Cripps.

That gentleman was of course delighted, and profuse in his gratitude to the "young swell" for looking him up. He listened with profound interest and sympathy to his story, and made some very fierce remarks about what he would do to "that there" Loman if he got hold of him. Then the subject of bagatelle happened to come up, and presently Stephen was again delighting and astonishing the good gentleman by his skill in that game. Then in due time it came out that the boy's mother had bought him a bicycle, and he was going to learn in the holidays, a resolution Mr Cripps highly approved of, and was certain a clever young fellow like him would learn in no time, which greatly pleased Stephen.

Before parting, Mr Cripps insisted on lending his young friend a lantern for his bicycle, when he rode it in the dark. It was a specially good one, he said, and the young gentleman could easily return it to him after the holidays, and so on.

Altogether it was a delightful visit, and Stephen wondered more than ever how some of the fellows could think ill of Mr Cripps.

"Oh, I say," said the boy, at parting; "don't do what you said you would to Loman. I'm not afraid of him, you know."

"I'd like to knock his ugly head off for him!" cried Mr Cripps, indignantly.

"No, don't; please don't! I'd rather not. I dare say he's sorry for it."

"I'll see he is!" growled Mr Cripps.

"Besides, I've forgiven him," said Stephen, "and oughtn't to have told tales of him; so mind you don't do it, Mr Cripps, will you?"

"I'll see," said Mr Cripps. "Good-bye for the present, young gentleman, and come again soon."

And so, at peace with all the world, and particularly with himself, Stephen strolled back to Saint Dominic's, whistling merrily.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE DOCTOR AMONG THE GUINEA-PIGS.

The Dominican appeared once more before the holidays, and, as might have been expected (besides its usual articles at the expense of the Sixth Form), made itself particularly merry over the rebellion of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles.

Pembury was not the fellow to give quarter in his own particular line of attack; and it must be confessed he had the proud satisfaction of making his unfortunate young victims smart.

The "leading article" of the present number bore the suggestive title, "Thank Goodness!" and began as follows:

"Thank goodness, we are at last rid of the pest which has made Saint Dominic's hideous for months past! At a single blow, with a single clap of the hands, we have sent Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles packing, and can now breathe pure air. No longer shall we have to put up with the plague. We are to be spared the disgust of seeing them, much more of talking to them or hearing their hideous voices. No longer will our morning milk be burned; no longer will our herrings be grilled to cinders; no longer will our jam be purloined; no longer will our books and door-handles be made abominable by contact with their filthy hands! Thank goodness! The Doctor never did a more patriotic deed than this! The small animals are in future to be kept to their own quarters, and will be forbidden the liberty they have so long abused of mixing with their betters. It is as well for all parties; and if any event could have brightened the last days of this term, it is this—" and so on.

Before this manifesto, a swarm of youngsters puzzled on the day of publication with no little bewilderment and fury. They had refused to allow any of their number to act as policeman, and had secretly been making merry over the embarrassment of their late persecutors, and wondering whatever they would be able to say for their humiliated selves in the Dominican—and lo! here was an article which, if it meant anything, meant that the heroic rebellion of the juniors was regarded not with dismay, but with positive triumph, by the very fellows it had been intended to "squash!"

"What does it mean, Padger?" asked Bramble, who, never much of a scholar, was quite unable to master the meaning of this.

"It's all a pack of crams," replied Padger, not quite sure of the sense himself.

"It means," said Stephen, "the fellows say they are jolly glad to get rid of us."

"Eh?" yelled Bramble; "oh, I say, you fellows, come to the meeting! Jolly glad! They aren't a bit glad."

"They say so," said Paul. "Hold hard, Bramble, let's read the rest."

It was all his friends could do to restrain the ardent Bramble from summoning a meeting on the spot to denounce the Dominican and all its "crams." But they managed to hold him steady while they read on.

"The Doctor never did a more—pat—pat—ri—what do you call it?— patriotic deed than this!"

"Hullo, I say, look here!" cried Stephen, turning quite yellow; "the Doctor's in it, they say, Bramble. 'The small animals'—that's you and Padger—'are to be kept in their own quarters.' Whew! there's a go."

"What!" shrieked Bramble, "who says so? The Doctor never said so. I shall do what I choose. He never said so. Bother the Doctor! Who's coming to the meeting, eh?"

But at that moment the grave form of Doctor Senior appeared in the midst of the group, just in time to hear Master Bramble's last complimentary shout.

The head master was in the most favourable times an object of terror to the "guilty-conscienced youth" of the Fourth Junior, and the sight even of his back often sufficed to quell their tumults. But here he stood face to face with his unhappy victims, one of whom had just cried, "Bother the Doctor!" and all of whom had by word and gesture approved of the sentiment. Why would not the pavement yawn and swallow them? And which of them would not at that moment have given a thousand pounds (if he had it) to be standing anywhere but where he was?

"Go to your class-room," said the Doctor, sternly, eyeing the culprits one by one, "and wait there for me."

They slunk off meekly in obedience to this order, and waited the hour of vengeance in blank dismay.

Dr Senior did not keep them long in suspense, however. His slow, firm step sounded presently down the corridor, and at the sound each wretched culprit quaked with horror.

Mr Rastle was in the room, and rose as usual to greet his chief; the boys also, as by custom bound, rose in their places. "Good morning, Mr Rastle," said the Doctor. "Are your boys all here?"

"Yes, sir, we have just called over."

"Ah! And what class comes on first?"

"English literature, sir."

"Well, Mr Rastle, I will take the class this morning, please—instead of you."

A groan of horror passed through the ranks of the unhappy Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles at these words. Bramble looked wildly about him, if haply he might escape by a window or lie hid in a desk; while Stephen, Paul, Padger, and the other ringleaders, gave themselves up for lost, and mentally bade farewell to joy for ever.

"What have the boys been reading?" inquired Dr Senior of Mr Rastle.

"Grey's Elegy, sir. We have just got through it."

"Oh! Grey's Elegy!" said the Doctor; and then, as if forgetting where he was, he began repeating to himself,—

"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea."

"The first boy,—what can you tell me about the curfew?" The first boy was well up in the curfew, and rattled off a "full, true, and particular account" of that fine old English institution, much to everybody's satisfaction. The Doctor went on repeating two or three verses till he came to the line,—

"The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep."

"What does that line mean?" he asked of a boy on the second desk.

The boy scarcely knew what it meant, but the boy below him did, and was quite eager for the question to be passed on. It was passed on, and the genius answered promptly, "Four old men."

"Four rude old men," shouted the next, seeing a chance.

"Four rude old men who used to sleep in church," cried another, ready to cap all the rest.

The Doctor passed the question on no further; but gravely explained the meaning of the line, and then proceeded with his repetition in rather a sadder voice.

Now and again he stopped short and demanded an explanation of some obscure phrase, the answers to which were now correct, now hazy, now brilliantly original. On the whole it was not satisfactory; and when for a change the Doctor gave up reciting, and made the boys read, the effect was still worse. One boy, quite a master of elocution, spoilt the whole beauty of the lines,—

"Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor,—"

by reading "animals" instead of "annals"; while another, of an equally zoological turn of mind, announced that—

"On some fond beast the parting soul relies,—"

instead of "breast."

But the climax of this "animal mania" was reached when the wretched Bramble, finally pitched upon to go on, in spite of all his efforts to hide, rendered the passage:—

"Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn," etcetera, as—

"Happy some hairy-headed swine may say."

This was a little too much.

"That will do, sir," said the Doctor, sternly. "That will do. What is your name, sir?"

"Bramble, please, sir."

"Well, Bramble, how long have you been in this class?"

"Two years, sir."

"And have you been all the while on the bottom desk?"

"Yes, please, sir."

"Sir, it displeases me. You are a dunce, sir."

And then, to Bramble's utter despair and to the terror of all the other unprofitable members of the class, the Doctor proceeded to catechise sharply the unhappy youth on his general knowledge of the subjects taught during the term.

As might be expected, the exhibition was a miserable one; Bramble was found wanting in every particular. The simplest questions could hardly coax a correct answer out of him, whereas an ordinary inquiry was hopelessly beyond his powers. He mixed up William the Conqueror and William of Orange; he subtracted what ought to be multiplied, and floundered about between conjunctions and prepositions in a sickening way. The Doctor did not spare him. He went ruthlessly on—exposing the boy's ignorance, first in one thing, then another. Bramble stood and trembled and perspired before him, and wished he was dead, but the questions still came on. If he had answered a single thing correctly it would have been a different matter, but he knew nothing. I believe he did know what twice two was, but that was the one question the Doctor did not ask him. As to French, Latin, Grammar, and Euclid, the clock on the wall knew as much of them as Bramble. It came to an end at last.

"Come here, Bramble," said the Doctor, gravely; "and come here, you, and you, and you," added he, pointing to Stephen and Paul and four or five others of the party who had been reading the Dominican that morning.

The luckless youngsters obeyed, and when they stood in a row before the dreaded Doctor, the bottom form and half of the bottom form but one were empty.

"Now, you boys," began the head master, very gravely, "I hadn't intended to examine you to-day; but, from something I heard one of you say, I felt rather anxious to know how some of you are doing in your studies. These half-dozen boys I was particularly anxious to know of, because I heard them talking to-day as if they were the most important boys in the whole school. They are the most important; for they are the most ignorant, and require, and in future will receive, the closest looking after. You, little boys," said the Doctor, turning to the row of abashed culprits, "take a word of warning from me. Do not be silly as well as dunces. Do not think, as long as you know least of any one in the school you can pretend to rule the school. I hope some of you have been led to see to-day you are not as clever as you would like to be. If you try, and work hard, and stick like men to your lessons, you will know more than you do now; and when you do know more you will see that the best way for little boys to get on is not by giving themselves ridiculous airs, but by doing their duty steadily in class, and living at peace with one another, and submitting quietly to the discipline of the school. Don't let me hear any more of this recent nonsense. You'll be going off in a day or two for the holidays. Take my advice, and think over what I have said; and next term let me see you in your right minds, determined to work hard and do your part honestly for the credit of the good old school. Go to your places, boys."

And so the Doctor's visitation came to an end. It made a very deep impression on the youthful members of the Fourth Junior. Most of them felt very much ashamed of themselves; and nearly every one felt his veneration and admiration for the Doctor greatly heightened. Only a few incorrigibles like Bramble professed to make light of the scene through which they had just passed, and even he, it was evident, was considerably chastened by his experience.

That evening, after the first bed-bell, Dr Senior requested some of the masters to meet with him for a few minutes in his study.

"Do any of you know," asked the head master, "anything about this newspaper, the Dominican, which I see hanging outside the Fifth door?"

"I hear a great many boys talking about it," said Mr Jellicott of the Fifth. "It is the joint production of several of the boys in my form."

"Indeed! A Fifth form paper!" said the Doctor. "Has any one perused it?"

"I have," said Mr Rastle. "It seems to me to be cleverly managed, though perhaps a little personal."

"Ah, only natural with schoolboys," said the Doctor. "I should like to see it. Can you fetch it, Rastle?"

"It is nailed to the wall," said Mr Rastle, smiling, "like Luther's manifesto; but I can get one of the boys, I dare say, to unfasten it for you."

"No, do not do that," said the Doctor. "If the mountain will not come to Mahomet, you know, Mahomet and his disciples must go to the mountain, eh, Mr Harrison? I think we might venture out and peruse it where it hangs." So half-stealthily, when the whole school was falling asleep, Dr Senior and his colleagues stepped out into the passage, and by the aid of a candle satisfied their curiosity as to the mysterious Dominican.

A good deal of its humour was, of course, lost upon them, as they could hardly be expected to understand the force of all the allusions it contained. But they saw quite enough to enable them to gather the general tenor of the paper; it amused and it concerned them.

"It shows considerable ability on the part of its editor," said the Doctor, after the masters had returned to his study, "but I rather fear its tone may give offence to some of the boys—in the Sixth for instance."

"I fancy there is a considerable amount of rivalry between the two head forms," said Mr Harrison.

"If there is," said Mr Jellicott, "this newspaper is hardly likely to diminish it."

"And it seems equally severe on the juniors," said Mr Rastle.

"Ah," said the Doctor, smiling, "about that 'strike.' I can't understand that. Really the politics of your little world, Rastle, are too intricate for any ordinary mortal. But I gather the small boys have a grievance against the big ones?"

"Yes, on the question of fagging, I believe."

"Oh!" said the Doctor. "I hope that is not coming up. You know I'm heretic enough to believe that a certain amount of fagging does not do harm in a school like ours."

"Certainly not," said Mr Jellicott. "But these small boys are really very amusing. They appear to be regularly organised, and some of them have quite a martyr spirit about them."

"As I can testify," said Mr Rastle, proceeding to recount the case of Stephen Greenfield and his sore cheek. The Doctor listened to it all, half gravely, half amused, and presently said: