"Well, it is as well the holidays are coming. Things are sure to calm down in them; and next term I dare say we shall be all the wiser for the lessons of this. Meanwhile I should like to see the editor of this paper to-morrow. Who is he, Jellicott?"

"I believe it is Pembury."

"Very well. Send him to me, will you, to-morrow at ten? Good-night. Thank you for your advice!"

Next morning the Doctor talked to Pembury about the Dominican. He praised the paper generally, and congratulated him on the success of his efforts. But he took exception to its personal tone.

"As long as you can keep on the broad round of humour and pure fun, nothing can please us more than to see you improving your time in a manner like this. But you must be very careful to avoid what will give pain or offence to any section of your schoolfellows. I was sorry to see in the present number a good deal that might have been well omitted of that kind. Remember this, Pembury, I want all you boys, instead of separating off one set from another, and making divisions between class and class, to try to make common cause over the whole school, and unite all the boys in common cause for the good of Saint Dominic's. Now your paper could help not a little in this direction. Indeed, if it does not help, it had better not be issued. There! I shall not refer to the matter again unless you give me cause. I do not want to discourage you in your undertaking, for it's really an excellent idea, and capitally carried out. And verbum sap, you know, is quite sufficient."

Anthony, with rather a long face, retired from the Doctor's presence.

A few days later the school broke up for the summer holidays.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A HOLIDAY ADVENTURE.

When a big school like Saint Dominic's is gathered together within the comparatively narrow compass of four walls, there is some possibility of ascertaining how it prospers, and what events are interesting it. But when the same school is scattered to the four winds of heaven during the holidays, it would require a hundred eyes and more to follow its movements.

It would be impossible, for instance, at one and the same time to accompany Raleigh and his sisters up Snowdon, and look on at Bramble catching crabs on the rocks at Broadstairs; nor, while we follow Dr Senior among the peaks and passes of Switzerland (and remark, by the way, what a nice quiet boy Tom Senior is, when he has only his father and his mother to tempt him into mischief) can we possibly expect to regard very attentively the doings of Simon, as he gapes about before the London shop-windows, and jerks off a score or more stanzas of his "Hart's Earnings," which is now about a quarter done.

So the reader must imagine how most of the boys spent their holidays, how they enjoyed them, and how they behaved themselves during the period, and be content to be told only about two groups of holiday-makers, about whom, as they are destined to figure pretty conspicuously in next term's doings at Saint Dominic's, it will be interesting to hear rather more particularly now.

And the first group—if we can call a single person a "group"—is Loman.

Loman began his holidays in anything but cheerful spirits. No one had seemed particularly sorry to say good-bye to him at Saint Dominic's, and a good many had been unmistakably glad. And he had quite enough on his mind, apart from this, to make his home-coming far less joyous than it might have been. It ought to have been the happiest event possible, for he was coming home to parents who loved him, friends who were glad to see him, and a home where every comfort and pleasure was within his reach. Few boys, indeed, were more blessed than Loman with all the advantages of a Christian and happy home; and few boys could have failed to return to such a home after a long absence without delight. But to Loman, these holidays, the surroundings of home afforded very little pleasure. His mind was ill at ease. The burden of debt was upon him, and the burden of suspense. He had tried hard to assure himself that all would come right—that he would certainly win the scholarship, and so wipe off the debt; but his confidence became less and less comfortable as time went on.

He dared not tell his troubles to his father, for he feared his upbraiding; and he would not confess them to his mother, for she, he knew, would tell all to his father. He still clung to the hope that all would come right in the end; and then what would have been gained by telling his parents all about it?

The one thing was hard work—and Loman came home determined to work. His parents saw him out of spirits, and were concerned. They did what they could to cheer him, but without much success.

"Come, Edward, put away your books to-day," his mother would say; "I want you to drive me over to Falkham in the pony-chaise."

"I really can't, mother; I must work for the scholarship."

"Nonsense, boy; what is a scholarship compared with your health? Besides, you'll work all the better if you take some exercise."

But for a week nothing could tempt him out. Then, instead of accompanying his father or mother, he would take long solitary rides on his own pony, brooding all the while over his troubles.

One day, when in the course of one of these expeditions he had taken the direction of Maltby—which was only fifteen miles distant from his home—he became suddenly aware of an approaching dog-cart in the road before him, and a familiar voice crying, "Why, if it ain't young Squire Loman, riding a bit of very tidy horseflesh too, as I'm a Dutchman!"

It was Cripps. What evil spirit could have brought him on the scene now?

"Well, I never reckoned to see you now," said he, in his usual jaunty manner. "Fact is, I was just trotting over to see you. I wanted to try what this here cob was made of, and, thinks I, I may as well kill two birds with one stone, and look up my young squire while I'm about it."

"Coming to see me!" exclaimed Loman, horrified. "I say, Cripps, you mustn't do that. My father would be very angry, you know."

"Nice, that is! As if I wasn't as good company as any one else!"

"Oh! it's not that," said Loman, fearing he had given offence. "What I mean is—"

"Oh, I know—about that there rod. Bless me! I won't let out on you, my beauty—leastways, if you come up to scratch. He'd like to hear the story, though, the old gentleman, I fancy. Wouldn't he now?"

"I wouldn't have him know it for worlds. It'll be all right, Cripps, indeed it will about the money."

Mr Cripps looked very benignant.

"All right, young swell, I hope it will. Funny I feel such an interest in you, 'specially since that young greeny friend of yours put in a word for you. He's a real nice sort, he is—he owes you one, and no mistake."

"What!" said Loman, in surprise; "who do you mean? Young Greenfield?"

"To be sure. Regular young chum of mine, he is. I know all about you, my master, and no mistake!"

"What—the young sneak? What has he been saying about me?"

"Eh!—what ain't he been saying! In course you didn't half murder him, eh? In course you ain't a good hand at cheatin' all round up at the school! What? In course you ain't saying nice things agin me all over the place—and in course some of us wouldn't like to see you get a reg'lar good hiding, wouldn't we? Bless you, I knows all about it; but I'm mum, never fear!" Loman was furious.

"The young liar!" he exclaimed. "I did owe him one; I'll pay him when we get back!"

"Hold hard, young gentleman," said Cripps, coolly. "To be sure, he ain't downright sweet on you; but I ain't a-going to have him smashed, mind, all to bits. Well, never mind that. I'll turn back with you, young gentleman, if I may. We're only three miles from Maltby, and maybe you'll honour a poor chap like me by having a look in at the Cockchafer."

Loman did not know how to say "No," much as he disliked and feared his host. He returned with him to Maltby, and there spent an hour in the Cockchafer. He was introduced to several of Mr Cripps's low friends, in whose society he found it easy enough to become low himself. Cripps, by a judicious mixture of flattery and sly threats, managed to keep the boy well in hand, and when at last he rose to go it was with a promise to return again before the holidays were over—"to prevent Cripps having the trouble of calling on him," as that virtuous gentleman significantly put it.

Loman kept his promise, and visited Maltby once or twice, becoming each time more familiar with Cripps and his low friends, who made a great deal of him, and flattered him on all possible occasions, so that the boy presently found himself, as he imagined, quite a young hero at the Cockchafer.

Meanwhile, naturally, his reading fell behindhand. His parents, only too glad to see their boy taking more regular exercise, never suspected or inquired as to the direction of his frequent solitary rides. To them he seemed the same quiet, clever boy they fondly believed him. Little guessed they of the troubles that filled his breast or the toils that were daily enwrapping him!

Thus Loman's holidays came to an end. The farewell was once more said, parents and son parted, and on the first day of an eventful term the boy found himself once more within the walls of Saint Dominic's.

Oliver and Stephen, meanwhile, had been spending a very different sort of holiday at home. There was high feast and revelry when the two boys returned once more to the maternal roof. Stephen for once in a way had the satisfaction of finding himself a most unmistakable hero. He never tired telling of his adventures and discoursing on the whole manner of his life since the day he left home for Saint Dominic's. To his sister he recounted in all the slang phraseology he had at his command, the famous cricket matches in which he had borne a part; and she, though it was exactly like Greek to her, drank in every word with interest. And to his mother he narrated his various fights with Bramble, and the terrific adventures through which he had passed, till the good lady's hair nearly stood on end, and she began to think a public school was a terrible place to send a small boy to.

Oliver, of course, had his stories to tell too, only in a more sober manner.

There was a great scene when, on the first day of the holidays, the elder brother produced his books and announced that he must study at least two hours a day in prospect of the Nightingale Scholarship examination. But every one knew how much depended on his winning that scholarship, and in a few years being able to go to the university, so that the family gave in in the end, and Oliver was allowed his two hours' study, but not a second more, every day. Stephen, meanwhile, taught his sister round-arm bowling, and devoted himself mind and body to the bicycle.

The two brothers, during these holidays, became very great cronies. At school Oliver had seen comparatively little of his young brother, but now they were daily and hourly thrown together, the brotherly instincts in each blossomed wonderfully, and a mutual attachment sprang up which had hardly been there before.

It had been arranged, before breaking-up, that Oliver and Wraysford should spend the last week of the holiday together in rowing down the Thames from Oxford to London.

Great was Stephen's joy and pride when one morning, near the appointed time, Oliver said to him, "Look here, Stee. How would you like to come with Wray and me next week?"

"Like! wouldn't I rather!" shouted the small boy in ecstasy. "Thanks, Noll, old man! I say, it will be a spree." And the youngster became so riotous over the prospect that his elder brother had to threaten not to take him at all, and give him a thrashing into the bargain, before he could be reduced to order.

They were to take a tent with them, and cooking utensils, so as to be quite independent of inns, and each voyager was to contribute his share of provender. Quite a Robinson Crusoe business, even down to the desert island, for on desert islands the boys had declared they intended every night to take up their quarters, and, come hail, snow, or lightning, there to sleep under their waterproof tent.

Mrs Greenfield didn't half like the idea, and became very pathetic on the subject of ague and rheumatic fever. But the boys carried the day by promising faithfully that they would catch neither malady. The looked-for day came at last, and to Oxford they went, where the familiar sight of Wraysford, in boating costume, at the railway station still further elated their high spirits. The boat was ready. The tent, the provender, the blankets, were snugly stowed away on board. The weather was fine, the river was charming, everything promised well; and punctually that Monday afternoon the three adventurers loosed from their moorings and turned the nose of their boat towards London.

I wish I could tell the reader all the events of that wonderful voyage: how they paddled down merrily with the stream; how they found their desert island covered with nettles, which they had to mow down with their oars; how the soup-kettle wouldn't act, and the stew-pan leaked; how grand the potted lobster tasted; how Stephen offered to make tea with muddy water, and how the paraffin oil of their lanterns leaked all over their plum-cake and sandwiches; how Stephen was sent up inland to forage, and came back with wonderful purchases of eggs and milk; how they started off one day leaving their tent behind them, and had to row back in a panic to recover it; how it rained one night, and a puddle formed on the roof of the tent, which presently grew so big that it overflowed and gave Wraysford a shower-bath; how each morning they all took headers into the stream, much to the alarm of the sleepy ducks; how they now and then ran foul of a boat, and now and then were turned off their camping ground by an indignant keeper! It was glorious fun. But it would take a volume to recount all that happened to them.

They were coming near the end of their cruise. They had paddled down past the magnificent woods of Cliveden, and under the pretty bridge of Maidenhead; they had watched the boys bathing at "Athens," and they had rowed through the gloomy shadow of Windsor Castle and on past Eton.

Here the river is broken by a string of islands, which in many parts make the stream narrow; and the river being full of boats and barges, our three adventurers found themselves called upon to exercise more than ordinary precautions in keeping their course. This responsibility became at last so irksome that Oliver said, "I say, can't we get out of this rabble anyhow? Why shouldn't we take the other side of the islands?"

"I don't know. It would be a good deal quieter. I wonder none of the boats do it."

"Let's try, anyhow. We can't be far from the lock, and then the river will be wider. Take us up inside the next island, Stee, and mind you don't foul any one while you're about it."

Stephen did as he was bid. The stream was pretty strong just there, and the two rowers had to pull pretty hard to get round without drifting on to the island.

Once out of the main stream, they were delighted to find the course clear. Indeed, they had the channel all to themselves.

"What a jolly pace the stream is going at!" said Stephen; "why don't you drift, you fellows, instead of pulling like that?"

"Good idea for you, young 'un," said Wraysford, pulling in his oar. Oliver followed his example.

"Keep a look-out ahead," said he to Stephen, "and sing out if any thing's coming."

Stephen said, "All right," but (careless pilot that he was) began pulling on his socks and shoes, which he had dispensed with during the morning.

Thus occupied, and the other two sitting with their backs to the prow, the unnatural pace at which the boat flew along did not for a moment or two become apparent. Suddenly, however, Wraysford started up.

"Get out your oar, Noll—quick!"

"What's the row?" said Oliver, proceeding leisurely to obey the order.

"The weir! Quick, man, quick, or we shall be on to it!"

They had indeed got into the race leading to the weir, and every moment the stream, swelled by recent rains, rushed faster.

"Pull your right—hard!" cried Wraysford, backing water while Oliver flew to his oar.

There was just time, by a tremendous effort, to save themselves; but Oliver's oar was caught under one of the seats, and before he could extricate it the precious opportunity was lost.

No one said a word. Stephen, with pale face, pulled his rudder string; and Wraysford, with his one oar, tried desperately to arrest the headlong progress of the boat.

There was a shout from the bank, and a nearer and louder one from the lock. They became conscious of a great half-open gate on their right, and a rush of footsteps beside them. Then, in far shorter time than it takes to write it, the boat, side on to the weir, lurched and dashed for a moment in the troubled water, and the next instant turned over, and the three boys were struggling in the water.

In an ordinary current such an adventure would have been of little moment, for the boys could swim. But in a torrent like this it was an awful peril. The swift flood sweeps on and sucks under its prey with fearful force. To resist it is impossible—to escape being dashed against its stony bottom is almost as impossible.

Mercifully for Oliver, he did escape this latter peril, and, being cool always in the presence of danger, he offered no resistance to the stream, but struck out hard under the water for as long as his breath would permit.

When at last, exhausted and unable to swim farther, he rose to the surface, he was in calm deep water many yards below the weir. Help was at hand, or he could never have reached the bank. As it was, when at last friendly arms did drag him ashore, he was too exhausted even to utter his brother's name.

Where was Stephen? and where was Wraysford?

Wraysford had been more fortunate even than Oliver in his first capsize. He was swept over the weir, indeed, but into a side eddy which brought him up violently against a projecting branch, to which he clung wildly. Here he would have been safe, and even able to help himself to shore. But at the moment when he began to draw himself up from the water on to the branch, there was something—an arm cast wildly up—in the water beside him. In an instant Wraysford quitted his hold and plunged once more into the rapid. How, he knew not, but he just reached the hapless boy. It was too late to recover the friendly branch. All he could do was to cling to Stephen and trust to reaching calm water safely. Many a bruise the two received in that terrible passage, but the elder boy never once quitted his hold of the younger.

At last—it seemed an age—calm water was reached, providentially near the bank. Still clinging to one another, they were pulled ashore, bruised, stunned, but safe.

Thus ended this famous holiday cruise. The three boys kept their own secret, and talked little about the adventure, even to one another.

In due time the holidays ended, and the Dominicans reassembled once more in their venerable Alma Mater. Need I say there were three within those walls who, whatever they were before, were now friends bound together by a bond the closest of all—a bond which had stood the test of life and death?



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

AN OLD FIRE RE-KINDLED.

Saint Dominic's reassembled after the holidays in an amiable frame of mind.

The Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, as the Doctor had prophesied, had cooled down considerably in spirit during the period, and now returned quietly to work just as if the mighty "strike" had never existed. Stephen's regular fights with Bramble recommenced the very first day, so that everything was quite like old times.

Oliver found that the Fifth, all but one or two, had quite forgotten their suspicions of his bravery which had spoiled the pleasure of his last term, and there seemed every prospect of his getting through this with less risk to his quick temper than before.

As for the Sixth, the Fifth had forgiven them all their offences, and would have been quite prepared, had it been allowed, to live in peace with their seniors, and forget all the dissensions of the Summer term. But it was not allowed, and an event which happened early in the term served to revive all the old animosities between the two head classes.

At Saint Dominic's, for reasons best known to the all-wise beings who presided over its management, the principal examinations and "removes" of the year took place not, as in most schools, at the end of the Midsummer term, but at the beginning of the Autumn term, about Michaelmas; consequently now, with the examinations looming in the distance, everybody who had anything to hope for from hard work settled down to study like mad. Cricket was over for the year, and football had not begun. Except boating there was not much doing out of doors, and for that reason the season was favourable for work. Studies, which used to be bear-gardens now suddenly assumed an appearance of respectability and quiet. Books took the place of boxing-gloves, and pens of fencing-sticks. The disorderly idlers who had been in the habit of invading at will the quarters of the industrious were now given to understand they must "kick-up their heels" elsewhere. They might not want to grind, but others did.

The idlers of the Fifth, to whom this warning was addressed on every hand, had nothing for it but to obey, and, feeling themselves greatly ill-used, to retire sadly, to some spot where "they could kick-up a row to themselves."

Casting about them for such a spot, it happened that Braddy and Ricketts one day lit almost by accident on an old empty study, which some years since had been a monitor's room, but was now empty and tenantless.

It at once occurred to these two astute heroes that this would be a magnificent place for boxing-matches. In the other studies one was always banging against the corners of tables, or tripping over fenders, but here there was absolutely nothing, but four bare walls to interfere with anybody.

They called in two more friends—Tom Senior and another—who declared it was a splendid find, and the four thereupon took formal possession of their new territory, and inaugurated the event by a terrific eight-handed match.

Nothing could have been more satisfactory. The room was well out of the way; the studious ones of the Fifth were spared all annoyance, and the riotous ones had an asylum to go to. No one was a bit the worse for the move; every one, on the contrary, found himself decidedly the better.

"Go and kick-up a row in the monitor's room," became quite a common objurgation in the Form, among the diligent; as common, in fact, as "Come along, old man, and have it out in the monitor's room," was among the idlers.

But, as ill-luck would have it, this delightful retreat happened to be situated immediately over the study occupied by Wren of the Sixth. That worthy hero, seated one afternoon over his books, was startled by a terrific noise, followed by a vibration, followed by the rattling of all his tumblers in the cupboard, followed by a dull, heavy thud over his head, which tempted him to believe either that an earthquake was in progress, or that one of the chimney-stacks had fallen on to the roof. When, however, the noise was repeated, and with it were blended laughter and shouts of "Now then, let him have it!"

"Well parried!"

"Bravo, Bully!" and the like, Wren began to change his mind, and laid down his pen. He walked up the stairs to the upper landing, where, at once, the noise guided him to the old monitor's room. Then the truth dawned upon him. He stayed long enough to get a pretty clear idea of who the "new lodgers" were, and then prudently retired without attempting a parley single-handed.

But next morning, when the festive rioters of the Fifth approached once more the scene of their revels, what was their amazement and rage to find the door locked, and the following notice, on a piece of school paper, affixed to the panel—"Monitor's room. This room is closed by direction of the monitors."

You might have knocked them over with a feather, so stupefied were they by this announcement! They stared at the door, they stared at one another, and then they broke out into a tempest of rage.

"The blackguards! what do they mean?" exclaimed Braddy, tearing down the paper and crushing it up in his hands.

"Monitor's room, indeed!" cried Ricketts. "We'll let them see whose room it is!"

"Kick open the door, can't you?" said Tom Senior.

They did kick open the door between them. The lock was a weak one, and soon gave way.

Once inside, the evicted ones indulged their triumph by an uproar of more than usual vehemence, longing that it might tempt into their clutches the daring intruders who had presumed to interfere with their possession. No one came. They had their fling undisturbed. But before they quitted their stronghold one of their number, by diligent searching, had found in the lock of a neighbouring study-door a key which would fit theirs. Repairing, therefore, the catch, damaged by their late forcible entry, they calmly locked the door behind them when they went, and affixed to it, in the identical place where the other notice had hung, "Fifth Form. Private study. Not to be entered without permission."

Of course, the news of this interesting adventure soon spread, and for a day or two the diligent as well as the idle on either side looked on with increasing interest for the issue of the contest.

For a while the Fifth had the best of it. They defied the enemy to turn them out, and procured and fixed an additional lock on the door. The Sixth threatened to report the matter to the Doctor, and summoned the invaders for the last time to capitulate. The invaders laughed them to scorn, and protested the room belonged to them, and leave it they would not for all the monitors in the world. The monitors retired, and the Fifth enjoyed their triumph.

But next day the Doctor abruptly entered the Fifth Form room, and said, "There is an unoccupied room at the end of the top landing, which some boys in this class have been making use of to the annoyance of other boys. This room, please remember, is not to be entered in future without my permission."

Checkmate with a vengeance for the Fifth!

This event it was which, trivial in itself, re-kindled once more with redoubled heat the old animosity between the two head Forms at Saint Dominic's. Although the original quarrel had been confined to only half-a-dozen individuals, it became now a party question of intense interest. The Sixth, who were the triumphant party, could afford to treat the matter lightly and smile over it, a demeanour which irritated the already enraged Fifth past description. The two Forms cut one another dead in the passages. The Fifth would gladly have provoked their rivals to blows, but, like sensible men, the Sixth kept the right side of the law, and refused to have anything to do with the challenges daily hurled at them.

As might be expected, the affair did not long remain a secret from the rest of the school. The Fourth Senior, as a body, stood up for the Sixth, and the Third and Second, on the whole, sided with the Fifth. But when it came to the junior school—the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles—all other partisanship was thrown quite into the shade.

The quarrel was one completely after their own hearts. It had begun in a row, it had gone on in a row, and, if it ever ended, it would end in a row.

A meeting was summoned at the earliest opportunity to take the momentous matter into consideration.

"What I say," said Bramble, "is, it's a jolly good job!"

"What's a jolly good job?" demanded Stephen, who, of course, was red-hot for the Fifth.

"Why, chucking them out! I'm glad to see it, ain't you, Padger?"

"They didn't chuck them out!" roared Paul; "they went and sneaked to the Doctor, that's what they did!"

"I don't care! I say it's a jolly good job! Those who say it's a jolly good job hold up—"

"Shut up your row!" cried Stephen; "you're always sticking yourself up. I say it's a beastly shame, and I hope the Fifth will let them know it!"

"You're a young idiot, that's what you are!" exclaimed Bramble in a rage. "What business have you got at the meeting? Turn him out!"

"I'll turn you out!" replied the undaunted Stephen; "I've as much right here as you have. So there!"

"Turn him out, can't you?" roared Bramble. "Bah! who goes and swills ginger-beer down in a public-house in the town, eh?"

This most unexpected turn to the conversation startled Stephen. He turned quite pale as he replied, "I did, there! But I didn't go in at the public door. And you've been sneaking!"

"No, I haven't. Padger told me, didn't you, Padger? Padger peeped through the door, and saw you. Oh, my eye! won't I kick-up a shine about it! I'll let out on you, see if I don't. Bah, public-house boy! potboy, yah!"

Stephen's only answer to this was a book, accurately shied at the head of his enemy.

The subsequent proceedings at the meeting were a trifle animated, but otherwise not interesting to the reader. The chief result was that the Guinea-pigs emerged as uncompromising champions for the Fifth, and the Tadpoles equally strong for the Sixth, while Stephen felt decidedly uncomfortable as to the consequences of Bramble's discovery of his secret visits last term to the Cockchafer.

Stephen had in a confidential moment during the holidays told Oliver of these visits, and of his intimacy with Mr Cripps. The elder brother was very angry and astonished when he heard of it. He set before the boy, in no measured terms, the risk he was running by breaking one of the rules of the school; and, more than that, he said Cripps was a blackguard, and demanded of Stephen a promise, there and then, that he would never again enter the Cockchafer under any pretext whatever. Stephen, forced to submit, although not convinced that Cripps was such a wicked man as his brother made out, promised, but reserved to himself mentally the right to see Cripps at least once more at the Lock-House, there to return him the bicycle lantern, which it will be remembered that kind gentleman had lent the boy before the holidays. As to the Cockchafer, he was thoroughly frightened at the thought of having been seen there, and fully determined, even before Bramble's threat, never again to cross its threshold. After all, Stephen knew he had little enough to fear from that small braggadocio; Bramble had neither the wit nor the skill to use his discovery to any advantage. For a day or two he followed his adversary up and down the passages with cries of "Potboy!" till everybody was sick of the sound, and felt heartily glad when, one fine afternoon, Stephen quietly deposited his adversary on his back on the gravel of the playground.

But to return to the feud between Fifth and Sixth.

Things after a little seemed to quiet down once more. The exiled rioters, after a long and disheartening search, found rest for the soles of their feet in Tom Senior's study, which, though not nearly so convenient, afforded them asylum during their pugilistic encounters.

The studious ones settled down once more to their work, and the near approach of the examinations presently absorbed all their attention.

The struggle for the Nightingale Scholarship naturally was regarded with the most intense interest—not because it was the most important examination of the year: it was not. Not because it was worth 50 pounds a year for three years. That to most of the school was a minor consideration. It was as nothing to the fact that of the three candidates for the scholarship one was a Sixth Form boy and two Fifth. If only one of the latter could come out first, the Fifth and their partisans, all the school over, felt that the insult of the past month would be wiped out, and the glory of the Form avenged for ever. And it must be confessed that the Sixth, however much they professed to ignore the rivalry of their juniors, were equally anxious for their own man, and of late Loman had been working hard. He had worked, so it was reported, during the holidays, and now, ever since term had begun, he had remained more or less secluded in his study, or else, with a book under his arm, had taken walks outside.

Of course, the Sixth Form boy would win! Who ever heard of a Fifth boy beating a Sixth? And yet, in Oliver and Wraysford, the Fifth, every one admitted, had two strong men. They would at least make a hard fight for the prize. The Sixth only hoped they would not run their man too close, and so make the glory of his certain victory at all doubtful.

Loman was not a favourite even with his own class-fellows, but they could forgive anything now, provided he made sure of the Nightingale.

"He'll be all right!" said Callonby to Wren one day, when the two happened to hit on the topic of the hour; "he's a great deal steadier than he was last term."

"I wish he'd read indoors, then, and not be everlastingly trotting out with his books."

"Oh! I don't know; it's much jollier reading out of doors, if you can do it."

"As long as he does read. Well, it will be a regular sell if he comes to grief; the Fifth will be intolerable."

"They're not far short of that now. Hullo!" This exclamation was provoked by the sight of Loman in the playground under their window. He was returning from one of his studious rambles, with his book under his arm, slowly making for the school.

There was nothing in this to astonish the two boys as they looked down. What did astonish them was that he was walking unsteadily, with a queer, stupid look on his face, utterly unlike anything his schoolfellows had ever seen there before. They watched him cross the playground and enter the school-house. Then Wren said, gravely, "It's all up with the Nightingale, at that rate."

"Looks like it," said the other, and walked away. Loman was returning from one of his now frequent visits to the Cockchafer.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

A CRISIS.

The eventful day, which at the beginning of the term had seemed an age away, slowly but surely drew near.

This was Saturday. On Monday the examination would be over, and in a week the competitors would know their fates!

Some of my readers may know the queer sensation one sometimes gets at the approach of a long-looked-for and hardly-worked-for examination. For a week or so you have quietly been counting up what you do know. Now there breaks upon you an awful picture of what you do not know, and with it the absolute conviction that what you do not know is exactly what you ought to know, and what you do know is no use at all. It is too late to do anything. You cannot get up in a day what it would take you a fortnight to go through. And it is not much good, now you are sure it is useless, to go over again what you have done. You begin to feel a sort of despair, which becomes, as the hours close in, positively reckless. What do you care if you do miss? What's the use of bothering any more about it? It cannot be helped; why make yourself miserable? Only, you would give worlds to have the thing all over. Such at least were the sensations which stirred in the breasts of Oliver Greenfield and Horace Wraysford as they sat somewhat dejectedly over their books in Oliver's study that Saturday afternoon.

They had both worked hard since the holidays, generally together, neither concealing from the other what he had read or what he intended to read. Very bad rivals were these two, for though each was intent on winning the scholarship, each felt he would not break his heart if the other beat him, and that, as every one knows, is a most unheard-of piece of toleration. Now, however, each felt he had had enough of it. Oliver in particular was very despondent. He slammed up his books suddenly, and said, "I give it up; it's not a bit of use going on!"

Wraysford pushed back his chair slowly, and said, not very cheeringly, "Upon my word I think you're right, Noll."

"I've a good mind," said Oliver, looking very morose, "to scratch, and leave you and Loman to fight it out."

"Don't be a jackass, Noll," replied Wraysford, half laughing. "That would be a sensible thing to do!"

"All very well for you to laugh," said Oliver, his brow clouding. "You know you are well up and are going to win."

"I'm no better up than you are," said the other.

"You know you're going to win," repeated Oliver.

"I only wish I did," said Wraysford, with a sigh.

"Why," pursued Oliver, evidently bent on a melancholy tack, "I assure you, Wray, I've forgotten half even of what I did know. I was going over some of those brutal Roman History dates in bed last night, for instance, and I positively couldn't remember one. Then I tried the map of Greece, but I was still worse there; I couldn't remember where one single place was except Athens and Corinth, and I'm sure I used to be pretty well up in that."

"I expect you were half asleep at the time," suggested his friend.

"No, I wasn't; I couldn't sleep a wink. I say, Wray, wouldn't it be jolly if we only knew now what the questions are going to be on Monday?"

"Why don't you go and ask the Doctor?" said Wraysford, laughing; "he'd be delighted to tell you."

"What a humbug you are, Wray! I say, suppose we shut up work now and have a turn on the river. I'm certain it will do us more good than cracking our skulls here."

"Just what I had been thinking. I'm game, and it can't make much difference."

"I suppose Loman is grinding up to the last?"

"I suppose so; I was almost in hopes he wouldn't keep it up."

"Never mind, it will all be over on Monday; that's a comfort! Come along, old man. Suppose we get young Stee to cox us up to the lock and back."

Hue and cry was forthwith made for Stephen, but he was not to be found. He was out, Paul said; at the post, or somewhere.

"Oh, all right; you can come and cox us yourself, youngster," said Wraysford.

"Cox you!" exclaimed Paul; "why, ain't the Nightingale exam coming on, then, on Monday?"

"Of course it is!"

"And you two going out to row! I say, the Sixth will win it if you don't look-out!" said Paul, in a very concerned voice.

It was quite a revelation to the two boys to discover how great was the interest taken by outsiders in the coming event. Paul was in a great state of alarm, and was actually inclined to refuse to aid and abet what he imagined to be a wicked waste of precious opportunity, until, putting his head into Loman's study, he found that the Sixth Form fellow was also not at work.

When Oliver and Wraysford appeared in boating flannels in the playground they created as much sensation as if they had been ghosts.

"You don't mean to say you're going out, you fellows?" exclaimed Ricketts, one of the idle ones of the Fifth.

"Yes, I do," said Wraysford.

"But the Nightingale, I say?"

"That's not till Monday."

"I know; but aren't you grinding for it? I say, don't let them beat you! Hadn't you better work instead of going out?"

Ricketts, by the way, had not done a stroke of work that he could possibly help all the term!

All the other Fifth Form fellows they encountered echoed more or less anxiously the same advice. But the two friends were obdurate. Threats, promises, entreaties, would not put them off their row up the river, and they went on their way, leaving behind them an unusual gloom on the spirits of their dearest friends.

The only person who seemed really glad to see them leaving their work was Bramble. He, with his friend Padger, and a few other irreconcilables, were just returning from a rat-catching expedition, and the sight of the Fifth Form heroes in boating costume filled them with joy.

"Hullo—my eye—hurrah!" shouted Bramble, taking in the situation in a moment. "There they go! I hope they get drowned; don't you, Padger?"

Padger was understood to assent to this benevolent aspiration.

"Go it. You'll get the Nightingale! I thought you would! Hope you get drowned, do you hear! Hurrah for the Sixth!"

At this juncture Master Paul gave chase, and for a few moments Bramble and his friends were too much engaged to speak; but at last, when the chase was over, and further reprisals were out of the question, the hero of the Tadpoles summoned up all his remaining powers to yell:

"Yah boo, Nightingale! Hope you get drowned! Yah!" after which he went his way.

The two friends paddled quietly up the river. They talked very little, but both felt relieved to be away from their books. As they went on their spirits rose, greatly to Paul's displeasure. That young gentleman, immoderately jealous for the glory of the Fifth, was content as long as the two rowers remained grave and serious; he could then make himself believe they were engaged in mental exercises favourable to Monday's examination. But as soon as they began to whistle, and chaff him and one another, and talk of their holiday adventures, Paul became displeased, for they could not possibly do this and be inwardly preparing for the examination at the same time.

However, he had to submit as best he could, and gave all his attention to steering them carefully, so that it should be no fault of his, at any rate, if they were prevented from showing up on the critical day.

"This old Shar isn't half such a jolly river as the Thames, is it, Wray?"

"Rather not!" replied Wraysford, resting on his oar; "and yet it's pretty enough in parts."

"Oh, up at the weir?—yes. But I'm out of love with weirs at present. I shudder every time I think of that one up the Thames."

"It wasn't pleasant, certainly," said Wraysford.

"Pleasant! Old man, if you hadn't been there it would have been a good deal worse than unpleasant. Poor Stee!"

"Pull your left, Greenfield senior, or you'll be into the bank!" sung out Paul.

They paddled on again until Gusset Lock came in sight. There were very few boats about; the season was, in fact, at an end, and the river, which a month or two ago had generally swarmed with boats just at this part on Saturday afternoons, looked quite deserted.

"Shall we go through the lock or turn round?" inquired Paul.

"May as well turn, eh, Wray?"

Paul was about to obey the order and turn the boat, when, casting his eyes on the bank, he started suddenly to his feet and exclaimed, pointing towards the lock-house, "Hullo! I say, there's something up there!"

The two others looked round; something more lively than usual was undoubtedly taking place at old Mr Cripps's residence, to judge by the shouts and laughter which proceeded from the group of people assembled near the door.

From where they were the boys in the boat could not see what the nature of the excitement was, and therefore paddled on with a view to satisfy their curiosity.

As they came up to the lock Paul suddenly exclaimed, "That's young Greenfield!"

"What!" said Oliver—"Stephen?"

"Yes, and—what on earth are they doing to him?"

The boat being low down under the bank, it was impossible to see what was going on on the tow-path. Oliver, however, having once heard Stephen's name, ordered Paul to put them into the opposite bank quick, where they could land.

While this was being done a shriek from the bank sent the blood suddenly to the faces of the two friends. It was Stephen! They dashed ashore, and in a moment were across the lock and on the spot. The spectacle which met their eyes as they came up was a strange one. The central figure was the luckless Stephen, in the clutches of three or four disreputable fellows, one of whom was Cripps the younger, who, with loud laughter at the boy's struggles and brutal unconcern at his terror, were half dragging, half carrying him towards the water's edge.

Beside them stood Loman, flushed, excited, and laughing loudly. Poor Stephen, very unlike himself, appeared to be utterly cowed and terrified, and uttered shriek upon shriek as his persecutors dragged him along.

"Oh, don't! Please, Cripps! Don't let them, Loman—don't let them drown me!" he shouted.

A laugh was the only answer.

It was at this moment, and just when, to all appearances, the boy was about to be thrown into the water, that Oliver and Wraysford appeared on the scene.

Their appearance was so sudden and unexpected that the fellows, even though they did not know who the two boys were, were momentarily taken aback and dropped their prey.

With a bound Oliver sprang furiously on Cripps, who happened to be nearest him, and before that respectable gentleman knew where he was, had dealt him a blow which sent him staggering back in the utmost alarm and astonishment. Wraysford, no less prompt, tackled one of the other blackguards, while Stephen, now released, and cured of his momentary terror by the appearance of the rescuers, did his share manfully with one of the others.

The contest was short and sharp. A pair of well-trained athletic schoolboys, with a plucky youngster to help them, are a match any day for twice the number of half-tipsy cads. In a minute or two the field was clear of all but Cripps, who appeared, after his short experience, by no means disposed to continue the contest single-handed. As for Loman, he had disappeared.

"What is all this?" demanded Oliver, when at last, breathless and pale with excitement, he could find words.

"Oh, Noll!" cried Stephen, "I'll tell you all about it. But let's get away from here."

"No, I won't go!" shouted Oliver—"not till I know what it all means. You fellow!" added he, walking up to Cripps, "you'd better speak or I'll thrash you!"

Mr Cripps, who had had time to recover somewhat from his first surprise, looked a little inclined to defy his young antagonist, but, thinking better of it, suddenly assumed his usual impudent swagger as he replied, with a laugh, "Come, I say, you do do it well, you do! It was a joke—just a joke, young gentleman. You've no occasion to flurry yourself; we wouldn't have hurt a hair of the young gentleman's head. Ask Mr Loman."

"Where's Loman?" demanded Oliver. "Gone," said Stephen. "But I say, Noll, do come away. I'll tell you all about it. Do come."

Cripps laughed. "Don't you swallow all that young swell tells you. He's a nice boy, he is, but—well, he'd better mind what he says, that's all!"

"Do come away!" once more entreated Stephen.

"Yes, do come away," laughed Cripps, mimicking the boy's tones. "When I calls up at the school I'll let them all know what a nice young prig he is, coming down and drinking at my public-house and then turning round on me. Never fear! I'll let them know, my beauties! I'll have a talk with your Doctor and open his eyes for him. Good-bye, you sneaking young—"

"Look here!" said Wraysford, quietly walking up to the blackguard in the midst of this discourse, "if you don't stop instantly you'll be sorry for it."

Cripps stared a moment at the speaker, and at the first he held out. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel into the cottage, leaving the three boys standing in undisputed possession of the tow-path.

"Come on, how, old man!" said Wraysford; "we can't do any good by staying here."

Oliver looked disposed to resist, and cast a glance at the cottage door by which Cripps had just vanished. But he let himself be persuaded eventually, and turned gloomily towards the boat. Here Paul, who had been a witness of the fracas on the tow-path, was waiting, ready to steer home, and bursting with curiosity to hear all Stephen had to say.

Greatly to his disgust, Oliver said, peremptorily, "You'll have to walk home, Paul; Stephen will steer."

"Why, you said I might steer."

Oliver was in no humour for an argument, so he gave Paul a light box on his ears and advised him to go home quietly unless he wanted a thrashing, and not say a word to any one about what had occurred.

Paul had nothing for it but sulkily to obey, and walk back. At last the others got on board and put off homeward.

"Now," said Oliver, presently, resting on his oar and bending forward towards Stephen.

"Oh, Noll!" began that unhappy youngster, "I am so very, very sorry! it was all—"

"None of that," angrily interrupted the elder brother. "Just tell me how it came about."

Stephen, quite cowed by his brother's angry manner, told his story shortly and hurriedly.

"Why," he said, "you know I promised you never to go to the Cockchafer again, and I didn't, but I thought I ought to see Cripps and give him back the bicycle-lamp."

"Young muff!" ejaculated his brother.

"So," pursued Stephen, still more falteringly, "I thought I'd come up this afternoon."

"Well, go on, can't you?" said Oliver, losing his temper at the poor boy's evident uneasiness.

"Cripps asked me into the cottage, and there were some fellows there, smoking and drinking and playing cards."

"Was Loman one of them?" put in Wraysford.

"I think so," said poor Stephen, who had evidently started his story in the hope of keeping Loman's name quiet.

"Think so, you young cad!" cried Oliver. "Why can't you tell the truth straight out? Was he there or not?"

"Yes, he was. I did mean to tell the truth, Noll, really, only—only there's no need to get Loman in a row."

"Go on," said Oliver.

"They made fun of me because I wouldn't smoke and play with them. You know I promised mother not to play cards, Noll. I didn't mind that, though, but when I wanted to go away they—that is, Cripps—wouldn't let me. I tried to get away, but he stopped me, and they said they'd make me play."

"Who said? Did Loman?" inquired Oliver, again. "Why—yes," said Stephen falteringly, "he and the rest. They held me down in a chair, and made me take hold of the cards, and one of them opened my mouth and shouted beastly words down into it—ugh!"

"Was that Loman?"

"No," said Stephen, relieved to be able to deny it.

"What did he do?" demanded Oliver.

"They all—"

"What did Loman do, I say?" again asked Oliver.

It was no use trying to keep back anything.

"He pulled my ears, but not very hard. Really I expect it was only fun, Noll." This was said quite beseechingly. "I said I thought they were very wicked to be doing what they did; but they only laughed at that, and called me a prig."

"Much better if you'd kept what you thought to yourself," said Wraysford. "Well?"

"Oh, then they did a lot of things to rile me, and knocked me about because I wouldn't drink their stuff, and they swore too."

"Did Loman swear?"

"They all swore, I think," said Stephen; "and then, you know, when I wouldn't do what they wanted they said they'd throw me in the river, and then you fellows turned up."

"Did Loman tell them to throw you in the river?" said Oliver, whose brow had been growing darker and darker.

"Oh, no," exclaimed Stephen, "he didn't, really! I think he was sorry."

"Did he try to prevent it, then?" asked Oliver.

"Well, no; I didn't hear him say—" faltered Stephen; but Oliver shut him up, and turning to Wraysford said, "Wray, I shall thrash Loman."

"All serene," replied Wraysford; "you'd better have it out to-night."

"Oh, Noll!" cried Stephen in great distress; "don't fight, please. It was all my fault, for—"

"Shut up, Stee," said Oliver, quietly, but not unkindly. Then turning to Wraysford, he added, "After tea, then, Wray, in the gymnasium."

"Right you are!" replied his friend.

And then, without another word, the three rowed back to Saint Dominic's.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE FIGHT THAT DID NOT COME OFF.

On reaching Saint Dominic's the three boys discovered that the news of their afternoon's adventure had arrived there before them. Paul, despite his promise of secrecy, had not been able to refrain from confiding to one or two bosom friends, in strict confidence, his version of the fracas on the tow-path. Of course the story became frightfully distorted in its progress from mouth to mouth, but it flew like wildfire through Saint Dominic's all the same.

When Oliver and his friend with Stephen entered the school-house, groups of inquisitive boys eyed them askance and whispered as they went by. It seemed quite a disappointment to not a few that the three did not appear covered with blood, or as pale as sheets, or with broken limbs. No one knew exactly what had happened, but every one knew something had happened, and it would have been much more satisfactory if the heroes of the hour had had something to show for it.

Oliver was in no mood for gratifying the curiosity of anybody, and stalked off to his study in gloomy silence, attended by his chum and the anxious Stephen.

A hurried council of war ensued.

"I must go and challenge Loman at once," said Oliver.

"Let me go," said Wraysford.

"Why?"

"Because most likely if you go you'll have a row in his study. Much better wait and have it out decently in the gymnasium. I'll go and tell him."

Oliver yielded to this advice.

"Look sharp, old man," he said, "that's all."

Wraysford went off on his mission without delay.

He found Loman in his study with his books before him.

"Greenfield senior wants me to say he'll meet you after tea in the gymnasium if you'll come there," said the ambassador.

Loman, who was evidently prepared for the scene, looked up angrily as he replied, "Fight me? What does he want to fight me for, I should like to know!"

"You know as well as I do," said Wraysford.

"I know nothing about it, and what's more I'll have nothing to do with the fellow. Tell him that."

"Then you won't fight?" exclaimed the astounded Wraysford.

"No, I won't to please him. When I've nothing better to do I'll do it;" and with the words his face flushed crimson as he bent it once more over his book.

Wraysford was quite taken aback by this unexpected answer, and hesitated before he turned to go.

"Do you hear what I say?" said Loman. "Don't you see I'm working?"

"Look here," said Wraysford, "I didn't think you were a coward."

"Think what you like. Do you suppose I care? If Greenfield wants so badly to fight me, why didn't he do it last term when I gave him the chance? Get out of my study, and tell him I'll have nothing to do with him or any of your stuck-up Fifth!"

Wraysford stared hard at the speaker and then said, "I suppose you're afraid to fight me, either?"

"If you don't clear out of my study I'll report you to the Doctor, that's what I'll do," growled Loman.

There was no use staying, evidently; and Wraysford returned dejectedly to Oliver.

"He won't fight," he announced.

"Not fight!" exclaimed Oliver. "Why ever not?"

"I suppose because he's a coward. He says because he doesn't choose."

"But he must fight, Wray. We must make him!"

"You can't. I called him a coward, and that wouldn't make him. You'll have to give it up this time, Noll."

But Oliver wouldn't hear of giving it up so easily. He got up and rushed to Loman's study himself. But it was locked. He knocked, no one answered. He called through the keyhole, but there was no reply. Evidently Loman did not intend to fight, and Oliver returned crestfallen and disappointed to his study.

"It's no go," he said, in answer to his friend's inquiry.

"Oh, well, never mind," said Wraysford. "Even if you could have fought, I dare say it wouldn't have done much good, for he's such a sullen beggar there would have been no making it up afterwards. If I were you I wouldn't bother any more about it. I'll let all the fellows know he refused to fight you!"

"What's the use of that?" said Oliver. "Why tell them anything about it?"

But tell them or not tell them, the fellows knew already. It had oozed out very soon that a fight was coming off, and instantly the whole school was in excitement. For, however little some of them cared about the personal quarrel between Oliver and Loman, a fight between Fifth and Sixth was too great an event to be passed by unheeded.

The Fifth were delighted. They knew their man could beat Loman any day of the week, and however much they had once doubted his courage, now it was known he was the challenger every misgiving on that score was done away with.

"I tell you," said Ricketts to a small knot of his class-fellows, "he could finish him up easily in one round."

"Yes," chimed in another knowing one, "Loman's got such a wretched knack of keeping up his left elbow, that he's not a chance. A child could get in under his guard, I tell you; and as for wind, he's no more wind than an old paper bag!"

"I wish myself it was a closer thing, as long as our man won," said Tom Senior, with a tinge of melancholy in his voice. "It will be such a miserably hollow affair I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry it's not Wren, or Callonby, or one of them," said another of these amiable warriors; "there'd be some pleasure in chawing them up."

At this moment up came Pembury, with a very long face.

"It's no fight after all, you fellows," said he. "Loman funks it!"

"What! he won't fight!" almost shrieked the rest. "It must be wrong."

"Oh, all right, if it's wrong," snarled Pembury. "I tell you there's no fight; you can believe it or not as you like," and off he hobbled, in unusual ill-humour.

This was a sad blow to the Fifth. They saw no comfort anywhere. They flocked to Oliver's study, but he was not there, and Wraysford's door was locked. The news, however, was confirmed by other reporters, and in great grief and profound melancholy the Fifth swallowed their tea, and wondered if any set of fellows were so unlucky as they.

But their rage was as nothing to that of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles.

These amiable young animals had of course sniffed the battle from afar very early in the evening, and, as usual, rushed into all sorts of extremes of enthusiasm on the subject. A fight! A fight between Fifth and Sixth! A fight between Greenfield senior and a monitor! Oh, it was too good to be true, a perfect luxury; something to be grateful for, and no mistake!

Of course a meeting was forthwith assembled to gloat over the auspicious event.

Bramble vehemently expressed his conviction that the Sixth Form man would eat up his opponent, and went the length of offering to cut off his own head and Padger's if it turned out otherwise.

Paul and his friends, on the other hand, as vehemently backed the Fifth fellow.

"When's it to come off, I say?" demanded Bramble.

"To-night, I should say, or first thing in the morning."

"Sure to be to-night. My eye! won't Greenfield senior look black and blue after it!"

"No, he won't," cried Paul.

"Turn him out!" shouted Bramble. "No one wants you here; do we, Padger? Get yourself out of the meeting, you sneak!"

"Get yourself out!" retorted Paul.

The usual lively scene ensued, at the end of which the door suddenly opened, and a boy entered.

"Look sharp," he cried: "it's half over by now. They were—"

But what the end of his sentence was to be, history recordeth not. With a simultaneous yell the youngsters rushed headlong from the room, down the passages, out at the door, across the quadrangle, and into the gymnasium. Alas! it was empty. Only the gaunt parallel bars, and idle swings, and melancholy vaulting-horse.

With a yelp of anger the pack cried back, and made once more for the school-house. At the door they met Stephen.

"Where's the fight, young Greenfield?" shouted Bramble.

"Nowhere," replied Stephen.

"What! not coming off?" shrieked the youngsters.

"No," laconically answered Stephen.

"Has your brother funked it again?" demanded Bramble, in his usual conciliatory way.

"He never funked, you young cad!" retorted the young brother.

"Yes, he did, didn't he, Padger? That time, you know, last term. But I say, Greenfield junior, why ever's the fight not coming off?"

"Loman won't fight, that's why," said Stephen; and then, having had quite enough of catechising, turned on his heel and left the indignant youngsters to continue their rush back to the Fourth Junior, there to spend an hour or so in denouncing the caddishness of everybody and to make up by their own conflicts for the shortcomings of others.

Oliver meanwhile had settled down as best he could once more to work, and tried to forget all about the afternoon's adventures. But for a long time they haunted him and disturbed him. Gradually, however, he found himself cooling down under the influence of Greek accents and Roman history.

"After all," said he to Wraysford, "if the fellow is a coward why need I bother? Only I should have rather liked to thrash him for what he did to Stee."

"Never mind—thrash him over the Nightingale instead."

The mention of the Nightingale, however, did not serve to heighten Oliver's spirits at all.

He turned dejectedly to his books, but soon gave up further study.

"You can go on if you like," said he to Wraysford. "I can't. It's no use. I think I shall go to bed."

"What! It's not quite nine yet."

"Is that all it is? Never mind; good-night, old man. I'm glad it will all be over on Monday."

Before Oliver went to bed he had a talk with Stephen in his study. He succeeded in putting pretty vividly before his young brother the position in which he had placed himself by going down to the public-house and associating with a man like Cripps.

"What I advise you is, to make a clean breast of it to the Doctor at once. If he hears of it any other way, you're done for." Oliver certainly had an uncompromising way of putting things.

"Oh, Noll, I never could! I know I couldn't. I say, will you? You can tell him anything you like."

Oliver hesitated a moment, and then said, "All serene; I'll do it. Mind, I must tell him everything, though."

"Oh, yes! I say, do you think I'll be expelled?"

"I hope not. There's no knowing, though."

"Oh, Noll! what shall I do?"

"It's your only chance, I tell you. If Cripps comes up and talks about it, or Loman tells, you're sure to be expelled."

"Well," said Stephen, with a gulp, "I suppose you'd better tell him, Noll. Need I come too?"

"No, better not," said Oliver. "I'll go and see if he's in his study now. You go up stairs, and I'll come and tell you what he says."

Stephen crawled dismally away, leaving his brother to fulfil his self-imposed task.

Oliver went straight to the Doctor's study. The door stood half-open, but the Doctor was not there. He entered, and waited inside a couple of minutes, expecting that the head master would return; but no one came. After all, he would have to put off his confession of Stephen's delinquencies till to-morrow; and, half relieved, half disappointed, he quitted the room. As he came out he encountered Simon in the passage.

"Hullo, Greenfield!" said that worthy; "what have you been up to in there?"

"I want the Doctor," said Oliver; "do you know where he is?"

"If saw him go up stairs a minute ago; that is, I mean down stairs, you know," said the lucid poet.

This information was sufficiently vague to determine Oliver not to attempt a wild-goose chase after the Doctor that night, so, bidding a hurried good-night to Simon, he took his way down the passage which led to Stephen's dormitory.

He had not, however, gone many steps when a boy met him. It was Loman. There was a momentary struggle in Oliver's breast. Here was the—very opportunity which an hour or two ago he had so eagerly desired. The whole picture of that afternoon's adventures came up before his mind, and he felt his blood tingle as his eyes caught sight of Stephen's persecutor. Should he pay off the score now?

Loman saw him, and changed colour. He evidently guessed what was passing through his enemy's mind, for a quick flush came to his face and an angry scowl to his brow.

Oliver for one moment slackened pace. Then suddenly there came upon him a vision of Stephen's appealing face as he interceded that afternoon for the boy who had done him such mischief, and that vision settled the thing.

Hurriedly resuming his walk, Oliver passed Loman with averted eyes, and went on his way.

"Well?" said Stephen, in the midst of undressing, as his brother entered the dormitory.

"He wasn't there. I'll see him in the morning," said Oliver. "Good-night, Stee."

"Good-night, Noll, old man! I say, you are a brick to me!" and as the boy spoke there was a tremble in his voice which went straight to his brother's heart.

"You are a brick to me!" A pretty "brick" he had been, letting the youngster drift anywhere—into bad company, into bad ways, without holding out a hand to warn him; and in the end coming to his help only by accident, and serving him by undertaking a task which would quite possibly result in his expulsion from the school.

A brick, indeed! Oliver went off to his own bed that night more dispirited and dissatisfied with himself than he had ever felt before. And all through his dreams his brother's troubled face looked up at him, and the trembling voice repeated, again and again, "You are a brick to me—a brick to me!"



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE NIGHTINGALE EXAMINATION.

The next morning early, before breakfast, Oliver joined the Doctor in his study, and made a clean breast to him there and then of Stephen's delinquencies. He had evidently taken the right step in doing so, for, hearing it all thus frankly confessed by the elder brother, Dr Senior was disposed to take a much more lenient view of the case than he would had the information come to him through any other channel.

But at its best the offence was a grave one, and Oliver more than once felt anxious at the sight of the head master's long face during the narrative. However, when it was all over his fears were at once dispelled by the doctor saying, "Well, Greenfield, you've done a very proper thing in telling me all this; it is a straightforward as well as a brotherly act. Your brother seems to have been very foolish, but I have no doubt he has got a lesson. You had better send him to me after morning service."

And so, much relieved, Oliver went off and reported to the grateful Stephen the success of his mission, and the two boys went off to the school chapel together a good deal more happy than they had been the previous day.

"I say," said Stephen, as they went along, "I suppose you didn't say anything about Loman, did you?"

"Of course not! he's no concern of mine," said Oliver, rather tartly. "But look here, young 'un, I'm not going to let you fag any more for him, or have anything to do with him."

"All right!" said Stephen, who had no desire to continue his acquaintance with his late "proprietor."

"But the captain will row me, won't he?"

"If he does I'll make that square. You can fag for Wraysford if you like, though, he wants a fellow."

"Oh, all right!" cried Stephen, delighted, "that'll be jolly! I like old Wray."

"Very kind of you," said a voice close by.

It was Wraysford himself, who had come in for this very genuine compliment.

"Hullo! I say, look here, Wraysford," said the beaming Stephen, "I'm going to cut Loman and fag for you. Isn't it jolly?"

"Depends on whether I have you. I don't want any Guinea-pigs in my study, mind."

Stephen's face fell. For even such a privilege as fagging for Wraysford he could not afford to sever the sacred ties which held him to the fellowship of the Guinea-pigs. "I really wouldn't kick-up shines," said he, imploringly.

"You'd be a queer Guinea-pig if you didn't!" was the flattering answer. "And how many times a week would you go on strike, eh?"

"Oh!" said Stephen, "I'll never go on strike again; I don't like it."

The two friends laughed at this ingenuous admission, and then Wraysford said, "Well, I'll have you; but mind, I'm awfully particular, and knock my fags about tremendously, don't I, Noll?"

"I don't mind that," said the delighted Stephen. "Besides, you've not had a fag to knock about!"

At that moment, however, the bell for morning chapel cut short all further talk for the present. Stephen obeyed its summons for once in a subdued and thankful frame of mind. Too often had those weekly services been to him occasions of mere empty form, when with his head full of school worries or school fun he had scarcely heard, much less heeded, what was said.

To-day, however, it was different. Stephen was a sobered boy. He had passed through perils and temptations from which, if he had escaped, it had been through no merit of his own. Things might have been far different. His life had been saved, so had his peace of mind, and now even the consequences of old transgressions had been lightened for him. What had he done to deserve all this?

This was the question which the boy humbly asked himself as he entered the chapel that morning, and the Doctor's sermon fitted well with his altered frame of mind.

It was a sermon such as he had often heard before in that chapel; the words struck him now with a new force which almost startled him. "Forgetting those things which are behind—reaching forth unto those things which are before,"—this was the Doctor's text, and in the few simple words in which he urged his hearers to lay the past, with all its burdens, and disappointments, and shame, upon Him in whom alone forgiveness is to be found, Stephen drank in new courage and hope for the future, and in the thankfulness and penitence of his heart resolved to commit his way more honestly than ever to the best of all keeping, compared with which even a brother's love is powerless.

Before the morning was over Stephen duly went to the Doctor, who talked to him very seriously. I need not repeat the talk here. Stephen was very penitent, and had the good sense to say as little as possible; but when it was all over he thanked the Doctor gratefully, and promised he should never have to talk to him for bad conduct again.

"You must thank your brother for my not dealing a great deal more severely with the case," said Dr Senior; "and I am quite ready to believe it will not occur again. Now, good-bye."

And off Stephen went, the happiest boy alive, determined more than ever to respect the Doctor's authority, and prove himself a model boy.

Sunday afternoon at Saint Dominic's was usually spent by the boys in fine weather, in strolling about in the gardens, or rambling into the woods by the banks of the Shar.

This afternoon, however, was somewhat overcast, and a good many of the boys consequently preferred staying indoors to running the risk of spoiling their best hats in a shower. Among those who kept the house was Oliver, who, in reply to Wraysford's invitation to go out, pleaded that he was not in the humour.

This indeed was the case, for, now that Stephen's affairs were settled, the dread of the approaching Nightingale examination came back over him like a nightmare, and made him quite miserable. The nearer the hour of trial came the more convinced did Oliver become that he stood no chance whatever of winning, and with that conviction all the bright hopes of a university course, and the prospects of after-success, seemed extinguished.

Of course it was very ridiculous of him to worry himself into such a state, but then, reader, he had been working just a little too hard, and it was hardly his fault if he was ridiculous.

Wraysford, though by no means in high spirits, kept his head a good deal better, and tried to enjoy his walk and forget all about books, as if nothing at all was going to happen to-morrow. As for Loman, he was not visible from morning till night, and a good many guessed, and guessed correctly, that he was at work, even on Sunday.

The small boys, not so much though, I fear, out of reverence for the day as for partisanship of the Fifth, were very indignant on the subject, and held a small full-dress meeting after tea, to protest against one of the candidates taking such an unfair advantage over the others.

"He ought to be expelled!" exclaimed Paul.

"All very well," said Bramble. "Greenfield senior's cramming too, he's been in all the afternoon."

"He's not cramming, he's got a headache!" said Stephen.

"Oh, yes, I dare say, don't you, Padger? Got a headache—that's a nice excuse for copying out of cribs on a Sunday."

"He doesn't use cribs, and I tell you he's not working!" said Stephen, indignantly.

"Shut up, do you hear, or you'll get turned out, Potboy!"

This was too much for Stephen, who left the assembly in disgust, after threatening to take an early opportunity on the next day of giving his adversary "one for himself," a threat which we may as well say at once here he did not fail to carry out with his wonted energy.

The long Sunday ended at last—a Sunday spoiled to many of the boys of Saint Dominic's by distracting thoughts and cares—a day which many impatiently wished over, and which some wished would never give place to the morrow.

But that morrow came at last, and with it rose Oliver, strengthened and hopeful once more for the trial that lay before him. He was early at Wraysford's study, whom he found only just out of bed.

"Look alive, old man. What do you say to a dip in the river before breakfast? We've got plenty of time, and it will wash off the cobwebs before the exam."

"All serene," said Wraysford, not very cheerily, though. "Anything's better than doing nothing."

"Why, Wray, I thought you weren't going to let yourself get down about it?"

"I thought you weren't going to let yourself get up—why, you're quite festive this morning."

"Well, you see, a fellow can't do better than his best, and so as I have done my best I don't mean to punish myself by getting in the blues."

"Pity you didn't make that resolution yesterday. You were awfully glum, you know, then; and now I've got my turn, you see."

"Oh, never mind, a plunge in the Shar will set you all right."

"Stee," said he, addressing his younger brother, who at that moment entered proudly in his new capacity as Wraysford's fag, "mind you have breakfast ready sharp by eight, do you hear? the best you can get out of Wray's cupboard. Come along, old boy."

And so they went down to the river, Oliver in unusually good spirits, and Wraysford most unusually depressed and nervous. The bathe was not a great success, for Wraysford evidently did not enjoy it.

"What's wrong, old man?" said Oliver, as they walked back, "aren't you well?"

"I'm all right," said Wraysford.

"But you're out of spirits. It's odd that I was in dumps and you were in good spirits up to the fatal day, and now things are just reversed. But, I say, you mustn't get down, you know, or it'll tell against you at the exam."

"It strikes me every answer I give will tell against me. All I hope is that you get the scholarship."

"I mean to try, just like you and Loman."

And so they went into breakfast, which was a solemn meal, and despite Stephen's care in hunting up delicacies, not very well partaken of.

It seemed ages before the nine o'clock bell summoned them down to the Fifth Form room.

Here, however, the sympathy and encouragement of their class-fellows amply served to pass the time till the examination began.

"Well, you fellows," cried Pembury, as the two entered, "do you feel like winning?"

"Not more than usual," said Oliver. "How do you feel?"

"Oh, particularly cheerful, for I've nothing to do all day, I find. I'm not in for the Nightingale, or for the Mathematical Medal, or for the English Literature. Simon's in for that, you know, so there's no chance for any one."

Simon smiled very blandly at this side compliment.

"So you fellows," continued Tony, "may command my services from morning to night if you like."

"Loman was grinding hard all yesterday," said Braddy. "I'm afraid he'll be rather a hot one to beat."

"But we must beat him, mind, you fellows," said Ricketts, calmly, comprehending the whole class in his "we."

"Why, Wray," said another, "how jolly blue you look! Don't go and funk it, old man, or it's all UP."

"Who's going to funk it?" said Oliver, impatiently, on his friend's behalf. "I tell you Wray will most likely win."

"Well, as long as one of you does," said Tom Senior, with noble impartiality, "we don't care which; do we, Braddy?"

"Of course not."

So, then, all this sympathy and encouragement were not for the two boys at all, but for their Form. They might just as well have been two carefully trained racehorses starting on a race with heavy odds upon them.

The Doctor's entry, however, put an end to any further talk, and, as usual, a dead silence ensued after the boys had taken their seats.

The Doctor looked a little uneasy. Doubtless he was impressed, too, by the importance of the occasion. He proceeded to call over the lists of candidates for the different examinations in a fidgety manner, very unlike his usual self, and then turning abruptly to the class, said:

"The Mathematical Medal candidates will remain here for examination. The English Literature and Nightingale Scholarship candidates will be examined in the Sixth Form room. Boys not in for either of these examinations may go to their studies till the twelve o'clock bell rings. Before you disperse, however,"—and here the Doctor grew still more fidgety—"I want to mention one matter which I have already mentioned in the Sixth. I mention it not because I suspect any boy here of a dishonourable act, but because—the matter being a mystery—I feel I must not neglect the most remote opportunity of clearing it up."

What on earth was coming? It was as good as a ghost story, every one was so spellbound and mystified.

"On Saturday evening I had occasion to leave my study for rather less than five minutes, shortly after nine o'clock. I had been engaged in getting together the various papers of questions for to-day's examinations, and left them lying on the corner of the table. On returning to my study—I had not been absent five minutes—I found that one of the papers—one of the Nightingale Scholarship papers, which I had only just copied out, was missing. If I were not perfectly sure the full number was there before I left the room, I should conclude I was mistaken, but of that I am sure. I just wish to ask this one question here, which I have already asked in the Sixth. Does any boy present know anything about the missing paper?"

You might have heard a pin drop as the Doctor paused for a reply.

"No? I expected not; I am quite satisfied. You can disperse, boys, to your various places."

"What a fellow the Doctor is for speeches, Wray," said Oliver, as he and his friend made their way to the Sixth Form room.

"Yes. But that's a very queer thing about the paper, though."

"Oh, he's certain to have mislaid it somewhere. It's a queer thing saying anything about it; for it looks uncommonly as if he suspected some one."

"So it does. Oh, horrors! here we are at the torture-chamber! I wish it was all over!"

They entered the Sixth Form room, which was regularly cleared for action. One long desk was allotted to the three Nightingale candidates, two others to the English Literature boys, and another to the competitors in a Sixth Form Greek verse contest.

Loman was already in his place, waiting with flushed face for the ordeal to begin. The two friends took their seats without vouchsafing any notice of their rival, and an uncomfortable two minutes ensued, during which it seemed as if the Doctor were never to arrive.

He did arrive at last, however, bringing with him the examination papers for the various classes.

"Boys for the Greek verse prize come forward."

Wren, Raleigh, Winter, and Callonby advanced, and received each one his paper.

"Boys for the Nightingale Scholarship come forward."

The three competitors obeyed the summons, and to each was handed a paper.

It was not in human nature to forbear glancing hurriedly at the momentous questions, as each walked slowly back to his seat. The effect of that momentary glance was very different on the three boys. Wraysford's face slightly lengthened, Loman's grew suddenly aghast, Oliver's betrayed no emotion whatever.

"Boys for the English Literature prize come forward."

These duly advanced and were furnished, and then silence reigned in the room, broken only by the rapid scratching of pens and the solemn tick of the clock on the wall.

Reader, you doubtless know the horrors of an examination-room as well as I do. You know what it is to sit biting the end of your pen, and glaring at the ruthless question in front of you. You know what it is to dash nervously from question to question, answering a bit of this and a bit of that, but lacking the patience to work steadily down the list. And you have experienced doubtless the aggravation of hearing the pen of the man on your right flying along the paper with a hideous squeak, never stopping for a moment to give you a chance. And knowing all this, there is no need for me to describe the vicissitudes of this particular day of ordeal at Saint Dominic's.

The work went steadily on from morning to afternoon. More than one anxious face darted now and then nervous glances up at the clock, as the hour of closing approached.

Loman was one of them. He was evidently in difficulties, and the Fifth Form fellows, who looked round occasionally from their English Literature papers, were elated to see their own men writing steadily and hard, while the Sixth man looked all aground. There was one boy, however, who had no time for such observations. That was Simon. He had got hold of a question which was after his own heart, and demanded every second of his attention—"Describe, in not more than twelve lines of blank verse, the natural beauties of the River Shar." Here was a chance for the Dominican poet!

"The Shar is a very beautiful stream, Of the Ouse a tributary; Up at Gusset Weir it's prettiest, I ween, Because there the birds sing so merry."

These four lines the poet styled, "Canto One." Cantos 2, 3, and 4 were much of the same excellence, and altogether the effusion was in one of Simon's happiest moods. Alas! as another poet said, "Art is long, time is fleeting." The clock pointed to three long before the bard had penned his fifth canto; and sadly and regretfully he and his fellow-candidates gathered together and handed in their papers, for better or worse.

Among the last to finish up was Oliver, who had been working hammer and tongs during the whole examination.

"How did you get on?" said Wraysford, as they walked back to the Fifth.

"Middling, not so bad as I feared; how did you?"

"Not very grand, I'm afraid; but better than I expected," said Wraysford. "But I say, did you see how gravelled Loman seemed? I fancy he didn't do very much."

"So I thought; but I hadn't time to watch him much."

In the Fifth there was a crowd of questioners, eager to ascertain how their champions had fared; and great was their delight to learn that neither was utterly cast down at his own efforts.

"You fellows are regular bricks if you get it!" cried Ricketts.

"It'll be the best thing that has happened for the Fifth for a long time."

"Oh, I say," said Simon, suddenly, addressing Oliver in a peculiarly knowing tone, "wasn't it funny, that about the Doctor losing the paper? Just the very time I met you coming out of his study, you know, on Saturday evening. But of course I won't say anything. Only wasn't it funny?"

What had come over Oliver, that he suddenly turned crimson, and without a single word struck the speaker angrily with his open hand on the forehead?

Was he mad? or could it possibly be that—

Before the assembled Fifth could recover from their astonishment or conjecture as to the motive for this sudden exhibition of feeling, he turned abruptly to the door and quitted the room.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A TURN OF THE TIDE.

An earthquake could hardly have produced a greater shock than Oliver's strange conduct produced on the Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's. For a moment or two they remained almost stupefied with astonishment, and then rose a sudden clamour of tongues on every hand.

"What can he mean?" exclaimed one.

"Mean! It's easy enough to see what he means," said another, "the hypocrite!"

"I should never have thought Greenfield senior went in for that sort of thing!"

"Went in for what sort of thing?" cried Wraysford, with pale face and in a perfect tremble.

"Why—cheating!" replied the other.

"You're a liar to say so!" shouted Wraysford, walking rapidly up to the speaker.

The other boys, however, intervened, and held the indignant Wraysford back.

"I tell you you're a liar to say so!" again he exclaimed. "He's not a cheat, I tell you; he never cheated. You're a pack of liars, all of you!"

"I say, draw it mild, Wray, you know," interposed Pembury. "You needn't include me in your compliments."

Wraysford glared at him a moment and then coloured slightly.

"You don't call Oliver a cheat?" he said, inquiringly.

"I shouldn't till I was cock-sure of the fact," replied the cautious editor of the Dominican.

"Do you mean to say you aren't sure?" said Wraysford.

Pembury vouchsafed no answer, but whistled to himself.

"All I can say is," said Bullinger, who was one of Wraysford's chums, "it looks uncommonly ugly, if what Simon says is true."

"I don't believe a word that ass says."

"Oh, but," began Simon, with a most aggravating cheerfulness, "I assure you I'm not telling a lie, Wraysford. I'm sorry I said anything about it. I never thought there would be a row about it. I promise I'll not mention it to anybody."

"You blockhead! who cares for your promises? I don't believe you."

"Well, I know I met Greenfield senior coming out of the Doctor's study on Saturday evening, about five minutes past nine. I'm positive of that," said Simon.

"And I suppose he had the paper in his hand?" sneered Wraysford, looking very miserable.

"No; I expect he'd put it in his pocket, you know, at least, that is, I would have."

This candid admission on the part of the ingenious poet was too much for the gravity of one or two of the Fifth. Wraysford, however, was in no laughing mood, and went off to his study in great perturbation.

He could not for a moment believe that his friend could be guilty of such a dishonourable act as stealing an examination paper, and his impulse was to go at once to Oliver's study and get the suspicions of the Fifth laid there and then. But the fear of seeming in the least degree to join in those suspicions kept him back. He tried to laugh the thing to scorn inwardly, and called himself a villain and a traitor twenty times for admitting even the shadow of a doubt into his own mind. Yet, as Wraysford sat that afternoon and brooded over his friend's new trouble, he became more and more uncomfortable.

When on a former occasion the fellows had called in question Oliver's courage, he had felt so sure, so very sure the suspicion was a groundless one, that he had never taken it seriously to heart. But somehow this affair was quite different. What possible object would Simon, for instance, have for telling a deliberate lie? and if it had been a lie, why should Oliver have betrayed such confusion on hearing it?

These were questions which, try all he would, Wraysford could not get out of his mind.

When Stephen presently came in, cheery as ever, and eager to hear how the examination had gone off, the elder boy felt an awkwardness in talking to him which he had never experienced before. As for Stephen, he put down the short, embarrassed answers he received to Wraysford's own uneasiness as to the result of the examination. Little guessed the boy what was passing in the other's mind!

There was just one hope Wraysford clung to. That was that Oliver should come out anywhere but first in the result. If Loman, or Wraysford himself, were to win, no one would be able to say his friend had profited by a dishonourable act; indeed, it would be as good as proof he had not taken the paper.

And yet Wraysford felt quite sick as he called to mind the unflagging manner in which Oliver had worked at his paper that morning, covering sheet upon sheet with his answers, and scarcely drawing in until time was up. It didn't look like losing, this.

He threw himself back in his chair in sheer misery. "I would sooner have done the thing myself," groaned he to himself, "than Oliver." Then suddenly he added, "But it's not true! I'm certain of it! He couldn't do it! I'll never believe it of him!"

Poor Wraysford! It was easier to say the generous words than feel them.

Pembury looked in presently with a face far more serious and overcast than he usually wore.

"I say, Wray," said he, in troubled tones, "I'm regularly floored by all this. Do you believe it?"

"No, I don't," replied Wraysford, but so sadly and hesitatingly that had he at once confessed he did, he could not have expressed his meaning more plainly.

"I'd give anything to be sure it was all false," said Pembury, "and so would a lot of the fellows. As for that fool Simon—"

"Bah!" exclaimed Wraysford, fiercely, "the fellow ought to be kicked round the school."

"He's getting on that way already, I fancy," said Pembury. "I was saying I'd think nothing at all about it if what he says was the only thing to go by, but—well, you saw what a state Greenfield got into about it?"

"Maybe he was just in a sudden rage with the fellow for thinking of such a thing," said Wraysford.

"It looked like something more than rage," said Pembury, dismally, "something a good deal more."

Wraysford said nothing, but fidgeted in his chair. A long silence followed, each busy with his own thoughts and both yearning for any sign of hope. "I don't see what good it could have done him if he did take the paper. He'd have no time to cram it up yesterday. He was out with you, wasn't he, all the afternoon?"

"No," said Wraysford, not looking up, "he had a headache and stayed in."

Pembury gave a low whistle of dismay.

"I say, Wray," said he, presently, "it really does look bad, don't you think so yourself?"

"I don't know what to think," said Wraysford, with a groan; "I'm quite bewildered."

"It's no use pretending not to see what's as plain as daylight," said Pembury, as he turned and hobbled away.

The Fifth meanwhile had been holding a sort of court-martial on the affair.

Simon was made to repeat his story once more, and stuck to it too, in spite of all the browbeating he got.

"What makes you so sure of the exact time?" asked one of his inquisitors.

"Oh, because, you know, I wanted to get off a letter by the post, and thought I was in time till I saw the clock opposite the Doctor's study said five minutes past."