The prize list is arranged backwards way; that is, the small boys come on first and the great events last.

It is a treat to see the little mites of the First, Second, and Third Junior trot up to get their prizes. They look so pleased, and they blush so, and look so wistfully up to where their relatives are sitting, that it is quite pathetic, and the good old Earl has a vigorous wipe of his spectacles before he calls up the Fourth Junior.

"General proficiency," reads the Doctor from his list—"Watson." No one knows Watson; he is quite an obscure member of the glorious community, and so he trots in and out again without much excitement. In fact, all the best prizes of the Form go without much applause, but when the Doctor summons "Paul" to advance and receive "the second arithmetic prize," there rises a shout enough to bring down the house.

"Bravo, Guinea-pigs!" shouts one small voice up somewhere near the ceiling, whereat there is a mighty laugh and cheer, and Bramble turns crimson in the face, and tells his grandmother gloomily, "That fellow Paul is a beast!"

But the youth's face brightens when the next name is called: "Third arithmetic—Padger."

Then doth Bramble the Tadpole stand in his seat and cheer till he is hoarse, and till his grandmother pulleth him by the tail of his jacket. The hero Padger, perspiring very much in the face, but otherwise composed, takes the homage of his chief and the third arithmetic prize with becoming humility, and clears off the arena as fast as he conveniently can.

Surely the Fourth Junior have come to an end now! No! there is one more prize.

"First Latin—Greenfield junior."

This time there was a louder cheer than ever, for Stephen is a popular boy outside his own class. Oliver joins in the cheer, and Pembury and Wraysford and one or two others, and of course the Guinea-pigs, go in a lump for him. It is quite a minute before the noble Earl can get hold of the words of presentation; and when at last Stephen is dispatched, the Doctor turns round and says, "If you boys will make a little less noise I dare say we shall get through the list quite as satisfactorily, and possibly a little more quickly."

"Hear, hear!" says one of the governors, and nod, nod goes the noble Earl's head.

The consequence of this is that the prizes to the First, Second, Third, and Fourth Senior are presented amid something very much like silence, which, however, grows less and less solemn as the proceedings go on. The last Fourth Senior boy to be called is the hero Forrester, who is now fully constituted a member of the first football fifteen. He gets a vehement cheer at all costs, mingled with shouts of "Well kicked, sir!"

"Hack it through!" and the like, which clearly show that the sympathy of Saint Dominic's is quite as much with the exploits accomplished by the young hero's feet as by those of his head.

Now for the Fifth! If the Doctor expects the company is to remain solemn during the next quarter of an hour he knows nothing at all about the school over which he presides.

"Fifth Form—(cheers)—French—(cheers)—Pembury—(terrific applause, during which Tony walks in demurely on his crutches and receives his well-merited award). English history—(applause)—Pembury."

Once more enter Tony on his crutches to receive another prize.

"Bravo, Tony!"

"Hurrah for the Dominican!"

"Well done, Editor!" rise from various parts of the hall, in the midst of which Pembury retires positively for the last time.

"First Greek prize—Wraysford."

Wraysford advances gravely and slowly. The instant he appears there arises a cheer—the mightiest of any yet. Everybody cheers, and when they have done cheering they stamp, and when they have done stamping they clap. Wraysford stands disconcerted and flushed with the demonstration, at a loss whether to smile or frown. He knows the meaning of that cheer as well as anybody, and it grates on his ear unpleasantly as he listens. What ages it seems before it is done, and the noble Earl at last holds out the book and says, "I have great pleasure, Wraysford, in handing you this prize. Your schoolfellows are all proud of you; I feel sure you deserve their good opinion. I wish you success, Wraysford;" and so saying, the good old gentleman bobs affably, and Wraysford, amid another tempest of applause, bows too, and takes off his prize.

"The next name," says the Doctor, referring to his list, "is that of the winner of the Nightingale Scholarship—(sensation)—and I may tell your lordship that the boy is, in the opinion of his examiners and myself, one of the most promising boys for his age that Saint Dominic's has known. The examiners report that his answers to the questions on the paper deserve the greatest credit. I will say only this before his face: Nightingale Scholarship—Greenfield senior."

A solemn silence marks the close of the Doctor's speech, in the midst of which Oliver, with pale face, but otherwise unmoved, advances to where the noble Earl stands. A few of the strangers greet his appearance with a clapping of hands, but the sound falls strangely on the silence all round.

The noble Earl, who is evidently ready with a neat little speech which shall sum the applause that never comes, is disconcerted at this unwonted stillness. You might hear a pin fall as the old gentleman, in dumb show, places the certificate into the boy's hand and tries to get at the words which the silence has scared away.

Oliver waits no longer than he can help. With a bow, he takes the parchment and turns to quit the scene.

It is at this moment, that somewhere or other in the hall, there rises a faint, almost whispered, hiss. Slight as it is, it falls with startling effect upon the dead silence which reigns. Then, like the first whisper of a storm, it suddenly grows and swells and rushes, angrily and witheringly, about the head of the wretched Oliver. Then as suddenly it dies away into silence, and the presentation of the Nightingale Scholarship is at an end.

The visitors, the committee, the ladies, the noble Earl, look about them in blank astonishment and misery. The Doctor's face flushes up mightily as he glares for one instant around him, and then drops his head over the prize list.

The only thing there is for him to do he does. He calls on the next name as composedly as he can, and proceeds with the business of the day.

But the magic has suddenly gone out of prize-day, and no coaxing can bring it back. The Fifth, and after them the Sixth, advance and receive their rewards amidst the listless indifference of the audience, and uncheered by the faintest spark of enthusiasm. No one takes the trouble to cheer anybody. Even Raleigh, the captain, comes in and out almost unheeded; and when at last the final name is reached, it is a relief to every one.

The rest of the day drags heavily—it is no use trying to get up the steam. The visitors are out of humour, and the noble Earl leaves early. The musical feast provided by the glee club is a failure altogether. A few only come to it, and nothing interferes with music like a poor audience.

As to the charade, it is abandoned at the last moment.

Then a great many mothers and aunts make the discovery that there is an evening train from Maltby; and having made it, act upon it; and the tide of emigration sets out forthwith.

Among the first to depart is Wraysford.

As he appears at the school door, trunk in hand, waiting for the school omnibus (which vehicle, by the way, is having a busy time of it), Pembury hobbles up, similarly equipped for the road.

"You off by this train?" says the latter to Wraysford.

"Yes; are you?"

"I may as well. I can get home by nine; and my people won't be in a great rage if I turn up earlier than they expect."

"Well, we may as well get a fly as wait for the wretched omnibus," says Wraysford. "Come along; there are flies at the corner of Hall Street."

Out walked the two, saying good-bye to one or two on the road. At the drive gate two boys are standing waiting for the omnibus. Wraysford and Pembury are upon them before they observe that these are Oliver and his brother.

What is to be done? There is no escaping them—they must pass; yet both of them, somehow, would at that moment—they couldn't tell why—have dropped into the earth.

Oliver looks up as they approach.

Now or never! Wraysford feels he must say something!

"Good-bye, Greenfield," he says. "I hope—"

Oliver quietly takes Stephen's arm and turns on his heel.

Wraysford stares after him for a moment, and then slowly goes on his way, breathing hard.

"I wonder," said Pembury, after a long silence—"I wonder, Wray, if it's possible we are wrong about that fellow?"

Wraysford says nothing.

"He doesn't act like a guilty person. Just fancy, Wray,"—and here Tony pulls up short, in a state of perturbation—"just fancy if you and I and the rest have been making fools of ourselves all the term!"

Ah! my Fifth Form heroes, just fancy!



CHAPTER THIRTY.

A NEW TURN OF THE TIDE.

The three weeks of Christmas holiday darted past only too rapidly for most of the boys at Saint Dominic's. Holidays have a miserable knack of sliding along. The first few days seem delightfully long. Then, after the first week, the middle all of a sudden becomes painfully near. And the middle once passed, they simply tear, and bolt, and rush pitilessly on to the end, when, lo and behold! your time is up before you well knew it had begun.

So it happened with most of the boys. With one or two, however, the holiday dragged heavily, and one of these was Master Thomas Senior. This forlorn youth, no longer now rollicking Tom of the Fifth, but the meek and mild, and withal sulky, hopeful of the Reverend Thomas Senior, D.D., of Saint Dominic's, watched the last of his chums go off with anything but glee. He was doomed to three weeks' kicking of his heels in the empty halls and playgrounds of Saint Dominic's, with nothing to do and no one to do it with. For the boy's mother was ill, which kept the whole family at home, and Tom's baby brother, vivacious youth as he was, was hardly of a companionable age yet.

As to the Doctor (Tom, by the way, even in the bosom of his family, always thought and talked of his father as the "Doctor")—as for the Doctor, well, Tom was inclined to shirk the risk of more tete-a-tetes than he could possibly help with so formidable a personage, even though he was his own parent.

But try all he could, Tom was let in for it once, when he found himself face to face one day at dinner with the Doctor, and no third person to help him out.

The occasion was quite early in the holidays, and was indeed about the first opportunity the father had had since breaking-up for anything like a conversation with his affable son.

Tom's conversational powers were never very brilliant, and when in the subduing presence of his father they always dwindled down to nothing. It was, therefore, somewhat difficult, under the circumstances, to keep the talk going, but the Doctor did his best. Tom answered in monosyllables, and looked fearfully sheepish, and found his best policy was always to keep his mouth full, and so have the excuse of good manners on his side for his silence.

"Tom," said the Doctor, presently, steering round to a subject which it had been for some time in his mind to question his son about, "that was an extraordinary demonstration on prize-day, when Greenfield senior came up to get his scholarship."

"It wasn't me," said Tom, colouring up.

"My dear boy, I never supposed it was," said the Doctor, laughing. "But it surprised me very much, as well as pained me."

"I couldn't help it," again said Tom.

"Of course you couldn't, Tom. But I am sorry to find Greenfield is so unpopular in the school."

The Doctor did not care to put a direct question to Tom on the matter that was perplexing him. He hoped to draw him out by more indirect means. But he was mistaken if he ever expected it, for Tom, with the perversity of a fellow who will take everything that is said as a rebuke to himself, showed no inclination to follow the lead. The Doctor had, therefore, to ask outright.

"What dreadful crime has he committed, Tom, to be treated so severely?"

"I don't want to treat him severely," said Tom. "Tom," said the Doctor, half angrily, "you are very foolish. I was not referring to you particularly, but to the whole school."

Tom sulked at this more than ever. He wasn't going to be called foolish. The Doctor, however, tried once more.

"What has he done to offend you all? Has he missed a catch at cricket, or a kick at football? I hope, whatever it is—"

"It isn't me!" once more growled Tom, heartily wishing the meal was over.

The Doctor gave it up as a bad job. There was no use trying to get a rise out of Tom. If that ingenuous youth had been trying to shield his Form, he could not have done it better. As it was, he was only stupidly trying to shield himself, and letting his dread of his "Doctor" father get the better of his common sense and good manners.

Luckily for Tom, a friend wrote to invite him to spend the last week of the holidays in London, an invitation which that youth, as well as his parent for him, thankfully accepted. Indeed, during the holidays Mrs Senior became so ill that the poor Doctor had no thoughts to spare for anybody or anything but her and her hope of recovery. He watched her night and day through all the vicissitudes of her fever, and when at last the crisis was over, and the doctors said she would recover, they said also that unless Dr Senior wanted to have an illness himself he must go away and get perfect rest and change for a week or two at the very least.

The consequence of all this was that Saint Dominic's had to reassemble after the Christmas holidays without the Doctor.

To some of the boys this was sorrowful news; others regarded the circumstance with indifference, while one section there was who received the intelligence with positive joy.

Strange that that section should contain in it two such opposites as Loman of the Sixth and Bramble of the Fourth Junior.

Loman, despite his "run of luck," had spent an uneasy holiday. He had been in constant terror of seeing Cripps every time he ventured outside his house; and he had been in still more terror of Cripps calling up at Saint Dominic's and telling the Doctor all about him directly after the holidays. For now Loman's time was up. Though he had in one way and another paid off all his debt to the landlord of the Cockchafer but eight pounds, still he knew Cripps could make himself quite as unpleasant about eight pounds as about thirty pounds, and probably would.

But as long as the Doctor was away it didn't matter so much. And, besides, the examination for the exhibition would of course be postponed, which meant so much longer time for preparation—which meant so much better chance for Loman of winning it. For, when he tried, he could work hard and effectively.

So Loman was very glad to hear the Doctor was away ill. So was Bramble!

That youth (who, by the way, had during the holidays quite recovered from the sobering effect of his grandmother's visit to the school) was always on a look-out for escaping the eye of the constituted authorities. He hardly ever saw the Doctor from one month's end to another; but somehow, to know he was away—to know any one was away who ought to be there to look after him—was a glorious opportunity! He launched at once into a series of revolutionary exploits on the strength of it. He organised mutinies ten times a day, and had all the specifications drawn up for blowing up Saint Dominic's with paraffin oil. There was nothing, in short, Bramble would not venture while the Doctor was away; and there is no knowing how far he might have carried his bloodthirsty conspiracies into effect had not Mr Rastle caught him one day with a saw, sawing the legs off the writing-master's stool, and given him such a chastisement, bodily and mental, as induced him for a brief season to retire from public life, and devote all his spare time to copying out an imposition.

On the first morning after reassembling, Mr Jellicott, the master in charge of Saint Dominic's, summoned the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth to meet him in the lecture-theatre, and there announced to them the reason of the head master's absence.

"In consequence of this," said Mr Jellicott, "the removes gained last term will not be put into force for a week or two, till the head master returns; but, meanwhile, Dr Senior is anxious that the work of the school should go on as usual. We shall, therefore, resume studies to-morrow; and on Monday next the examination for the Waterston Exhibition will be held, as arranged. The three boys—Loman, Greenfield senior, and Wraysford—entered for this will be excused ordinary lessons till after the examination."

Greenfield senior! Then Oliver was in for it after all! The announcement amazed Wraysford as much as it did Loman and every one else. It had never entered their minds that he would go in for it. Hadn't he got the Nightingale? and wasn't that enough for one half-year? And didn't every one know how he had got it, and how could the fellow now have the assurance to put in for another examination?

Oliver always had been a queer fellow, and this move struck every one as queerer than ever.

But to Wraysford and one or two others it occurred in a different light. If Oliver had really won the Nightingale in the manner every one suspected, he would hardly now boldly enter for another examination, in which he might possibly not succeed, and so prove those suspicions to be true. For the subjects were almost exactly the same as those examined in for the Nightingale, and unless Oliver did as well here as he did there—and that was remarkably well—it would be open for anybody to say, "Of course—he couldn't steal the paper this time, that's why!"

Wraysford, as he thought over it, became more and more uneasy and ashamed of himself. One moment he persuaded himself Oliver was a hypocrite, and the next that he was innocent. "At any rate," said he to himself, "this examination will settle it."

In due time the examination day came, and once more the three rivals heard their names called upon to come forward and occupy that memorable front desk in the Sixth Form room.

This time at any rate there had been no chance for any one to take an unfair advantage, for the Doctor's papers did not reach Saint Dominic's till the morning of the examination. Indeed, Mr Jellicott was opening the envelope which contained them when the boys entered the room.

Any one closely observing the three boys as they glanced each down his paper would once more have been struck by the strange contrast in their faces. Oliver's, as his eyes glanced rapidly down the page, was composed and immovable; Wraysford's, as he looked first at his paper and then hurriedly at Oliver and Loman, was perplexed and troubled; Loman's was blank and pale and desponding.

But of the three, the happiest that morning was Wraysford—not that he was sure of success, not that his conscience was clear of all reproach, but because, as he sat there, working hard himself and hearing some one's pen on his left flying with familiar sound quickly over the paper, he felt at last absolutely sure that he had misjudged his friend, and equally resolved that, come what would of it, and humiliating as the confession would be, he would, before that day ended, be reconciled to Oliver Greenfield. What mattered it to him, then, who won the exhibition? Loman might win it for all he cared, as long as he won back his friend.

However, Loman at that moment did not look much like winning anything. If he had been in difficulties in the former examination, he was utterly stranded now. He tried first one question, then another, but no inspiration seemed to come; and at last, after dashing off a few lines at random, he laid down his pen, and, burying his face in his hands, gave himself up to his own wretched thoughts. He must see Cripps soon; he must go to him or Cripps would come up to Saint Dominic's, and then—

Well, Loman did not do much execution that morning, and was thankful when presently Mr Jellicott said, "Time will be up in five minutes, boys."

The announcement was anything but welcome to the other two competitors, both of whom were writing, hammer and tongs, as though their lives depended on it. Loman looked round at them and groaned as he looked. Why should they be doing so well and he be doing so ill?

"Look at those two beggars!" said Callonby to Stansfield, in a whisper, pointing to Wraysford and Oliver. "There's a neck-and-neck race for you!"

So it was. Now Oliver seemed to be getting over the ground quicker, and now Wraysford. Now Wraysford lost a good second by looking up at the clock; now Greenfield made a bad shot with his pen at the inkpot, and had to dip again, which threw him back half a second at least.

Unconscious of the interest and amusement they were exciting among the sporting section of the Sixth, they kept the pace up to the finish, and when at last Mr Jellicott said, "Cease writing and bring up your papers," both groaned simultaneously, as much as to say, "A second or two more would have done it."

The examination was over, but the event of that memorable day was still to take place.

Five minutes later Oliver, who had retired alone, as usual, to his study, there to announce to the anxious Stephen how he had fared in the examination, caught the sudden sound of an old familiar footstep outside his door, which sent the blood to his cheeks with strange emotion. Stephen heard it, and knew it too.

"There's that beast Wraysford," he said, at the very instant that Wraysford, not waiting to knock, flung open the door and entered.

There was no need for him to announce his errand. It was written on his face as he advanced with outstretched hand to his old friend.

"Noll, old man," was all he could say, as their eyes met, "the youngster's right—I am a beast!"

At the first word—the first friendly word spoken to him for months— Oliver started to his feet like one electrified; and before the sentence was over his hand was tightly grasping the hand of his friend, and Stephen had disappeared from the scene. It is no business of ours to pry into that happy study for the next quarter of an hour. If we did the reader would very likely be disappointed, or perhaps wearied, or perhaps convinced that these two were as great fools in the manner of their making up as they had been in the manner of their falling out.

Oh! the happiness of that precious quarter of an hour, when the veil that has divided two faithful friends is suddenly dashed aside, and they rush one to the other, calling themselves every imaginable bad name in the dictionary, insisting to the verge of quarrelling that it was all their fault, and no fault at all of the other, far too rapturous to talk ordinary common sense, and far too forgetful of everything to remember that they are saying the same thing over and over again every few minutes.

"The falling out of faithful friends"—as the old copybooks say in elegant Virgilian Latin—"renewing is of love." And so it was with Oliver and Wraysford.

Why, they were twice the friends they were before! Twice! Fifty times! And they laughed and talked and made fools of themselves for a whole half-hour over the discovery, and might have done so for an hour, had not Stephen, who had patiently remained outside for a reasonable time, now returned to join in the celebration.

"Stee, you young beggar," said Wraysford, as the boy entered, "if you don't have my tea piping hot to-night, and fresh herrings for three done to a regular turn, I'll flay you alive, my boy. And now, if you're good, you may come and kick me!"

Stephen, overflowing with joy, and quite rickety with emotion, flew at his old friend, and, instead of kicking him, caught hold of his arm, and turning to his brother, cried, "Oh, Noll! isn't this prime? Why, here's old Wray—"

"That beast Wraysford," suggested the owner of the title; "do give a fellow his proper name, young 'un."

This little interruption put Stephen off his speech; and the three, locking the study-door, settled down to talk rationally, or, at any rate, as rationally as they could, over affairs.

"You see," said Wraysford, "I can't imagine now what possessed me to make such a fool of myself."

"Now you needn't begin at that again," said Oliver. "If I hadn't cut up so at that jackass Simon, when he began about my being in the Doctor's study that evening, it would never have happened."

"Bah! any one might have known the fellow was telling lies."

"But he wasn't telling lies," said Oliver. "I was in the Doctor's study all alone that evening, and at the very time the paper went too. That's just the queer thing about it."

"You were?" exclaimed both the boys, for this was news even to Stephen.

"Yes, of course I was. Don't you know I went to see him about Stephen, and that row he had up at the Lock?"

"Oh, yes," said Stephen, "I remember. I was in a regular blue funk that evening."

"Well, the Doctor wasn't there. I hung about a few minutes for him, and then, as he didn't turn up, I left, and met that old booby just as I was coming out of the door."

"And he's gone and told everybody he saw you coming out with the paper in your pocket."

Oliver laughed loud at this.

"Upon my word, the fellow must have sharp eyes if he could do that! Well, I was so disgusted when he came up after the examination, and began to insinuate that I knew all about the missing paper, that—Well, you know how I distinguished myself."

"It would have served him right if you'd throttled him," observed Wraysford. "But I say, Noll," added he more gravely, "why on earth, old man, didn't you say all this then? What a lot of unpleasantness it would have saved."

"What!" exclaimed Oliver, suddenly firing up, "do you suppose, when the fellows all chose to believe that miserable idiot's story, I was going to stir a finger or bother myself a snap about what they thought? Bah! I'm not angry now, Wray; but, upon my word, when I think of that time—"

"What a pack of curs we all were," said Wraysford, almost as angry as his friend.

"Hear, hear!" put in Stephen, an observation which had the effect of making the whole thing ridiculous and so restoring both the friends to their composure.

"But, Noll, I say, old man," said Wraysford, presently, "of course you didn't intend it, but if you meant to make every one believe you did it, you couldn't have gone on better than you did. I'm certain not half the fellows would have believed Simon if you hadn't—"

"Made such an ass of myself," said Oliver, laughing. "Of course I can see now how it would all work in beautifully against me, and I'm certain I've myself to thank for the whole business."

"Now, don't say that. Nothing can excuse the way all of us treated you, poor old boy. But, thank goodness, it's all right now. I'll let them know—"

"Now, Wray, that's just what I won't have you do. You must not say a word to them about it, or, seriously, I'll be in a great rage. If they can't think well of me of their own accord, I won't have them do it for anybody else's, so there."

"But, Noll, old man—"

"Upon my word, Wray, I mean what I say. Not a word to anybody."

"Do you mean to say you intend to live at Coventry all your life?"

"It's not Coventry now, is it, Stee, old boy?" said Oliver, with a bright smile. "And now, Wray," said he, "I want to know how you got on in the exam to-day. You were going ahead furiously, it seemed to me."

"Yes, but wasn't doing much good, I'm afraid. How have you done?"

"Pretty well; but I hadn't time to touch the last question."

"I knew, as soon as I saw you were entered for the exam," said Wraysford, "we had all been taking you up wrong. I can guess now why you went in for it."

"Well, it struck me it might be a way of putting myself right with the fellows if I won; but I'm half afraid I won't win, and then their highnesses will be doubly sure of my villainy!"

"I know you will win," said Wraysford.

"If I do I shall feel an awful blackguard, for you would have been certain of it."

"I'm not so very sure. However, I think I could have beaten Loman."

"He seemed out of it, quite. Do you know I think that fellow is going to the dogs altogether?"

"Pity," said Wraysford, "if he is, but it does look like it."



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

LOMAN IN LUCK AGAIN.

It certainly did look as if Loman was going to the dogs. And any one able to see and know all that was going on in his mind would have found out that he was a good deal nearer "the dogs" even than he seemed.

On the evening after the examination he received a note from Cripps— brought up in a most barefaced way by one of the potboys at the Cockchafer—requesting the pleasure of Mr Loman's company at that pleasant spot immediately, to talk over business!

"Why didn't he send it by post?" demanded Loman, angrily, of the disreputable messenger. "Don't you know if you were seen up here there'd be a row?"

"Dunno so much about that, but the governor, he says he's dead on the job this time, he says, and if you don't show up sharp with the stumpy, he says he'll give you a call himself and wake you up, he says—"

"Tell him I'll come, and go off quick," said Loman, hurriedly.

"Beg pardon, mister," said the potboy, with a leer, and touching his cap, "anything allowed for this here little job—carrying up the letter?"

"I'll allow you a kick if you don't go!" exclaimed the wretched Loman, furiously.

"Oh, very good," said the boy, making a long nose. "Wait till the governor walks up. We'll see who'll kick then!"

And so saying the amiable and respectable youth departed.

"Hullo!" said Wren, coming up just at this moment, "who's your friend, Loman? He looks a nice sort of boy!"

Wren was now captain and head monitor at Saint Dominic's—far too blunt and honest ever to be an object of anything but dislike and uneasiness to Loman. Now the uneasiness was the more prominent of the two. Loman replied, confused and reddening, "Oh, that boy? Why—oh, he's a shop-boy from the town, come up about an order—you know—for a hat-box."

"I don't know. Do you mean Morris's boy?"

"Ye—yes. A new boy of Morris's."

"Well, whoever he is, he's a precious cheeky specimen. Why didn't you kick him?"

"Eh? Kick him? Yes, I was just going to," began Loman, scarcely knowing what he said, "when—"

"When I turned up? Well, I shouldn't have interfered. By the way, Loman, I suppose you've given up going to that public now? What's the fellow's name?"

"Cripps," said Loman. "Oh, I never go near the place now."

"That's a good job. It was awkward enough his turning up as he did last term, and all a chance the Doctor didn't hear of it, I can tell you. Anyhow, now I'm captain, that sort of thing will have to drop, mind."

"Oh, I assure you I've never been near the place since," said Loman, meekly, anxious if possible to keep the new captain in humour, much as he disliked him.

"I'm glad of it," said Wren, coldly.

Just at that moment a third personage arrived on the scene. This was Simon, who approached, not noticing Wren, and crying out with his usual gush, "Hullo, Loman, I say. I saw Cripps to-day. He was asking after you. He says you've not been down since last Sat—Hullo, Wren!"

And here the poet caught sight of the captain.

"So you've been down to the Cockchafer, have you?" inquired Wren.

"Well. Oh, don't tell, Wren, I say. I don't often go. Ask Loman if I do. He's always there, and could easily tell if I went. Do I go often, Loman? Besides, I've given it up now!"

"Quick work," observed Wren, drily, "if you were down there this morning."

"Well," said Simon, shifting his ground slightly, "I didn't think there could be any harm, as Loman goes. He's a monitor. And then I don't owe Cripps money, do I, Loman? Or play cards and bet, like you, do I? Oh, look here, Wren, do let us off this time. Don't report me, there's a good fellow. I promise I won't do it again! Oh, I say, Loman, beg us off. I never let out on you—not even when you got—"

Wren, who had allowed this burst of eloquence to proceed thus far, here turned sharply on his heel, and left the two companions in wrong in possession of the field.

Next morning, when Loman got up, he found the following note on his table:

"Wraysford takes your place as monitor. The Doctor will be told you have 'resigned.'—C.W."

Loman crushed the paper angrily in his hand, and muttered a curse as he flung it into the fire. He felt little enough gratitude to Wren for describing him merely as resigned, and not, as was actually the case, dismissed. Yet, even in his wretchedness, there was an atom of relief in knowing that at least a shred of his good old name remained.

Poor shred indeed! but better than nothing.

Every one treated him as usual—except Wren, who cut him contemptuously. The Sixth, ever since the exposure at the football match last term, had lost any respect they ever had for their comrade, and many had wondered how it was he was still allowed to remain a monitor. Every one now supposed he had taken "the better part of valour" in resigning, and, as it mattered very little to any one what he did, and still less what he thought, they witnessed his deposition from the post of honour with profound indifference.

Poor Loman! Some righteous reader will be shocked at my pitying such a foolish, miserable failure of a fellow as this Edward Loman; and yet he was to be pitied, wasn't he? He hadn't been naturally a vicious boy, or a cowardly boy, or a stupid boy, but he had become all three; and as he sat and brooded over his hard luck, as he called it, that morning, his mind was filled with mingled misery and fear and malice towards every one and everything, and he felt well-nigh desperate.

His interview with Cripps came off that afternoon. The landlord of the Cockchafer, as the reader may have gathered, had changed his tone pretty considerably the last few days, and Loman found it out now.

"Well?" said he, gloomily, as the boy entered.

"Well?" said Loman, not knowing how to begin.

"I suppose you've got my money?" said Cripps.

"No, Cripps, I haven't," said the boy.

"All right," said Cripps; "that's quite enough for me;" and, to Loman's astonishment and terror, he walked away without another word, and left the unhappy boy to stay or go as he pleased.

Loman could not go, leaving things thus. He must see Cripps again, if it was only to know the worst. So he stayed in the bar for the landlord's return. Cripps took no notice of him, but went on with his ordinary pursuits, smiling to himself in a way which perfectly terrified his victim. Loman had never seen Cripps like this before.

"Cripps," he said, after half an hour's waiting—"Cripps, I want to speak to you."

"You may want," was the surly reply. "I've done with you, young gentleman."

"Oh, Cripps, don't talk like that! I do mean to pay you, every farthing, but—"

"Yes, you're very good at meaning, you are," said the other. "Anyhow, it don't much matter to me now."

"What do you mean, Cripps? Oh, do give me a little more time! A week—only a week longer."

"Aren't you done?" was the only reply; "aren't you going home?"

"Will you, Cripps? Have pity on me! I'm so miserable!"

Cripps only whistled pleasantly to himself.

Loman, almost frantic, made one last effort.

"Give us just a week more," he entreated.

No answer.

"Do speak, Cripps; say you will; please do!"

Cripps only laughed and went on whistling.

"Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" cried the wretched boy. "I shall be ruined if you don't have some pity—"

"Look here," said Cripps, curtly, "you'd better stop that noise here, my lad. You can go; do you hear? Look alive."

It was no use staying further. Loman went What anguish he endured for the next twenty-four hours no one knows. What plans he turned in his head, what wild schemes, what despair, what terrors filled him, only he himself could tell. Every moment he expected the fatal vision of Cripps at Saint Dominic's, and with it his own certain disgrace and ruin, and, as time went on, his perturbation became so great that he really felt ill with it.

But Cripps did not come that day or the next. The next day was one of mighty excitement in Saint Dominic's. The result of the examination for the Waterston Exhibition was announced.

Had any other three boys but those actually taking part been the competitors, few outsiders would have felt much interest in the result of an ordinary examination confined to Sixth Form boys. But on this occasion, as we have seen, the general curiosity was aroused. No one expected much of Loman. The school had discovered pretty well by this time that he was an impostor, and their chief surprise had been that he should venture into the list against two such good men as Oliver and Wraysford.

But which of those two was to win? That was the question. Every one but a few had been positive it would be Wraysford, whom they looked upon as the lawful winner of the Nightingale last term, and whom, they were convinced, Oliver was unable to beat by fair means. And yet to these it had been a great astonishment to hear that Oliver had entered for the examination. Unless he was certain of winning he would only do himself harm by it, and confirm the suspicions against him. And yet, if he should win after all—if he was able fairly to beat Wraysford—why should he have gone to the trouble last term of stealing the examination paper and making himself the most unpopular boy in all Saint Dominic's?

These questions sorely exercised the school, and made them await eagerly the announcement of the result.

The news came at last.

"I have just received," said Mr Jellicott that morning, when the Fifth and Sixth were assembled together in the lecture-theatre—"I have just received from the examiners the report on the Waterston examination. The result is as follows: First—Greenfield, 108 marks; second— Wraysford, 96 marks; third—Loman, 20 marks."

Here Mr Jellicott was interrupted by a laugh and a muttered "Bravo, Loman! very good!" in what sounded to the knowing something like Pembury's voice. The master looked up and frowned angrily, and then proceeded: "The examiners add an expression of their very high approval of Greenfield's answers. The highest marks obtainable were 120, and, considering he left the last question untouched—doubtless for want of time—they feel that he has passed with very great distinction, and fully in accordance with their expectations of the winner of the Nightingale Scholarship last term. We will now proceed to the usual lessons."

This announcement made the strangest impression on all present. No one attempted any demonstration, but while Mr Jellicott was speaking many perplexed and troubled faces turned to where Oliver, by the side of his friend Wraysford, was sitting. Wraysford's face was beaming as he clapped his friend on the back. Oliver looked as unconcerned and indifferent as ever. The fellow was a puzzle, certainly.

As soon as lesson was over, the Fifth retired to its own quarters in a perturbed state of mind, there to ponder over what had happened. Oliver spared them the embarrassment of his society as usual, and Wraysford was not there either. So the Fifth were left pretty much to their own devices and the guidance of some lesser lights.

"Isn't it queer?" said Ricketts. "Whoever would have thought of it turning out like this?"

"One could understand it," said Braddy, "if there had been any chance of his repeating the dodge of last term. But he couldn't have done that."

"I don't know," said another; "he may have been up to some other dodge. Perhaps he copied off Wraysford."

"Hardly likely," said Bullinger, "up on the front desk just under Jellicott's nose."

"Well, I can't make it out at all," said Ricketts.

"Nor can I," said Bullinger.

All this while Pembury had not spoken, but he now turned to Simon, and said, "What do you think, Simon? Did you see Greenfield stealing the examination paper this time, eh?"

"Oh, no, not this time," promptly replied the poet; "last term it was, you know. I didn't see him this time."

"Oh, you didn't even see him with it in his pocket? Now, be very careful. Are you sure he didn't have it in his pocket a day before the exam?"

"Why," said Simon, laughing at Pembury's innocence, "how could I see what was in a fellow's pocket, Pembury, you silly! I can't tell what's in your pocket."

"Oh, can't you? I thought you could, upon my honour. I thought you saw the paper in Greenfield's pocket last term."

"So I did. That is—"

Here the wretched poet was interrupted by a general laugh, in the midst of which he modestly retired to the background, and left the Fifth to solve the riddle in hand by themselves.

"Suppose," began Pembury, after a pause—"suppose, when Braddy's done playing the fool, if such a time ever comes—"

Here Braddy collapsed entirely. He would sooner be sat upon by Dr Senior himself than by Pembury.

"Suppose," once more began Pembury, amid dead silence—"suppose, instead of Greenfield senior being a thief and liar, I and all of you have been fools and worse for the last six months? Wouldn't that be funny, you fellows?"

"Why, whatever do you mean?" demanded Tom Senior.

"Why, you don't suppose I mean anything, do you?" retorted the cross-grained Tony. "What's the use of saying what you mean—"

"But do you really—" began Bullinger.

"I say, suppose I and you, Bullinger, and one or two others here who ought to have known better, have been making fools of ourselves, wouldn't that be funny?"

There was a pause, till Simon, plucking up heart, replied, "Very funny!"

The gravity even of Pembury broke down at this, and the present conference of the Fifth ended without arriving at any nearer conclusion on the question which was perplexing it.

Meanwhile, Oliver and Wraysford were in their study, talking over the event of the day.

"I was certain how it would be, old boy," said Wraysford, genuinely delighted. "I wonder what the Fifth will say now? Bah! it doesn't become me to say too much, though, for I was as bad as any of them myself."

"No, you weren't, old boy; you never really believed it. But I say, Wray, I don't intend to take this exhibition. You must have it."

"I!" exclaimed Wraysford. "Not a bit of me. You won it."

"But I never meant to go in for it, and wouldn't have if it had not been for the Fifth. After all, it's only twenty pounds. Do take it, old man. I've got the Nightingale, you know."

"What does that matter? I wouldn't have this for anything. The fellows tried to make me think I was the real winner of the Nightingale, and I was idiot enough half to believe it. But I think I've had a lesson."

"But, Wray—"

"Not a word, my dear fellow; I won't hear of it."

"Very well, then; I shall shy the money when I get it into the nearest fish-pond."

"All serene," said Wraysford, laughing; "I hope the fish will relish it."

At that moment there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," said Oliver.

The door opened, and, to the astonishment of the two boys, Loman entered.

Was it peace, or war, or what? Loman's miserable face and strange manner quickly answered the question.

"Oh, Greenfield," he said, "excuse me. I want to speak to you;" and here he glanced at Wraysford, who rose to go.

"Stay where you are, Wray," said Oliver. "What is it, Loman?"

Loman, quite cowed, hardly knew how to go on.

"I was glad to hear you got the Waterston," he said. "I—I thought you would."

What was the fellow at?

After a long pause, which seemed to drive Loman almost to despair, he said, "You'll wonder what I have come here for. I know we've not been friends. But—but, Greenfield, I'm in awful trouble."

"What is it?" again asked Oliver.

"Why, the fact is," said Loman, gaining courage, as he found neither Oliver nor Wraysford disposed to resent his visit—"the fact is, Greenfield, I'm in debt. I've been very foolish, you know, betting and all that. I say, Greenfield, could you possibly—would you lend me— eight pounds? I don't know why I ask you, but unless I can pay the money to-day, I shall—"

"What!" exclaimed Oliver, "eight pounds to pay your bets?"

"Oh, no, not all bets. I've been swindled too—by Cripps. You know Cripps."

And here Loman, utterly miserable, threw himself down on a chair and looked beseechingly at the two friends.

"I could pay you back in a month or so," he went on; "or at any rate before Easter. Do lend it me, please, Greenfield. I don't know where else to go and ask, and I shall get into such an awful row if I can't pay. Will you?"

Oliver looked at Wraysford; Wraysford looked at Oliver; and then both looked at Loman. The sight of the wretched boy there entreating money of the very fellow who had least reason in all Saint Dominic's to like him, was strange indeed.

"Wray," said Oliver, abruptly, after another pause, during which he had evidently made up his mind, "have you any money about you?"

"I've three pounds," said Wraysford, taking out his purse.

Oliver went to his desk and took from it a five-pound note which was there, his savings for the last year. This, with Wraysford's three sovereigns, he handed without a word to Loman. Then, not waiting to hear the thanks which the wretched boy tried to utter, he took Wraysford's arm and walked out of the study.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

THE "DOMINICAN" COMES ROUND.

The Fifth were a good while coming round on the question of Greenfield senior. But the delay was more on account of pride than because they still considered their old class-fellow a knave. They had taken up such a grand position last term, and talked so magnificently about honour, and morality, and the credit of the school, that it was a sad come-down now to have to admit they had all been wrong, and still more that they had all been fools. And yet, after what had happened, they could no longer retain their suspicions of Oliver Greenfield.

A few of the better sort, like Pembury and Bullinger, had the courage, at whatever cost, to act up to their convictions, and declared at once that they had been wrong, and were ashamed of it.

The next step was to approach Oliver, and that was more difficult, for he was such a queer fellow there was no knowing where to have him. However, Pembury's wit helped him over the difficulty as usual.

He was hobbling down the passage one morning when he suddenly encountered Oliver and Wraysford, arm-in-arm, approaching him. If at any time in his life Pembury did feel uncomfortable and awkward he felt it now. If he let Oliver go by this time without making it up somehow, the chance might never come again; but how to set about it, that was the difficulty, and every half-second brought the two nearer. Twenty different ideas flashed through his mind. He was not the sort of fellow to go to any one and eat humble-pie straight off. That was far too tame a proceeding. No, there was only one way he could think of, and he would chance that.

"Noll, old man," said he, in the old familiar tones, "you've got a spare arm. May I take it?"

Oliver stopped short and looked at him for an instant in astonishment. Next moment, with a hearty "Rather!" he slipped his arm into that of the happy Pembury, and the three went on their way rejoicing, a sight and a moral for all Saint Dominic's.

That was the whole of Anthony Pembury's making up. As for Bullinger, he wrote his man a letter, worded in beautiful English, in the most elegant handwriting and punctuated to a nicety, setting forth his contrition, and his hope that Greenfield would henceforth reckon him among his friends—"Yours very sincerely, H. Bullinger." This literary effort he carefully dispatched by a Guinea-pig to its destination, and awaited a reply with the utmost impatience. The reply was laconic, but highly satisfactory. It was a verbal one, given by Oliver himself in class that afternoon, who volunteered the information to the delighted Bullinger that it was a "jolly day."

It was indeed a jolly day to that contrite youth. He never believed it would all be got over so easily. He had dreaded all sorts of scenes and lectures and humiliations, but here he was, by a single word, passed back straight into friendship, and no questions asked.

The sight of Oliver surrounded by these three friends, of whom it would have been hard to say which was the happiest, made a deep impression on the rest of the Fifth, and certainly did not tend to make them feel more comfortable as to what they ought to do in a similar direction.

"It's all very well," said Ricketts, when the question was being canvassed for the hundredth time among his immediate friends. "I dare say they are all right, but it makes it jolly uncomfortable for us."

"They oughtn't to have given in in this way without letting the rest of us know first," said Braddy. "Just see what a corner it puts us in."

"All I can say is," said Tom Senior, "I'll be better satisfied when I know who did collar that paper if Greenfield didn't."

"Oh, but," said Simon, seeing a chance, "I can assure you I saw him when he took it. I was going—"

"Shut up, you great booby!" cried Ricketts; "who asked you anything about it?"

Simon modestly retired hereupon, and Braddy took up the talk.

"Yes, who did take the paper? that's it. Greenfield must have done it. Why, he as good as admitted it last term."

"Well, then, it's very queer those fellows making up to him," said Ricketts. "It's no use our trying to send the fellow to Coventry when the others don't back us up."

"Wraysford always was daft about Greenfield," said Tom Senior, "but I am astonished at Pembury and Bullinger."

"All I can say is," said Braddy, "Greenfield will have to ask me before I have anything to do with him."

"And do you know," said Ricketts, "I heard to-day he is down to play in the match against the County."

"Is he?" exclaimed Braddy in excitement; "very well, then. I shall not play if he does. That's all about that."

Ricketts laughed.

"Awfully sorry, old man, but you're not in the fifteen this time."

Braddy's face was a picture at this moment—he turned red and blue and white in his astonishment.

"What!" he exclaimed, as soon as he could find words. "I'm not in the team!"

"You'll see the list on the notice board; you'd better go and look."

Off went the wretched Braddy to be convinced of his fate.

"You're in the team, Ricketts, I see," said Tom Senior. "Shall you play if Greenfield does?"

"Don't know," said Ricketts. "A fellow doesn't get a chance to play against the County every day. It's precious awkward."

"So it is; that's just where we began, too," said Tom, philosophically. And, as a matter of fact, whenever these young gentlemen of the Fifth started the subject of Greenfield senior among themselves, they always found themselves in the end at the identical place from which they had set out.

Nor were they the only boys at Saint Dominic's in this dilemma. The Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were equally taken aback by the new aspect of affairs. These young gentlemen had looked upon Oliver's "row" with his class as a peculiar mercy designed specially for their benefit. They had hardly known such a happy time as that during which the row had lasted. Did they want a pretext for a battle? Greenfield senior was a glorious bone of contention. Did they want an object for an indignation meeting? What better object could they have than Greenfield senior? Did they want an excuse generally for laziness, disobedience, and tumult? Greenfield senior served for this too. Indeed, the name of the Fifth Form Martyr had passed into a household word among the lower school, either of glory or reproach, and round it the small fry rallied, as round an old flag of battle.

But now, both friend and foe were aghast. To the Guinea-pigs half the charm of their position had been that they were Greenfield senior's sole champions in all Saint Dominic's. While every one else avoided him, they stuck to him, week-days and Sundays. Now, however, they discovered, with something like consternation, that they no longer had the field to themselves.

The sight of Greenfield senior walking down the passage one day, arm-in-arm with Wraysford, and the next day with one arm in Wraysford's and the other in Pembury's, and the day after between Pembury and Bullinger, with Wraysford and Stephen in the rear, struck bewilderment and bitter jealousy to their hearts.

They had come out into the passage to cheer, but they went away silently and sadly, feeling that their very occupation was departed.

Bramble, always quick to see a chance, took advantage as usual of this panic.

"Hullo, I say, Guinea-pigs, you can shut up shop now, you know. We're going to let off Greenfield senior this time, ain't we, Padger? Jolly fellow, Greenfield senior."

This was abominable! To have their hero and idol thus calmly taken out of their hands and appropriated by a set of sneaking Tadpoles was more than human patience could endure!

"Bah! A lot he'll care for your letting him off!" exclaimed Paul, in dire contempt. "He wouldn't touch you with a shovel."

"Oh, yes, he would, though, wouldn't he, Padger? And what do you think, Guinea-pigs? we're going to get Greenfield senior to take the chair at one of our meetings!"

Bramble came out with the last triumphant announcement with a positive shout, which made the hearts of his adversaries turn cold. In vain they laughed the idea to scorn; in vain they argued that if for the last six months he had never said a word even to the Guinea-pigs, he would hardly now come and take up with the Tadpoles. Bramble and Padger insisted on their story.

"Now, you fellows," concluded Bramble, at the end of another oration; "those who say three cheers for Greenfield senior hold up—"

The infuriated Paul here hurled the cap of a brother Guinea-pig, who was standing near him, full at the face of the speaker, who thereupon, altering the current of his observations, descended from his form and "went for" his opponent.

From that day a keener war raged round the head of Greenfield senior than ever. Not of attack and defence of his character, but of rivalry as to whom should be accounted his foremost champions.

It was at this critical period in the history of Saint Dominic's that a new number of the Dominican came out. Pembury had been compelled to write it nearly all himself, for, in the present state of divided feeling in the Fifth, he found it harder than ever to get contributions.

Even those of his own way of thinking, Oliver, Wraysford, and Bullinger, begged to be let off, and, indeed, the two former ingeniously pleaded that, as they were now really Sixth Form fellows (though remaining in their old class till the Doctor came home), they had no right to have a hand in the Fifth Form magazine. And their conscientious scruples on this ground were so strong that no persuasions of Anthony's could shake them. So the unlucky editor had finally, as on a previous occasion, to retire into private life for a season, and get the whole thing out himself, with only the aid of a few inches of "Sonits" from Simon.

But "what man has done man can do," and this time the editor's efforts were crowned with no less success than on the former occasion.

The Dominican certainly did not seem to have lost its novelty, to judge by the crowd which once more assembled outside the classic portals of the Fifth, to peruse the contents of the now familiar big oak frame.

"School News" was the first item of Tony's bill of fare.

After announcing in appropriate terms the Doctor's illness, and "universal hope of seeing him back in all his former vigour" (one or two boys whistled low as they read this, and thought the editor might at least have been content to "speak for himself"), Anthony went on to announce the various school events which had happened since the publication of the last number. Christmas prize-day of course came in for a good share of the description, and contained a touch-off for everybody.

"The Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles," said the Dominican, "looked quite unearthly in their cleanliness. It was commonly reported that one or two of them had washed their faces twice in one week. But this is hardly credible. It is, however, a fact that Bramble was shut up in his study for half an hour with his grandmother and a basin of hot water, and that the conclusion come to from the yells and shrieks which proceeded from the torture-chamber that evening, and the appearance of the dear child next day, is that he undoubtedly underwent one scrubbing this term."

Bramble's face turned so purple at the reading of this that it was impossible to say whether or not any traces of the scouring still remained. He favoured Paul, who stood in front of him, with a furious kick, which that young gentleman, always punctual in his obligations, promptly repaid, and the two combatants somehow managed to miss a good deal of what immediately followed.

After describing the other incidents of prize-day, the Dominican went on as follows:

"But the event of the day was the presentation of the Nightingale Scholarship, which will be sufficiently fresh in our readers' memories to need no comment here, save this one word—that the only Dominican who behaved himself like a gentleman during that remarkable scene was the winner of the scholarship himself!"

This was coming round with a vengeance! The Fifth had half expected it, and now they felt more uncomfortable than ever.

Nor did the succeeding paragraphs leave them much chance of recovery.

"The Waterston Exhibition, our readers will be glad to hear, has been won—and won brilliantly—by Oliver Greenfield, now of the Sixth. No fellow in Saint Dominic's deserves the honour better."

Then, as if his penitence were not yet complete, Pembury went on boldly farther on:

"Speaking of Greenfield senior, it is time some of us who have been doing him injustice for a whole term did what little we could to make amends now. So here goes. Take notice, all of you, that we, the undersigned, are heartily ashamed of our conduct to Greenfield senior, and desire all Saint Dominic's to know it. Signed, A. Pembury, H. Wraysford, T. Bullinger."

The effect of this manifesto was curious. Pembury himself had been unable to prophesy how it would be taken. The boys in front of the board, as they heard it read out, couldn't tell exactly whether to laugh or be serious over the paragraph. Most, however, did the latter, and hurried on to the next sentence:

"The following are also ashamed of themselves, but don't like to say so. The Dominican means to give them a leg up:—Tom Senior, G. Ricketts, R. Braddy, and the rest of the Fifth, except Simon, who never was or could be ashamed of himself while he lived to write such pathetic, soul-stirring lines as the following 'Sonits:'"

[It was a great relief to one or two who stood by that Pembury had thus cunningly gone on from grave to gay, and left no pause after the very awkward paragraph about the Fifth.]

Sonit A.

To the Dominican.

I cannot write as I would like all in a noisy room There's such a noise of mortal boys who sometimes go and come Oh I will to the woods away all in the lonely shade Where I no more of being disturbed need not to be afraid.

Sonit B.

To Dr Senior.

Dear Doctor I am very grieved to hear that you are not well Oh cruel fate and yet methinks one cannot always tell Things are so catching nowadays I wonder if I ever Shall like unto the Doctor be by catching a low fever.

Sonit C.

To O— G—.

Oh Greenfield melancholy wite hear me once before I go 'Tis sad to see the blossoms all in autumn time fall low Canst thou recall that night in September when in the passage fair I met you all so unexpectedly and you didn't seem to care Oh may my hair turn white and me become a soreing lark Before the memory of that day shines out in life's last spark.

[Wite, possibly wight.]

This was beautiful. Saint Dominic's was beginning to appreciate poetry at last! Simon was positively delirious with triumph when, after the burst of laughter (he called it applause) which greeted the reading of this gem, some one cried out—

"Oh, I say! read that last one again, some one!" And then, amid redoubled hilarity, the whole effusion was encored.

The poet promptly sought out his enthusiastic admirer.

"Oh! I say," said he, "would you like a copy of it?"

"Eh—oh, rather!" was the reply.

"Very good. You won't mind if I put a few more verses in, will you? Pembury had to cut some out."

"My dear fellow, I shan't be happy unless I get at least twenty pages."

So off went the delighted Simon to work at this self-imposed task, and caring little about the rest of the Dominican.

But some of that was worth reading, too. Tony's leading article, for instance, was an important document. It was headed "Gone Up," and began, "Alas! our occupation's gone! No longer will the Dominican be able to bring its sledge-hammer down on high places and walk into the Sixth. For two of our men, O Fifth!—Greenfield and Wraysford—have joined the classic ranks of those who eat toffee in the top form, and play 'odds and evens' under the highest desks of Saint Dominic's. We must be careful now, or we shall catch it. And yet we ought to congratulate the Sixth! At last they have got intelligence and high principle, and two good men behind a scrimmage among them; and more are coming! There's some hope for the Sixth yet, and we would not grudge even our two best men for such a good object as regenerating the top form of Saint Dominic's," and so on—not very flattering to the Sixth, or very comfortable for its two newest members, who, however, had prudently retired from the scene long ago, as soon as the first references to Oliver had been read out.

Then came "Notes from Coventry, continued," which were very brief. "Since our last, the population of Coventry has undergone a change. The former inhabitant has walked out with flying colours, and the place is empty. Who wants to go?"

Then came one or two odd paragraphs; one of them was:—

"By the way, the Dominican wants to know why Loman is no longer a monitor? Do his engagements with friends in Maltby prevent his giving the necessary time to this duty? or are the Sixth beginning to see that if they want order in the school they must have fellows who have at least a little influence to do it? They have done well in appointing Wraysford. But why is Loman resigned? Who can tell? It's a riddle. A prize for the best answer in our next."

The finishing stroke, however, was Pembury's "Notes and Queries from Down Below," supposed to be of special interest to the Fourth Junior. The first was as follows:—

"Lessons.—Padger the Tadpole writes to ask, 'How do you do lessons?' The answer is a simple one, Padger. If you are a member of the Fourth Junior, as we have a vague idea you are, the way of 'doing' lessons there is as follows: Sit at a desk full of old cherry-stones, orange-peel, and dusty sherbet, and put your elbows on it. Then with your pen scatter as much ink as you conveniently can over your own collar and face, and everybody else, without unduly exerting yourself. After that kick your right and left neighbours; then carefully rub your hands in the dust and pass them several times over your countenance, all the while making the most hideous and abominable howls and shrieks you can invent. And then your lessons are 'done.'"

This paragraph so grievously incensed the honourable community at which it was directed, that for the first time for some months Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles made common cause to protest against the base insinuations it contained.

The "meeting" in the Fourth Junior that afternoon lasted, on and off, from half-past four to half-past eight. Among the speakers were Bramble, Paul, and Stephen; while Padger, Walker, and Rook did very good execution with their fists. About half-past seven the dust was so dense that it was impossible to see across the room; but those who knew reported that there was another row on about Greenfield senior, and that Paul and Padger were having their twenty-seventh round! Anyhow, the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles missed the rest of the Dominican, which, however, only contained one other paragraph of special interest:

"To-morrow week the football match of the season, School against County, will be played in the Saint Dominic's meadow. We are glad to say the School team will be a crack one, including this time Greenfield senior, and excluding one or two of the 'incompetents' of last term. The following is the school fifteen:—Stansfield (football captain), Brown, Winter, Callonby, Duncan, Ricketts, T. Senior, Henderson, Carter, and Watkins, forwards; Wren (school captain) and Forrester (iv.), quarter-back; Greenfield and Bullinger, half-back; and Wraysford, back. With a team like this the school ought to give a good account of itself against our visitors."

This announcement was interesting in more than one respect. Greenfield was in the team, Loman was not.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

It is now time to return to Loman, whom we left two chapters ago, with his usual luck, standing in Greenfield's study with the 8 pounds in his hand which was finally to clear him of all his troubles, set him once for all on his feet again, and take such a weight off his mind as ought to leave him the lightest-hearted boy in all Saint Dominic's.

He stood there for a minute or two after Oliver and Wraysford had left the room, too bewildered to collect his thoughts or realise one-half of his good fortune, for he had come to Oliver in his extremity as a desperate chance, fully expecting an angry rebuff—or, at best, a chilling snub. But to get through the interview like this, and find the money in his hand within three minutes of his entering the room—why, it quite took his breath away.

Oliver Greenfield was a queer, unaccountable fellow, and no mistake!

Yet, strange to say, when Loman did come to himself he did not burst out into a rapture of delight and gratitude. On the contrary, he suddenly felt himself growing to such a pitch of misery and low spirits as even in the worst of his troubles he had never experienced. He repented bitterly of ever bringing himself to come and ask such a favour of his worst enemy, and, stranger than all, he felt his dislike for Greenfield increased rather than swept away by this abrupt, startling piece of generosity. Strange the whims that seize us! Loman would almost have been happier in his old suspense about Cripps than to feel he owed such a debt to such a creditor.

However, the thought of Cripps, his other creditor, flashed suddenly through his mind at that moment, so, closing his hand over the money, he turned moodily and left the room.

At any rate, he would get clear of Cripps now he had the chance.

As soon as ever morning school was over he took his hat and traversed once more the familiar road between Saint Dominic's and the Cockchafer. "Is Cripps at home?" he inquired of the potboy.

"Yas," said the boy. "Who wants him?"

"I do, you young blockhead!"

"You do? Oh, all right! I'll tell him, mister. Don't you collar no mugs while I'm gone, mind!"

The very potboys despised and ridiculed him!

Loman waited patiently for a quarter of an hour, when the boy returned.

"Oh!" said he, "the governor can't see you, he says. He's a-smoking his pipe, he says, and he ain't a-goin' to put himself about, he says, for the likes of you. That's what he says! Ti ridde tol rol ro!" and here the youth indulged in a spitefully cheerful carol as he resumed the polishing of the mugs.

"Look here!" said Loman, miserable and half frightened, "tell him I must see him; I've got some money for him, tell him."

"No! have you?" said the boy. "Well, wait till I've done this here job—I'm dead on this here job, I am! You can keep, you can."

This was too much even for the dispirited and cowed Loman. He caught the impudent boy a box on the ear, which resounded all over the Cockchafer, and sent him howling and yelling to his master.

Cripps appeared at last in a fury. What, he demanded, with half a dozen oaths, did Loman mean by coming there and assaulting him and his assistants? "What do you mean, you thieving jackanapes, you! Get out of my shop, do you hear? or I'll get some one in who will help you out! I'll teach you to come here and make yourself at home, you lying—"

"Now, Cripps," began Loman.

"Hold your noise! do you hear?" said Cripps, savagely.

"I'm very sorry, Cripps," said the wretched boy; "I didn't mean to hurt him, but he—"

"Oh! you won't go, won't you? Very good! we'll see if we can make you;" and Cripps departed from the bar, leaving his young "patron" in anything but a comfortable frame of mind.

For once in a way, however, Loman was roused, and would not go. The boy—miserable specimen as he was—had some courage in him, and when once goaded up to the proper pitch it came out. If he went, he argued to himself, Cripps would certainly come up to Saint Dominic's after him. If he waited till the police or some of the roughs came and ejected him he could not be much worse off; and there was a chance that, by remaining, he might still be able to pacify his evil genius.

So he stayed. Another quarter of an hour passed; no one came to turn him out. A few customers came into the bar and were served by the sulky potboy, but there was no sign of Cripps.

"Go and tell your master I'm here still, and want to see him particularly," said Loman, presently, to the boy.

The boy looked up and scowled and rubbed his ear, but somehow that timely blow of Loman's had wrought wonders with his spirit, for he quietly went off and did as he was bid.

In a few minutes he came back and delivered the laconic message, "You're got to wait."

This was satisfactory as far as it went. Loman did wait, simmering inwardly all the time, and not wholly losing his desperation before once again Cripps appeared and beckoned him inside.

"Here's the rest of the money," said Loman, hurriedly. "You can give me back the bill now, Cripps."

Cripps took up the money, counted it and pocketed it, and then turned on his victim with an impudent smile.

"Give me the bill," repeated Loman, suddenly turning pale with the dreadful misgiving that after all he had not got rid of the blackguard.

"What do you want the bill for?" asked Cripps, laughing.

"Want it for? Why, Cripps—" and here Loman stopped short.

"Fire away," said Cripps.

"I've paid you all I owe," said Loman, trembling.

"What if you have?"

"Then give me back that bill!"

Cripps only laughed—a laugh which drove the boy frantic. The villain was going to play him false after all. He had got the money, every farthing of it, and now he was going to retain the bill which contained Loman's promise to pay the whole amount! Poor Loman, he was no match in cunning for this rogue. Who would believe him that he had paid, when Cripps was still able to produce the promise signed with his own name to do so?

Bitterly did the boy repent the day when first, by a yielding to deceit, he had put himself in the power of such a villain!

He was too confounded and panic-struck to attempt either argument or persuasion. He felt himself ruined, and muttering, in a voice which trembled with misery, "I must tell father all about it," he turned to go.

Oh, Loman! Why have you left such a resolve till now? Why, like that other prodigal, have you waited till everything else has failed, till your own resources and cunning have been exhausted to the last dregs, before you turn and say this!

The boy uttered the words involuntarily, not intending that they should be heard. Little he thought Cripps or any one would heed them. But Cripps did heed them. His quick ear caught the words, and they had a meaning for him; for he might be able to cheat and browbeat and swindle a boy, but when it came to dealing no longer with the boy, but with the boy's father, Cripps was sharp enough to know that was a very different matter. He had relied on the boy's fears of exposure and his dread of his father's anger to carry his extortions to the utmost limit with confidence. But now he had gone a step too far. When, in his desperation, the boy naturally turned to the very being he had all along most carefully kept ignorant of his proceedings, it was time for Cripps to pull up.

He stopped Loman as he was going away, with a laugh, as he said, in his old tones, "Steady there, young gentleman, what a hurry you are in! A man can't have a little bit of fun, just to see how you like it, but there you go, and give it all up, and go and get yourself into a regular perspiration! Tell the governor, indeed! You don't suppose I'd let you get yourself into such a mess as all that, do you? No, no. You shall have the bill, my man, never fear."

"Oh, thank you, Cripps, thank you!" cried Loman, in a sudden convulsion of gratitude and relief.

"'Pon my word, I might take offence, that I might, at your wanting the paper. As if I'd ever take advantage of a young gentleman like you! No, no; honesty's the best policy for us poor folks as well as for you nobs. No one can say I defrauded any one."

"Oh, no, of course not," cried Loman, enthusiastically. "I should like to see any one who did!"

Mr Cripps, smiling sweetly and modestly, went to his cupboard, and after a good deal of fumbling and search, produced the little slip of blue paper he was looking for.

"Is that it?" cried the excited Loman.

"Looks like it," said Cripps, unfolding it and reading out, with his back to the boy, "'Three months after date I promise to pay George Cripps thirty-five pounds, value received. Signed, E. Loman.' That's about it, eh, young gentleman? Well, blessed if I ain't a soft-hearted chap after the doing you've given me over this here business. Look here; here goes."

And so saying, Mr Cripps first tore the paper up into little bits, and then threw the whole into the fire before the eyes of the delighted Loman.

"Thanks, Cripps, thanks," said the boy. "I am so glad everything's settled now, and I am so sorry to have kept you waiting so long."

"Oh, well, as long as it's been an obligement to you, I don't so much care," said the virtuous Cripps. "And now you've done with me I suppose you'll cut me dead, eh, young gentleman? Just the way. You stick to us as long as you can get anything out of us, and then we're nobodies."

And here Mr Cripps looked very dejected.

"Oh, no," said Loman, "I don't mean to cut you, Cripps. I shall come down now and then—really I will—when I can manage it. Good-bye now."

And he held out his hand.

Foolish and wicked as Loman was, there was still left in him some of that boyish generosity which makes one ready to forget injuries and quick to acknowledge a good turn. Loman forgot for a moment all the hideous past, with its suspense and humiliations and miseries, and remembered only that Cripps had torn up the bill and allowed him to clear off accounts once for all at the hated Cockchafer. Alas! he had forgotten, too, about telling all to his father!

"Good-day, young gentleman," said Cripps, with a pensive face which made the boy quite sorry to see.

He shook hands cordially and gratefully, and departed lighter in heart than he had felt for some time.

But as he returned to Saint Dominic's the thought of Oliver, and of his debt to him, returned, and turned again all his satisfaction into vexation. He wished he had the money that moment to fling back into the fellow's face!

I don't pretend to explain this whim of Loman's. It may have been his conscience which prompted it. For a mean person nearly always detests an honest one, and the more open and generous the one is, the meaner the other feels in his own heart by contrast.

However, for some days Loman had not the painful reminder of his debt often before his eyes; for as long as the Doctor was absent Oliver remained in the Fifth.

At length, however, the head master returned, restored and well, and immediately the "removes" were put into force, and Oliver and Wraysford found themselves duly installed on the lowest bench of the Sixth—the only other occupant of which was Loman. The two friends, however, held very little intercourse with their new class-fellow, and Oliver never once referred to the eight pounds; and, like every one and everything else, Loman grew accustomed to the idea of being his rival's debtor, and, as the days went on, ceased to be greatly troubled by the fact at all.

But an event happened one day, shortly after the Doctor's return, which gave every one something else to think about besides loans and debtors.

It was the morning of the day fixed for the great football match against the County, and every one, even the Sixth and Fifth, chafed somewhat at the two hours appointed on such a day for so mundane an occupation as lessons.

Who could think of lessons when any minute the County men might turn up? Who could be bothered with dactyls and spondees when goal-posts and touch-lines were far more to the point? And who could be expected to fix his mind on hexameters and elegiacs when the height of human perfection lay in a straight drop-kick or a fast double past the enemy's half-backs? However, the Doctor had made up his mind Latin verses should get their share of attention that morning, and the two head forms were compelled to submit as best they could.

Now, on this occasion, the Doctor was specially interested in the subject in hand, and waxed more than usually eloquent over the comparative beauties of Horace and Virgil and Ovid, and went into the minutest details about their metres. Over one line which contained what seemed to be a false quantity he really became excited.

"It is a most remarkable thing, and I am really pleased we have fallen on the passage," said he, "that this identical mistake, if it is a mistake, occurs in a line of Juvenal; it is in the—dear me, I have forgotten how it begins! Has any one here a Juvenal?"

"I have one in my study, sir," said Loman. (Juvenal had been one of the Latin subjects for the Nightingale.)

"Ah! Would you fetch it, Loman, please? I think I know precisely where the line occurs."

Loman rose and went for the book, which he found upon his bookcase, enjoying a dignified and dusty repose on the top shelf. Carefully brushing off the dust, so as to give the volume a rather less unused look, he returned with it to the class-room, and handed it to the Doctor.

"Thank you, Loman. Now, it is in the Fourth—no, the Fifth Satire," said he, turning over the pages. "Let me see—yes, not far from—ah!"

This last exclamation was uttered in a voice which made every boy in the room look suddenly up and fix his eyes on the Doctor. It was evidently something more than an exclamation of recognition on finding the desired passage. There was too much surprise and too much pain in the word for that.

Was the Doctor ill? He closed the book and sat back in his chair in a sort of bewilderment. Then suddenly, and with an evident effort, recovering himself, he let his eyes once more rest on the closed Juvenal.

"Loman," he said, "will you come and find the passage for me? Turn to the Fifth Satire."

Loman obeyed, much wondering, notwithstanding, why the Doctor should ask him, of all people, to come up and turn to the passage.

He advanced to the head master's desk and took up the Juvenal.

"The Fifth Satire," repeated the Doctor, keeping his eyes on the book.

Certainly the Doctor was very queer this morning. One would suppose his life depended on the discovery of that unlucky line, so keenly he watched Loman as he turned over the pages.

Was the book bewitched? Loman, as he held it, suddenly turned deadly white, and closed it quickly, as if between the leaves there lay a scorpion! Then again, seeing the Doctor's eye fixed on him, he opened it, and, with faltering voice, began to read the line.

"That will do. Hand me the book, Loman."

The Doctor's voice, as he uttered these words, was strangely solemn.

Loman hurriedly took a paper from between the leaves and handed the book to the Doctor.

"Hand me that paper, Loman!"

Loman hesitated.

"Obey me, Loman!"

Loman looked once at the Doctor, and once at the Juvenal; then, with a groan, he flung the paper down on to the desk.

The Doctor took it up.

"This paper," said he, slowly, and in an agitated voice—"this paper is the missing paper of questions for the Nightingale Scholarship last term. Loman, remain here, please. The other boys may go."



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

THE MATCH AGAINST THE COUNTY.

The boys, astounded and bewildered by this unexpected revelation, slowly rose to obey the Doctor's order, leaving Loman alone with the head master.

The boy was ashy pale as Dr Senior turned to him and said, solemnly—

"How do you account for this, Loman?"

Loman lowered his eyes and made no reply.

"Answer me please, Loman. Can you account for this?"

"No."

"Did you ever see this paper before?"

"No."

"Do you know how it came into your Juvenal?"

"No."

"Did you know anything at all about the lost paper?"

"No."

The Doctor looked long and searchingly at him as he said once more—

"Loman, are you sure you are telling me the truth? You know nothing whatever about the paper—never saw it before this moment?"

"No."

"You knew the paper had been missed off my desk?"

"Yes."

"Had you the least reason for believing any boy took it?"

Loman hesitated.

"I would rather not say," he said at last.

"You must please answer me frankly, Loman. Had you any reason, I ask, for believing any boy took the paper?"

"Must I say?" asked Loman.

"Yes—you must."

"Well, then, I did fancy some one had taken it."

"Who?"

"Greenfield senior," said Loman, flushing quickly as he said the name.

"And what made you suspect Greenfield senior?"

"All the boys suspected him."

"That is not an answer, Loman. Why?"

"Because, for one thing," said Loman, sullenly, "he was seen coming out of your study that evening."

"And why else?"

"Because he came out so high in the exam."

"And for these reasons you suspected Greenfield of taking the paper? Why did you not mention the matter to me?"

Loman did his best to look virtuous.

"I did not wish to get any one into trouble."

"And you preferred to let an affair like this go on without taking any steps to have it cleared up? Did Greenfield deny the charge?"

"No."

"Did he admit it?"

"Very nearly. He wouldn't speak to any one for months."

"And you really believe that Greenfield took the paper?"

Loman looked up at the Doctor for a moment and answered, "Yes."

"Did you lend him your Juvenal at any time?"

"Not that I remember."

"Do you suppose he put the paper in the book?"

"I couldn't say; but I don't see who else could."

"That will do, Loman; you can go. Kindly leave the paper and the Juvenal with me."

Loman turned to go, but the Doctor stopped him with one more question.

"You know, I suppose, that the questions which you actually had set for the Nightingale examination were quite different from those on the paper?"

"Yes," said Loman. "I mean—that is," he added, stammering, and taking up the paper in question. "I see by this paper they were quite different."

"Yes; you can go now, Loman."

There was something so solemn and hard in the head master's voice as he dismissed the boy that Loman felt very uncomfortable as he slowly departed to his own study.

He, at any rate, was in no humour for enjoying the big football match which was just beginning.

And it must be confessed the event of the morning had had the effect of disconcerting a good many more than himself. Stansfield had quite hard work going round among his troops and rousing them once more to the proper pitch of enthusiasm.

"What—whatever does it matter," he said, "if the fellow did take it? You didn't take it, Winter, or you, Wren; and what on earth's the use of getting down in the mouth, and perhaps losing the match, because of it? We're always having our football spoiled by something or other," he added with a groan. "I'll tell you what it is, let's only lick these fellows this afternoon, and then I'll howl and groan and do anything you like, for a week."

There was no resisting such a generous offer. The fellows made up their minds to forget everything else that afternoon but the County, and so to play that the County should have some difficulty in soon forgetting them.

"Fire away, you fellows, and peel!" cried Stansfield, as Oliver and Wraysford sauntered past.

They fired away. But while dressing they exchanged a few words on the forbidden subject.

"Did you ever expect it would be brought home to Loman like this, Noll?" asked Wray.

"No, I didn't. And yet in a way—"

"Eh? What do you say?"

"Why, Wray, you remember me saying that evening, after I left the study, the only fellow I met in the passage besides Simon was Loman?"

"Yes; so you did."

"He was going towards the Doctor's study," said Oliver.

"Hum! I remember now you said so."

"And yet," continued Oliver, plunging into his jersey—"and yet I can't see how, if he did take the paper, he didn't do better in the exam. He came out so very low."

"Yes, that's queer, unless he took a fit of repentance all of a sudden, and didn't look at it."

"Then it's queer he didn't destroy it, instead of sticking it in his Juvenal."

"Well, I suppose the Doctor will clear it up, now he's on the scent."

"I suppose so," said Oliver; "but, I say, old man," he added, "of course there's no need for us to say anything about it to anybody. The poor beggar doesn't want our help to get him into trouble."

"No, indeed. I'd be as glad, quite, if it were found to be another wrong scent, after all," said Wraysford. "The fellow's in a bad enough way as it is."

"Are you nearly ready, you two?" thundered Stansfield at the door.

"Just ready!" they exclaimed; and in another minute they, too, had dismissed from their minds everything but Saint Dominic's versus County, as they trotted off to join the rest of their comrades on the field of battle.

And, indeed, for the next two hours there was no opportunity, even, had they desired it, for any one to think of anything but this momentous struggle.

For three years running the County had beaten the schoolboys, each time worse than before, until at last the latter had got to be afraid the others would begin to think them foemen not worthy of their steel. This year they hardly dared hope a better fate than before, for the enemy were down in force. Yet the boys had determined to die hard, and at least give their adversaries all the trouble they could before their goal should fall; and of this they were all the more sanguine, because their team was the very best the school could muster, and not a man among them but knew his business, and could be depended on to do it too.

Bad luck! Of course, just when it's not wanted there's a breeze got up, blowing right down the field, and in the very teeth of the schoolboys, who have lost the toss, and have to play from the oak-tree end for the first half of the game!

"It's always the way," growls Ricketts. "They'll simply eat us up while they've got the chance, you see!"

"No they won't," says Stansfield, bound to take a cheerful view of things. "We're strong in backs. It's not like last match, when Greenfield wasn't playing, and Loman was there to make such a mess of it."

"Well, it's a comfort, that, anyhow."

"Of course it is," says the captain. "What you fellows have got to do is to keep the ball in close, and nurse it along all the while, or else run—but you'd better let the quarter-backs do that."

This sage advice is not thrown away on the worthies who lead the van for Saint Dominic's, and an opportunity for putting it into practice occurs the moment the game begins. For the School has to kick-off, and to kick-off against that wind is a hopeless business. Stansfield does not attempt anything like a big kick, but just drives the ball hard and low on to the legs of the County forwards, sending his own men close after it, so that a scrimmage is formed almost at the very spot where the ball grounds.

"Now, School, sit on it! Do you hear?" calls out the captain; and certainly it looks as if that unhappy ball were never destined to see the light again. The enemy's forwards cannot get it out from among the feet of the School forwards, try all they will, until, by sheer weight, they simply force it through. And then, when it does go through, there is young Forrester of the Fourth ready for it, and next moment it is back in its old place in the middle of the "mush." In due time, out it comes again—this time on Wren's side—and once again, after a short run, there it is again, on almost the identical spot of earth where it has undergone its last two poundings.

"Played up, Dominies!" cries out Stansfield, cheerily. "Stick to it now!"

Stick to it they do, with the wind fresh on their faces, and the County fellows charging and plunging and shoving like fury upon them.

Ah! there goes the ball, out at the County end for a wonder. The spectators cheer loudly for the schoolboys. Little they know! It had much better have stayed there among their feet than roll out into the open. The County quarter-back has it in his hands in a twinkling, and in another twinkling he has lifted it with a drop-kick high into the air, all along the wind, which carries it, amid cheers and shouts, right up to the boundary of the School goal.

So much for cutting through the scrimmage!

Wraysford, the Dominican "back," is ready for it when it drops, and, without touching-down, runs out with it. He is a cautious fellow, is Wraysford, and does not often try this game. But the ball has far outstripped the enemy's forwards, and so he has a pretty open field. But not for long. In a few seconds the County is upon him, and he and the ball are no longer visible. Then follow a lot more scrimmages, with similar results. It is awfully slow for the spectators, but Stansfield rejoices over it, and the County men chafe.

"Can't you let it out there? Play looser, and let it through," says their captain.

Loose it is.

"That's better!" says the County captain, as presently the ball comes out with a bound full into the quarter-back's hands, who holds it, and, to the horror of the boys, makes his mark before he can be collared.

The scrimmage has been near up to the Dominican goal—within a kick—and now, as the schoolboys look round first at the goal and then at the County man with the ball, the distance looks painfully small. And even if it were greater, this wind would do the business.

The County man takes plenty of room back from his mark, up to which the School forwards stand ready for one desperate rush the moment the ball touches the ground. Alas, it is no go! They have a knowing hand and a quick foot to deal with. Before they can cover the few yards which divide them, the ball is dropped beautifully, and flies, straight as an arrow, over the cross-bar, amid the tremendous cheers of the County men and their friends.

"Never mind!" says Stansfield, as his men walk out once more to the fray, "they shan't get another before half-time!"

Won't they? Such is the perversity of that creature people call Luck, and such is the hatred it has for anything like a boast, that two minutes—only two minutes—after the words are out of the captain's mouth another Dominican goal has fallen.

For Stansfield in kicking off gets his foot too much under the ball, which consequently rises against the wind and presents an easy catch to any one who comes out to take it. A County forward sees his chance. Rushing up, he catches the ball, and instantaneously, so it seems, drop-kicks it, a tremendous kick clean over the School goal, before even the players have all taken up their places after the last catastrophe.

This is dreadful! worse than ever! Never in their worst days had such a thing happened. For once in a way Stansfield's hopefulness deserts him, and he feels the School is in for an out-and-out hiding.

The captain would like extremely to blow some one up, if he only knew whom. It is so aggravating sometimes to have no one to blow-up. Nothing relieves the feelings so, does it?

However, Stansfield has to bottle up his feelings, and, behold! once more he and his men are in battle array.

This time it's steady all again, and the ball is kept well out of sight. It can't even slip out behind now, as before; for the School quarter-backs are up to that dodge, and ready to pounce upon it before it can be lifted or sent flying. Indeed, the only chance the wretched ball has of seeing daylight is—

Hullo! half-time!

The announcement falls on joyful ears among the Dominicans. They have worked hard and patiently against heavy odds; and they feel they really deserve this respite.

Now, at last, if the wind wouldn't change for them, they have changed over to the wind, which blows no longer in their faces, but gratefully on to their backs.

The kick-off is a positive luxury under such circumstances; Stansfield needn't be afraid of skying the ball now, and he isn't. It shoots up with a prodigious swoop and soars right away to touch-line, so that the County's "back" is the first of their men to go into action. He brings the ball back deftly and prettily, slipping in and out among his own men, who get beside him as a sort of bodyguard, ready at any moment to carry on the ball. It is ludicrous to see Ricketts and Winter and Callonby flounder about after him. The fellow is like an eel. One moment you have him, the next he's away; now you're sure of him, now he's out of all reach. Ah! Stansfield's got him at last! No he hasn't; but Winter has—No, Winter has lost him; and—just look—he's past all the School forwards, no one can say how.

Young Forrester tackles him gamely—but young Forrester is no hand at eel-catching; in fact, the eel catches Forrester, and leaves him gracefully on his back. Past the quarter-backs! The man has a charmed life!