At the Redwoods', however, he cheered up at once. He received a royal welcome from the little girls—in marked contrast to Miss Mamie's sulky reception of me as the destroyer of her nice sash. Redwood himself was delighted to see him, and the family tea was quite a merry one.

When we adjourned to the captain's "den" afterwards I was decidedly out of it. Indeed, it was broadly hinted to me that the little girls downstairs were anxious for some one to teach them "consequences"; would I mind?

Considering there was no game I detested more than "consequences," and no young ladies less open to instruction than the Misses Redwood, I did not jump at the offer. It was evident, however, Tempest and Redwood wanted to talk, and with a vague sense that by leaving them to do so I was somehow acting for the benefit of Low Heath, I sacrificed myself, and sat down to assist in the usual composite stories; how, for instance, the square Dr England met the mealy-faced Sarah (the little girls knew my nickname as well as the Philosophers) up a tree. He said to her, "We must part for ever;" she (that is I) said to him, "My ma shall know of this;" the consequence was that there was a row, and the world said, "It's all up."

In present circumstances these occult narratives were full of serious meaning for me, and my thoughts were far more with the two seniors above than with the two exacting female juniors below. However, the time passed, and presently Tempest's "Come along, youngster," apprised me that the hour of release had come.

Redwood walked back with us, and from certain fragments of conversation which fell on my ears I was able to gather something of the result of the conference.

"If it were only yourself, you know," said Redwood, "I'd say stick out."

"But," said Tempest, "he knows I'm not sorry, even if I say so."

"It's a choice between humble pie and Low Heath losing you," said the captain.

"Not much loss."

"That's all you know. There's not a fellow we could spare less."

They walked on in silence; then Redwood said,—

"England ought to see that Jarman rots everything the way he goes on. We'll be in a better position to get it altered if you cave in this once."

"I vowed I wouldn't do it. He'll only chuckle," said Tempest, with a groan.

"Let him! Who cares whether Jarman chuckles or not?" retorted the captain. "Look here, old chap, don't you think he'd chuckle more if you got expelled? That would be the biggest score you could give him. Take my advice, and only give him the smallest."

"I don't know. I'll think about it," said Tempest.

"Of course you will, for the sake of Low Heath. Next term we'll go ahead, and the fellows will owe you more than they think."

Here, by an odd chance, just as we came to the school gate, we met Mr Jarman and Crofter walking out in deep confabulation.

I do not know if they saw us. If they did, they pretended not to have done so, and walked on, leaving us to proceed.

"Do you see that?" said Tempest.

"Rather. I know what it means too. It's an extra reason why you should swallow your pride for once, in order to sell them. I tell you they are probably counting on your sticking out, and nothing would disappoint them more."

"Well, old chap," said Tempest, as we came to our door, "it's not your fault if I don't do it. I know you're right, but—"

"But it's a jolly bitter pill, and I wish I could swallow it for you. Good night."

I had the sense for once to keep what I had heard to myself, and retired to bed more hopeful that all would turn out right than I had been for a day or two.

The next morning I was wandering about, aloof from my comrades, in the quadrangle, waiting for the bell to ring for first school, when Marple, the town bookseller, a tradesman familiar to most Low Heathens, accosted me. He was evidently not at home in the school precincts, and, with my usual modesty, I felt he had come to the right source for information.

"Do you belong to Mr Sharpe's house, young gentleman?" said he, with a respectful nod which quite captivated me.

"Yes. Who do you want?"

"I want to see Mr Tempest very particular."

"Oh, he's up in his room. Wait a bit till the bell rings, and he'll come out."

So Mr Marple and I stopped and chatted about the holidays, which were to begin in a day or two, and the football matches and the river.

"You know Mr Tempest pretty well?" said he.

"Rather; I'm his fag, you know."

"A nice gentleman, I fancy. Pretty well off, eh?"

"Oh no. He's a swell, but his people are poor, I know."

"Oh, indeed. Not likely to buy much in my way, eh?"

"Rather not. He's hard up as it is. It's not much good your trying to sell him anything," said I, remembering the rumour about my friend's indebtedness, and anxious to screen him from further debt.

"Ah, indeed—he's in debt, is he—all round?"

"How do you know that?" said I, bristling up. "I don't expect he owes you anything."

Mr Marple laughed.

"That's just what he does; that's why I've stepped over. I don't like showing young gents up, but—"

"Look here," cried I aghast, "for mercy's sake, don't show him up, Marple! It's as likely as not he's to be expelled as it is; this would finish him up."

"If he's likely to be expelled, all the more reason I should get my money before he goes."

"How much is it?" I gasped.

"A matter of two pounds," said the tradesman.

"Look here," said I, "I'll promise you shall be paid. Wait till the last day of the term, do, Marple."

Mr Marple stared at me. The security I fear was not good enough for him. On the other hand, he probably knew that it would not be good for trade if he were to show up a "Low Heathen."

He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. It contained Tempest's bill for sundry stationery, magazines, books, postage stamps, and so on; headed "Fourth and final application." The envelope itself was addressed, "Dr England, with W. Marple's respectful compliments."

The bell rang just then, and I was so anxious to get Marple off the scene that I wildly promised anything to be rid of him, and was finally left, just in time, to meet Tempest unconsciously strolling across the quadrangle on his way to keep his appointment with the doctor.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

DEEPEST DEPTHS.

We did not see Tempest again till the afternoon. As we most of us surmised, he was relieving his feelings after his interview with the doctor by a spin on the river.

How, I wondered, had the interview gone? Had he agreed to the humiliating condition of apologising to Mr Jarman, or had his pride been too much for him after all? If so, this was probably his last spin on the river.

Had our house been Selkirk's, there would, no doubt, have been wagers on the event. As it was, the Philosophers contented themselves with bickering. The general impression seemed to be that he had refused to surrender. That being so, the game was up—there was no object in keeping up appearances.

A spirit of defiance seemed to get hold of us. We deliberately sat on the fence of the prohibited playing fields, in the hope that Mr Jarman or some one would see us. Trimble even went to the length of crossing it at one corner.

What made it more trying was the conduct of the day boys, who, with an acuteness which did them credit, seemed to have discovered our delicate situation, and resolved to make the most of it.

They paraded the field about twenty yards from our fence, jeering at us openly, and daring us to set foot on the turf.

"Look at them," said one, "hung up like a lot of washing on the palings. We'll make them cut. Let's have a scientific meeting. That'll clear them out."

Whereupon the Urbans ranged themselves on the grass under our noses, and called upon Mr Flitwick to address them on the "Treatment of Lunatics."

This was too much. We were few in number, and the palings were hard and uncomfortable. But if they thought they were going to frighten us away by this demonstration, they were mistaken.

Langrish, in a loud voice, called out "Chair," whereupon I, taking the cue, and assuming that the Philosophers were in congress, called upon Mr Trimble to favour us with his oration on "Mud."

"Oh, all serene," said Trimble, who till that moment had had as little notion of his subject as I had had. "Mud is dirty lumps of stuff lying about on the grass, like what you see in front of you. It has neither brains nor sense. It's a vile thing to look at, and worse to touch. If you—"

"—If you," here broke in Mr Flitwick, "want to see what lunatics really are, you should look on the palings of some of our school playing fields. If you happen to see a row of squinney-eyed, ill-dressed mules, with large boots and turn-up noses, and afraid of their lives to move off where they are, those are the prize lunatics. I have pleasure in exhibiting a few choice specimens collected from various sources. The one thing—"

"—The one thing about mud is, it daren't come within reach of you," continued Trimble, getting a little random in his statements, "for fear of getting one in the eye. If you want a sample—"

"—There's one," shouted Flitwick, interrupting our orator with a fragment of mother earth in his face.

Of course it was all up after that. Doctor or no doctor, we couldn't sit by and see our treasurer assaulted. So we hurled ourselves on the foe, regardless of consequences, and a deadly fight ensued. Some of the more cautious of our number were lucky enough to be able to drag their men off the prohibited field and engage them on the right side of the fence.

I was not so lucky—indeed, I was doubly unlucky. For not only was my adversary my dear friend Dicky Brown, whom I loved as a brother, but he edged further and further afield as the combat went on, so that at the last we were cut off from the main body and left to fight our duel conspicuously in the open.

Dicky was not a scientific pugilist, but he had an awkward way of closing in with you and getting you round the middle just at the moment that his left foot got round behind your right calf. And it grieves me to say that, although I boasted of far more talent in the exercise of the fistic art than he did, he had me on my back on the grass just as Mr Sharpe of all persons walked by.

"What are you two doing?" demanded the master, stopping short.

"Fighting, sir," said the stalwart Dicky, "and I licked him."

"Why are you fighting?"

"Because Flitwick shied mud at Trimble," said I.

The reason did not seem to appeal to Mr Sharpe, who replied,—

"You heard the doctor's orders yesterday, Jones iv., about keeping off the playing field?"

"Yes, sir," said I, realising for the first time that I was well out in the middle of the field, and that the rest of my comrades were looking on from a safe distance.

"Come to me after school for exemplary punishment. You are the most disorderly boy in the house, and it is evident a lenient punishment is no good in your case."

"Please, sir," said the loyal Dicky, "I lugged him on a good part of the way."

"No, you didn't," snarled I—taking this as a taunt, whereas it was intended as a "leg-up"—"I came of my own accord."

"Very well," said Mr Sharpe. "You will come to me, Jones iv., of my accord"—and he walked away.

I was reckless and defiant, and deaf to Dicky's sympathy.

"I don't care," said I. "It was a good job for you he came up. I should have licked you hollow."

"No, you wouldn't, old chap; I had you over twice," said Dicky.

"Come outside and finish it out."

So we adjourned to the other side of the palings and finished it out in the presence of the assembled Urbans and Philosophers. And I grieve to say once more Dicky had me on my back.

The wrath of my comrades was even more grievous to bear than the rejoicings of the enemy. I was promptly withdrawn from the fray as a bad lot, and had it not been for the opportune bell, should probably have been kicked all round.

At any rate, I went in disgusted with myself, with Low Heath, with everybody. What was the use of keeping it up? Tempest, ten to one, was expelled. Dicky Brown, once my inferior, could put me on my back. The Philosophers hated me. Mr Sharpe had marked me down for exemplary punishment, and publicly denounced me as the worst boy in the house. And all this in a single term. What, I wondered, would it be like, if I remained, at the end of a second term?

I looked dismally into Tempest's study—he was not back. Pridgin was in, but did not want me. The faggery just now was impossible. I never felt more lonely and miserable in my life.

I was wandering down the passage, with my jacket flung over my shoulder and my shirt sleeves still tucked up, when the voice of Crofter stopped me.

"Look here," said he, "the contents of your pocket may be interesting to you, but we don't want them littered about the passage. Here, catch hold," and he held out a handful of loose letters. "Why, what's the matter? How blue you look! Has any one been hurting you?"

"Rather not. I've been licking a young cad, that's all."

"Well, you don't look as if you enjoyed it, anyhow. Has Tempest come back?"

"No—probably he's expelled," said I, determined to have things as miserable as possible.

"I sincerely hope not," said Crofter, in a tone which quite softened me to him. "He doesn't like me, but I'd be sorry if he left, all the same."

"He thinks you and Jarman would like to see him kicked out. That's the one reason why he might stay on."

Crofter laughed sweetly.

"What a notion! Why, I've had a good mind to go to England myself and stick up for him."

"It's a good job you haven't," said I.

"What I'm afraid is, that he is worried about other things. I hope, by the way, you never said anything about what I told you the other day."

"No," said I, not quite candidly. For I had tried to tell Tempest, but he would not let me.

"That's right. I hope he's cleared his debts off by now."

"I—I don't think he has," stammered I.

"Really! It's a pity. The doctor would be much more likely to be down on him for being in debt than—"

He pulled up suddenly, as Tempest at that moment walked up. He must have heard the last few words; and if it required looks of guilt and confusion on my part to convince him we had been speaking of him, I think I gave him proof positive.

He had apparently intended to summon me to his study. But, as he saw with whom I was conferring, and overheard the subject of our conversation, he thought better of it, and with lowering face stalked away.

I wished I was dead then! Something told me I had lost my friend, and that no amount of explanation could do away with the barrier which had suddenly been erected between us.

"Awkward," said Crofter. "It's a good job we were talking no harm of him."

"He won't fancy our talking about him at all," said I.

"I suppose we've as much right to talk about him as any one else."

"He'll be awfully down on me, I know," said I miserably.

"All I can say is, if he is, you're a young fool if you care two straws. Tempest's a good fellow; but he's rather a way of not allowing a fellow to have a soul of his own."

This failed to console me. I made one effort to see Tempest and explain, but he was occupied with his books, and did not even deign to notice my presence in his study.

Later on in the evening all speculation as to the result of the morning's interview was set at rest. An unusual summons came to Sharpe's to meet the doctor in our hall.

We assembled uncomfortably and with sore spirits. The worry of the whole business was telling on us, and we heartily hoped, while we clamoured for no surrender in words, that Tempest would disappoint us for once.

The doctor came presently, looking very grave, and accompanied by Mr Jarman. From the head master's face we concluded at once that all was up. But to our surprise he said,—

"I am glad to say, in reference to the matter I met you boys about yesterday, that Tempest has taken a proper sense of his duty, and has undertaken to apologise for his conduct to Mr Jarman. That being so, Tempest, you will please take this opportunity of expressing your regret."

Tempest flushed as he rose in obedience to the doctor's summons. It was evidently, as Redwood had said, "a bitter pill," and had he been a less brave fellow, he could hardly have swallowed it. As it was, even the knowledge that the welfare of the entire house was somehow dependent on his submission was scarcely able to break down his pride.

He advanced to Mr Jarman more like one who comes to administer a thrashing than ask for pardon, and after eyeing him almost fiercely for a moment, summoned his self-control sufficiently to say hoarsely,—

"I apologise, sir."

Mr Jarman bit his lips. It was not the triumph he had expected. Indeed the whole manner of it was such as to hurt instead of soothe his feelings.

"This is hardly an apology," said he to the doctor.

"I trust, Tempest, it means that you regret your action?"

It was an awkward question. Tempest had gone further than any one expected, and his silence now reminded the doctor what the cost had been.

"I think," said he, not waiting for a reply to his own question, "Tempest has fulfilled his pledged—not cordially, I am sorry to say, but sufficiently."

"Very well, sir," said Mr Jarman, "I accept his apology for what it is worth, which seems very little."

"Now, I regret to say," continued the head master, producing a letter which made my heart jump to my mouth, "I have a more serious matter to speak about. I wish heartily what we have just heard had been the end of this painful interview. But it is necessary to refer to something different—a very serious offence against rules. It concerns you, Tempest. Is it a fact that you are in debt to some of the tradesmen?"

Tempest changed colour again and replied,—

"Yes, sir, I am sorry to say I am."

I held on tight to my desk. This was a finishing touch surely, and I, if any one, felt myself the criminal.

"This letter, addressed to me, but containing a bill for more than two pounds owing by you, part of it since last term, has been left at my house—I presume by the tradesman to whom it is due. Come here and look at it, Tempest."

Tempest obeyed.

"Is it a fact that you are in debt to this extent?"

"Yes, sir—more."

"You are aware—"

Here I could stand it no longer, but sprang to my feet and shouted,—

"Please, sir, it's my fault!"

Everybody turned to me in amazement, as well they might.

"Your fault, Jones iv.?—come forward and explain."

"I mean," said or rather shouted I, speaking while I walked up the room, "it's my fault you got that bill, sir. I don't know how you got it, but it wasn't meant to get to you, really. I must have dropped it. I—I— was going—to try—to get it paid for him, sir. Really—"

Tempest gave me a glare that knocked all the spirit out of me. What business had I, it seemed to demand, to meddle in his private affairs?

I felt I had done him a real bad turn by my clumsiness, but had not the wit to avoid making bad worse.

"Yes, sir, I told Marple—"

"I purposely refrained from mentioning names, Jones iv.; why can you not do so too?"

"I told him to keep it dark, and got him to give it to me. I—I knew Tempest hadn't enough money to pay it—and—and—"

An exclamation of anger from Tempest cut me short, and I was sent ignominiously back to my place.

"Tempest," said the head master very sternly, "send me in a list of all you owe before you go to bed to-night, and understand that, unless all is paid by Friday when we break up, you will not be allowed to return to Low Heath after the holidays. You must cease in any case to retain the headship of the house, even for the few days of the term that remain. You, I understand. Crofter, come next in form order; you will act as head boy in the meantime."

In the midst of my anguish I could see the look of meek resignation on Crofter's face, and that of quiet satisfaction on Mr Jarman's. At Tempest I dared not look, or at my fellow-Philosophers.

What had I done? What was to become of me? How could I get out of it? These were the three questions which set my poor brain spinning as I wandered off alone to the remotest corner of the quadrangle, and as, later on, I lay miserably awake in my bed.

I had done my friend about as much harm as I possibly could. I may not have meant it. But who cares what a fellow means, so long as he acts like a cad? As to what was to become of me, I had had a taste of that already. The faggery door had been locked against me, and a missive shoved under the bottom had apprised me of my fate in that quarter.

"To Beast Sarah.

"Take notice that you are kicked out of the Philosophers, and if you dare show your abominable face within a mile of them you'll get it all over with rulers. It has been resolved by Mr Langrish and seconded by Mr Trimble, and passed by all the lot, that you be and are hereby kicked whenever any one sees you. Any one not kicking you will be lammed. It is also resolved that the faggery be fumigated and disinfected during the holidays, and that any chap seen talking to you be refused to be let in till he has been vaccinated. You are about the lowest, meanest, vilest, abominablest, unmitigatedest sneak going. Three cheers for poor old Tempest, and down with girls' schools and washerwomen!"

This fiery document was formally signed by every Philosopher in the house, together with a particular word of opprobrium addressed to me by each of my former colleagues.

I was not long in realising that I was an outcast in Sharpe's. No one would look at me, still less speak to me. Pridgin ordered me off like a dog. Wales slammed his door in my face. When I appeared in the preparation hall, a long hiss saluted me, even though Mr Sharpe was present. Even outside fellows seemed to have heard of my crime, and looked askance or gave me a wide berth. I can truly say that I found myself the most miserable boy in Low Heath, and only longed for the end of the term to come, that I might shake the dust of the hateful place from my feet, and drop out of the sight of a school full of enemies.

Indeed, as I lay awake that night I had serious thoughts of making off there and then. If I had only had my boots, I think I might have done so; but they were in the blacking-room; and my desperation drew the line at walking off in my bare feet.

I was sitting up in bed, half whimpering with headache and misery, when a light appeared at the end of the dormitory. It was Crofter, in his new capacity of head of the house, taking his rounds before turning in. The sight of him brought home to me the injury I had done, not only to Tempest, but the whole house. For it was my fault, and mine only, that Crofter was at this moment captain of Sharpe's.

To my surprise and alarm, when he came up to my bed he stopped short, and drawing a letter from his pocket, put it into my hand, saying—

"Put that under your pillow till the morning."

It was more than nature could do to sleep with a mystery like this on the top of my misery. I listened to the clock as it struck the hours through the night, and thought the day would never come. Indeed, the getting-up bell had sounded before the winter sun struggled in through the dormitory window.

Then by the light of a candle I seized the missive from under my pillow and tore it open.

A five-pound note fell out, and with it the following letter.

"You have made a nice mess of it, and ought to be happy. The least you can do is to try to make things right for Tempest. Call round on the following six tradesmen (giving the six names, one of which was Marple) early to-morrow, and pay Tempest's bill at each, and bring home the receipts. You needn't mention who sent you. Send the receipts to me, and if Tempest asks any questions, tell him you paid the money by request of a friend.

"W. Crofter."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

I AM ADVISED TO LIE LOW.

My first impulse on reading Crofter's letter was to jump for joy. It meant that Tempest would stay at Low Heath, and that I was to be allowed to assist in keeping him there.

But my second thoughts were more of a surprise than pleasure. Crofter was a mystery to me. His fellow-seniors disliked him, and warned me against him. But, as far as I could see, he was not as bad as they made him out, and certainly never said anything as bad about them as they said about him.

What could be his object now if it was not a disinterested one? He would be permanent captain of the house if Tempest left, and yet he was doing the very thing that would keep Tempest at school. Tempest had openly insulted him during the term, and yet here he was helping his enemy out of a very tight place. I knew he was well off, so probably he could afford the L5; but at the end of the term pocket-money was not a plentiful commodity. He said nothing about being paid back, too; surely he did not mean to make Tempest a free gift of this magnificent amount! The more I thought it over the more I felt Crofter was a brick, and had been scandalously misunderstood. He seemed to me a true type of the virtuous man, who, when struck on one cheek, turns the other, and when robbed of his coat offers his cloak too. I only hoped Tempest might know what he owed him. In short, in the brief time it took me to dress, I had worked myself up into a state of enthusiasm on the subject of Crofter.

As to the mystery of Mr Marple's letter having got into the doctor's hands, no doubt I had been careless and dropped the compromising envelope, which some foolish but honest person (it did not occur to me at the time it might have been Crofter himself) had picked up and dropped in the head master's letter-box, supposing he was doing a very clever thing. Tempest would not be likely to allow me to explain, which was hard on me, and made it all the more virtuous on my part to assist now in putting things right for him. Luckily for him, he had friends at Low Heath in spite of himself.

When I encountered Crofter in the morning, I requested him, with a knowing look of intelligence, to give me an exeat into the town to do some shopping. It was probably the first recognition he had received of his temporary authority as head of the house, and he made no difficulty in granting my request.

I made my way first of all to Marple's.

"Oh, about that bill you gave me. How much was it?"

"Two pounds and sixpence, young gentleman."

"I said I'd see it paid for you, didn't I?"

"You did. I don't want to show up—"

"All right, you needn't. Here's the money; give me the change, please, and a receipt."

Mr Marple opened his eyes very wide at the sight of a five-pound note within three days of the end of term. "I—I hope it's all right," said he, hesitatingly. "You needn't have it if you don't want," said I, mounting my high horse.

"I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, young gentleman," said the tradesman, giving the note a professional twitch, and proceeding to count out the change from his till. "I shall always be pleased to attend to any little orders from Mr Tempest or you."

"You can make out the receipt to Tempest," said I; "I expect he won't get much more here."

"Don't say that. I'm sure no offence was meant."

It was a delicious sensation to feel myself master of the situation like this. I could have bullied Marple if I had liked, but I resolved not to be too hard on him.

"I'm sure I'm much obliged," said he, "for all your trouble. Have you seen these pretty little pencil-sharpers? They are quite new. I shall be pleased if you will accept one, young gentleman."

A pencil-sharpener was the very thing I wanted. All the term I had been wrestling with a blunt penknife, which no sooner uncovered the lead at the end of a pencil than it broke it off. So in a weak moment I accepted the gift, and forfeited my advantage.

From Marple's I proceeded to the confectioner's, where a score of nearly a pound stood against Tempest. Here, again, I experienced the sweets of being treated with distinguished consideration, and being asked to partake of a strawberry ice (how Rammage, by the way, continued to have strawberry ices in the middle of December I have never yet clearly understood) while the receipt was being made out.

Mr Winget, the hatter, rather disappointed me by offering me nothing more than his sincere thanks for the settlement of his little bill. He might at least, I thought, have offered me a mourning hatband or a new school ribbon. His bill, however, was only five shillings, so probably the profit did not permit of any gratuitous allowance in recognition of my distinguished services.

I was consoled, however, by Mr Ringstead, the games man, who presented me with a net-bag for holding tennis balls, and urged me, whenever I wanted any little thing in the way of repairs to bats, or fresh spikes to my running shoes, to let him know.

It was all very pleasant, and I grieve to say that the shady side of all this petty bribery and corruption never once occurred to my simple mind.

I returned to school covered with self-satisfaction, and virtuously clutching in my hand half-a-crown, the final change out of the "fiver." This in due course I put in an envelope, together with the batch of receipts, and laid on Crofter's table after morning school, with the laconic message under the flap, "All right, T.J. iv."

I was far too knowing to let out my secret to the Philosophers, whose agitation and indignation at Tempest's probable expulsion knew no bounds and somewhat amused me.

"Look here, Sarah," said Langrish, as I entered for the first time after my disgrace of the previous day—I knew my comrades well enough to be sure they would like to see me—"we all know you're about the beastliest, howlingest cad in Low Heath; so that's all right."

"I'm glad you think so."

"Yes, and you've been told to clear out, as it's your fault Tempest's expelled."

"Is it? That's all you know," said I.

"Yes, and you're kicked out of the Philosophers, and we're going to invite Dicky Brown to join us. He's a decent chap."

This was rather a blow.

"I thought no town-boys were eligible."

"No cads are; that's why you're out of it."

"Look here—" said I.

"We're not going to look here. You can cut and go, and sit on the stairs. We don't want you in here, do we, you chaps?"

"Rather not, unless we've got our kicking boots on."

"All right," said I, feeling I must play one or two of my trumps. "I sha'n't tell you what I was going to."

"Pooh, we know all about it," said Coxhead. But it was plain by the way they had all pricked their ears they did not.

"Oh, if you know, it's all right. But you don't know the latest."

"We don't want to, unless it's that old Tempest has got off."

"That's just what it is," said I triumphantly.

"Good old Sarah! how do you know?"

"Never mind, it's a secret; but it's a fact, honour bright."

"What, has he paid all his bills?"

"They're all paid, I know that."

"I suppose," said Langrish, "as that motion about Sarah being kicked out wasn't properly seconded, it's off, isn't it?"

"Does any gentleman second the motion?" said Coxhead, glancing round the assembled Philosophers.

No one seconded it.

"Jolly lucky shave for you, young Sarah," said Coxhead.

"Thanks awfully," said I.

"We may as well divide up the pool now?" suggested Warminster.

With a generosity which was really touching, the Philosophers had clubbed together the shattered fragments of their term's pocket-money to assist Tempest in his financial troubles. They had done it ungrudgingly, nay enthusiastically, and it was not against them that the enthusiasm remained now as each one unexpectedly received back his Philosopher's mite from the depths of the kindly "pool."

It is all very well keeping a secret like mine for twenty-four hours. It was an effort, but I did it, and prevailed on my comrades to keep it too. It was even harder work to prevail upon them as a matter of policy to accept the temporary supremacy of Crofter in the house. Nothing would induce them to refrain from cheering Tempest (much to his displeasure) on every possible occasion. It made it awkward for me sometimes when this happened in Crofter's presence; for as things now were in Sharpe's, a cheer for the old captain meant a hoot at the new; and I felt that Crofter, did the fellows only know all, did not deserve their resentment.

After forty-eight hours I could not restrain myself any longer. It was not fair to myself, or Crofter, or Low Heath, that every one should suppose Tempest was to be expelled when he really was not. So, with some misgivings, I decided to put myself in his way and break the agreeable news to him, and so have everything cleared up before the end of term.

It was not difficult to find an excuse. I had not been to Tempest's rooms since our unlucky quarrel, and had been suffering inconvenience ever since by the fact that my Latin Gradus was there. On the last day but one of the term, therefore, I developed a burning desire to consult my missing handbook, and must needs go in search of it.

Tempest was sitting, miserably enough, before the fire, with his feet on the fender and his hands up to the back of his head as I entered. It was not till I was well in the room and had closed the door that he turned round and saw me.

I thought at first he meant to fly at me, his face clouded so angrily. But it changed to a look of contempt as he said,—

"Well?"

"Tempest, I'm awfully sorry, really I am, but—"

"Don't let us have any of that. If I thought you'd meant it, I should precious soon know what to do. You've done me about the worst turn a fellow could, and if you weren't a conceited young ass it would be some use thrashing you. As it is, somebody else may do that when I'm gone."

The wretchedness of his tone quite touched me. I forgot my anger and sense of resentment, and all the old affection and loyalty came back with a rush. How could I ever have imagined a fellow like Crofter was worthy to hold a candle to my old Dux?

"Really, Tempest," began I, losing my head and blundering I scarcely knew whither, "when you saw me talking to Crofter—" He uttered an angry exclamation.

"There, now, shut up about your friend Crofter. I don't want to hear about him."

"He's not my friend, Tempest; he's—he's yours."

He wheeled round in his chair and laughed bitterly.

"It's a queer time to joke," said he, with a laugh that cut me through.

"It's no joke, Tempest. You don't know what he's done for you."

"Don't I? I fancy I do."

"About the bills," said I, faltering, "you know."

"Ah I don't come here to tell me about that."

"It was all of his own accord he paid them."

"He what?" shouted Tempest, springing from his chair and facing round.

"Paid them, you know; at least, I paid them for him."

"You? Paid?" and he caught me by the collar and shook me like a puppy.

"You said you knew," gasped I.

"Paid my bills! You say that blackguard had the cheek to—"

"He got me to do it; it was his money, though."

He groaned as if some one had wounded him. A crimson flush of shame and mortification overspread his face, and for a moment he stared at me speechless.

Then he pulled himself together and strode out of the room. Utterly bewildered and half terrified, I followed him. What had I done to offend him? Had all the trouble of the term turned his head?

To my alarm he made straight for Crofter's study. No one was there. He turned and saw me.

"Tell Crofter I want him at once."

I departed with my heart in my mouth. At the foot of the staircase I met Crofter.

"Tempest wants to see you," said I; "he sent me to—to ask you to come."

"He doesn't know?" inquired Crofter.

"Yes—I told him—I—I thought I ought to let him know." Crofter laughed his sweet laugh.

"If I had wanted it known all over Low Heath," said he, "I could hardly have done better than tell you to keep it a secret. I'd much sooner he had not known. However—where is he?"

"In your study, I think."

I felt constrained to follow. Crofter evidently was expecting to be the recipient of an outburst of effusive gratitude. I had not the courage to disabuse him.

He walked pleasantly and graciously into his study, where Tempest stood, flushing and biting his lips, awaiting him. "Is this true what that youngster says, that you've had the—that you've paid bills of mine?"

"I'm sorry he told you, Tempest. I thought it might get you out of a difficulty, and I—"

"And you expect me to thank you! Take that, for daring to meddle in my affairs!"

And he struck Crofter on the cheek—not a hard blow, but one which sent the recipient reeling across the room with astonishment.

For a moment I expected a fight. Crofter, however, pale, but smiling still, declined the challenge.

"You'll be sorry, I'm sure," said he, as coolly as he could. "I only wanted to do you a good turn, and—"

"I'm sorry already," said Tempest, who had already gathered himself together. "I hoped you'd fight like a man. As you're afraid to, I'm sorry I touched you."

"I see nothing to fight about," said Crofter. "I don't see what there is to be angry about."

Tempest waited motionless for a few uncomfortable moments, in the hope that Crofter would pluck up spirit to accept the challenge. But, as Crofter only smiled, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. As he passed me, he beckoned me imperiously to follow him. I did so in terror.

He put a piece of paper and a pen before me.

"Write down there an account of every bill you paid, and the amount."

I obeyed—my memory fortunately served me for the task.

"Now go. You've had the satisfaction of seeing me make an ass of myself in striking that cad—he's not worth it. You may go and tell him I'm sorry if you like. As for you, I don't want to see any more of you. Go to your captain, and leave me alone."

And he flung himself miserably into his chair, leaning forward with his head on his hands, and apparently indifferent whether I stayed or went.

I went, leaving him thus. And the memory of him sitting there haunted me all that night and for weeks to come.

When, next day, the news went round that Tempest had escaped expulsion, the general delight was tempered with amazement at the rumour which accompanied it, that he owed his escape to Crofter. No one but Crofter himself could have put the latter story into circulation, and to any one knowing the two seniors as well as I did, it was obvious that what had completed the humiliation of one had been the crowning triumph of the other.

Crofter could not have avenged himself for the insults of the term more effectively; and Tempest's proud nature could not have suffered a bitterer wound than to know that he had been put under an obligation in spite of himself, and without the possibility of preventing it, by his worst enemy.

The ordinary "Sharper" could hardly be expected to trouble himself about questions of motive. It was sufficient for him that his hero was saved, and that the credit of the popular act which saved him belonged to Crofter.

Consequently both were cheered equally when they appeared in public, and of the two Crofter accepted his popularity with a far better grace than his mortified adversary.

But it was all very miserable to me as I slunk home that afternoon in the train. All the hopes of the wonderful term had been disappointed. I was a recognised dunce and idler at Low Heath. I had lost my best friend and sold myself to his enemy. My self-respect was at a low ebb. I knew that in a post or two would come a report which would bring tears to my mother's eyes, and cause my guardian to grunt and say, "I expected as much." The worst of it was, I could not get it out of my head yet that I was rather a fine young fellow if only people knew it, and that my misfortunes were more to blame for the failure of the term than my faults.

To my relief a letter came early in the holidays from Dicky Brown's people, asking me to spend the last two weeks with them, I jumped at it, for in my present miserable frame of mind even home was dismal.

But when I found myself back at Low Heath, installed in Dicky's quiet little family circle, I was almost sorry I had come. For Dicky was all high spirits and jubilation. He had won a form prize; everything had gone swimmingly for him. The Urbans looked up to him; the head master had patted him on the back; the Redwoods had taken a fancy to him. No one thought of calling him by a feminine nickname.

"I think Low Heath's a ripping place," said he, as we strolled past the gate of the empty quadrangle in one of our holiday rambles. "I'm jolly glad we got kicked out of Dangerfield, ain't you?"

"Middling," said I; "the fact is, Dicky, you may as well know it, but I'm rather sick of this place."

"Hullo!" said he, looking at me, "why, I thought you were having such a high old time."

"I—I've come a bit of a howler, Dicky;" here I gulped ominously, much to Dicky's concern. "I've fooled things rather, you know." I was in for my confession now, and gave the penitent horse his head. "I'm jolly miserable, Dicky, that's all about it, and wish I was dead, don't you know, and that sort of thing."

"What's up, old chappie?" said Dicky, taking my arm, and evidently in a fright lest I should compromise myself by breaking down on the spot. "Come down by the willows; it's rather muddy, but it's quieter."

So we ploughed through the mud under the willows, and I let out on Dicky all that was in my heart. I'm sure he thought it a lot of bosh, but he was too kind to say so, and hung on to my arm, and never once contradicted me when I called myself a fool.

"You have rotted it a bit," remarked he, when the story was complete. "Never mind, old chap, it can't be helped. You'll worry through all right."

This was true comfort. If Dicky had been a prig like me, he would have tried to talk to me like a father, and driven me crazy. It made all the difference that he understood me, and yet believed in me a little.

"It strikes me," said he, with refreshing candour, "you fancy yourself a bit too much, Tommy. I'd advise you to lie low a bit, and it will all come round."

"That's just exactly what Tempest said to me the first day of term," said I, with a groan.

"There you are," said he; "bless you, you're not going to get done over one wretched term, are you? I wouldn't if I were you."

"But all the chaps are down on me."

"What do you care?" said he, with a snort. "Who cares twopence about the lot of them—chaps like them too? You're a cut better than that lot, I fancy—ought to be, anyhow."

What balm it all was to my wounds! What miles of mud we ploughed through that afternoon I and how, as the water gradually leaked into my boots, my heart rose out of them, and got back somehow to its proper place, and enabled me to look at things in their proper light. I think Dicky, little as he knew it, was sent by God to help me pull myself together, and I shall always think better of him for his blunt, genuine encouragement that day.

On our way back he pulled up at Redwood's door.

"Let's see if he's in," said he; "he won't mind."

"All right," said I, beginning to quail again a little, and yet determined to go through with the whole business.

Redwood was in, mending a pair of skates, in anticipation of a day or two's frost before the holidays were over.

"Look here, Redwood," said Dicky, determined to make things easy for me. "Old Jones minimus is in the blues. He's been fooling it rather this term, you know, but he's a bit sick of it, and we thought you'd like to know, didn't we, young Jones minimus?"

"Yes, if you don't mind, Redwood," said I.

"Wait a bit—tea's just ready. We'll have ours up here," said the captain.

Over tea Dicky trotted out my troubles second-hand to our host, appealing to me every now and then to confirm his statement that I'd rather "mucked" it over this and that, and so on.

Redwood nibbled away at his tea, looking up now and then with a friendly nod to show he agreed with all that was said about me.

When all was said, he remarked—

"I wouldn't worry, youngster, if I were you. It's been a poor show last term, but you'll pull yourself together right enough. Take my advice, and lie low a bit, that's the best thing for your complaint."

"Why," said I, "that's just exactly what Tempest said to me."

"There you are again," broke in Dicky, cutting himself a hunch of cake.

Presently Redwood began to "draw" me on the subject of Tempest, and looked rather blank when I told him of the dismal circumstances in which the term had closed at Sharpe's. However, he did not favour Dicky and me with much comment on the matter, and finally got us to help him sharpen his skates and talk about other things.

I went to bed that night at Dicky's more easy and hopeful than I had been for weeks, and felt half-impatient for term to begin again, so that I might put into practice the new and trebly-patent specific of lying low.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

PUTTING ON THE BRAKE.

The holidays went by rapidly enough. I tore myself away from Dicky's consoling companionship three days from the end, and rushed home to see my mother. I wonder what she thought of the difference a couple of weeks had made in me? When I started to Dicky's I had been limp, dejected, and down on my luck. Now she found me chirpy, and with a stiff upper lip. She did not make remarks, but I could see how relieved she was.

My mother was not the person to take a mean advantage of me, or get me into a corner to lecture me. Rather not! She took me for what I was, and let me see how she loved me. That was the proper sort of help for me. In some ways she made less of me than usual, but I could see why she did that; she saw I wanted letting alone, and she did it, bless her! Only on the last evening, a Sunday, as we walked back from church, she said—

"Are you glad or sorry to be going back to-morrow, Tom?"

"Sorry for some things—glad for others. I fooled a bit last term, you know, mother."

"Ah, well, sonny, it's part of the lessons of school to find out our mistakes now and then. It was all new to you at first. I expect you tried to do too much, you know."

"I know—you mean I'd best lie low a bit, mother."

"Yes. I know what you mean," said she.

"There you are!" exclaimed I, staggered by this new coincidence, "that's what every chap has said. I'll do my best, really, mother; only it's jolly hard. Don't be awfully sorry if I don't get right all at once; I'll try, you know."

"You can't do more than your best, sonny dear."

"Redwood says," continued I, "that I shall probably tool about more or less to the end of my time. It's in my line, he says; but he rather backs me to pull myself together for all that."

"So do I, Tom. And the best friend you have does so too."

My journey next day was very different from the strange journey of a term ago. I had neither tan boots nor square-topped hat nor lavender gloves; and I could afford to smile with Langrish (who joined me en route) at some of the poor little greenhorns on their way to make their entry into Low Heath.

How different it was, too, to be hailed by half a dozen voices from the top of the omnibus at the station and told to hop up beside them! And how jolly to ride in triumph up Bridge Street, exchanging shouts with familiar passengers on the way, or uttering defiant war-whoops at the day boys!

And how jolly to tumble in at Sharpe's door once more, and slap one another on the back, and crowd up into the old familiar faggery, and hear all the old chaff and slang, interspersed with stories of the holidays, and second-hand Christmas jokes!

And how jolly to hear the organ again in the chapel, and the prayers, with friends all round you; and finally, when the day was over, tuck up again in the little cubicle, and hear your chum's voice across the partition droning more and more sleepily, till finally you and it dropped off together!

One of the last to arrive during the day was Tempest, who had run from the station, and came in flushed with exercise, but grave and tight about the lips. The ovation he received from the Philosophers scarcely drew a smile from him, and when he reached his own study he slammed the door ominously and cheerlessly behind him. We none of us liked it.

"What's it to be?" said Coxhead. "Is he to be cock of the house this term, or has he chucked it up?"

That was the question which was agitating us all. Till the form orders were posted to-morrow no one could tell. Crofter, we knew, had been doing all he knew to get ahead, and considering the slack way in which Tempest had let things go all last term, it seemed very much as if he might succeed.

If he did, our duty would be a difficult one. Crofter had a claim on us for having saved Tempest from being expelled, and we could hardly refuse to own him should he come out cock of the house. On the other hand. Tempest was the man of our heart, and our tender imagination failed to picture him in any secondary position in Sharpe's,—secondary to Crofter, above all other things.

The day closed with one curious incident.

Langrish came to me after supper in a state of wrathful perturbation.

"Look here, young Sarah," said he, "are you Tempest's fag or not? That's all about it."

"I don't know," said I; "I was, but he told me—"

"He told you he didn't want a cad like you hanging about his place. All very well—that doesn't follow I'm his fag as well as Crofter's. Here, catch hold; you've got to take this to Crofter. I'm not going to take it—it means a licking most likely, and I don't see why I'm to be let in for it."

He handed me an envelope, evidently containing coin, addressed "Crofter," in Tempest's well-known writing.

I did not relish the commission, for I had my guess as to the contents of the missive. Curiosity, however, prompted me to take it and proceed to Crofter's study.

"Well, youngster," said Crofter, "turned up again? Have you seen Tempest yet?"

"Yes—he sent this," said I.

Crofter took the envelope and opened it. Five sovereigns and a half- sovereign dropped out on the table. No letter accompanied the money, but its meaning was clear enough. Crofter's brow contracted, and his habitual smile deserted him for once.

"What is this? Some mistake," said he.

"It's what he owes you," suggested I.

"I suppose so; but that was only L4 17 shillings 6 pence."

"Perhaps the rest is something for yourself," I remarked, making myself scarce in time to escape the task of returning the change.

Bother it! Crofter must square this part of the business up with his enemy. I didn't want to be dragged any more into it.

There was a rush for the house board early next morning to learn our fate as to the captaincy of Sharpe's.

"Whew!" said Langrish, as we reached it; "bracketed."

So it was. Tempest's and Crofter's names were braced together at the head of the list.

"That's a nice go! I suppose they'll have to go halves. All the worse for us."

"I should think, as Tempest was captain last term, he'll go on again this," I said.

"He wasn't captain when term ended; Crofter was."

"I vote they fight it out," said Warminster. "Two to one on the winner."

"It would save trouble if they made Pridgin head; he's third man up."

"Pridgin!" The easy-going owner of the name was spared something by not being present to hear the amused contempt with which the suggestion was greeted.

An hour later the doctor came down to settle matters for us.

"Under the circumstances," said he, "it seems right that Crofter should take charge of the house. I understand that Tempest's debts, on account of which he was removed from the headship last term, are now all honourably settled. But as he was more than once reported for breaking rules last term, it is only fair that Crofter, whose marks are equal, and against whom no complaint was recorded, should captain the house."

That was all. Tempest, on the whole, looked relieved. Crofter smiled a satisfied smile. Pridgin and Wales looked blue; and the Philosophers took time to consider what they thought.

As for me, although Tempest had thrown me over, I could guess what a blow this was for him; not personally, for he would probably be glad to be rid of the responsibility, but as a public disgrace it was sure to wound him keenly.

I longed to be able to go and tell him how sorry I was; but after what had happened last term I dare not. In that respect, whether I liked it or not, I must "lie low."

The Philosophers were not long in formally exchanging opinions on the situation.

A meeting was summoned for the same evening to inaugurate things generally. I was a little doubtful what I ought to do. Last term philosophy had not tended to diligent work, and with my good resolutions in view I felt that I should be better out of it. The little tiff with my comrades before the holidays had almost solved the difficulty; but since then I had been formally re-admitted to the fold, and it would be almost treasonable to "scratch" now.

"I move and third, and old Trim seconds and fourths," announced Langrish, "that old Sal be, and is, president as before."

"And I carry that motion," said Warminster, who prided himself on his acquaintance with the procedure of public meetings.

"I move an amendment," said I.

"Shut up, or you'll be kicked out again," said the secretary.

"Shut up yourself, or you'll be kicked in," retorted I, feeling I must carry everything with a high hand if I was to carry them at all. "No. Look here, you chaps, I'm not so green as I look."

"Then you must look fearfully green," muttered Coxhead.

I took no heed of the interruption, which was not relevant, and proceeded,—

"It was all very well last term, but it won't wash this. What I say is, that if the cock of the school is the head boy in the school, and the cock of the house is the head boy in the house, the president of the Philosophers has got to be the chap highest up in the Philosophers, and that's not me. Now old Warminster is. He's a jolly clever chap, and got the form prize on his head, and he's a rattling good speaker, and a middling sprinter, and writes a fairly good hand! He's the sort of chap we want. We want some one who can keep the secretary, and treasurer, and auditor, and registrar, and all that lot, in their place, and doesn't mind telling them they're idiots when they are. I never could do it. It's rough on the club not to have a chap like Warminster," continued I, waxing warm, and undaunted by the murmurs of my audience. "He can make you all sit up. He's not the sort of chap to let the Philosophers go rotting about, talking what they know nothing about and all that. He'll see that the louts are kept out of it, and only fellows who've got a record of something are let in. Bless you, I used to let in any sort of bounder that asked! Look round you and see. That's the sort of lot I let in. It won't wash, though. Fancy having a lot of outsiders who can't translate a Latin motto, and make 'corpore' a feminine genitive! Now old Warminster's a nailer at Latin, and can put one or two of us to bed at Euclid. He'll keep us out of blunders of that sort, that make all the school grin at us. I therefore propose, fifth, fourth, third, and second, that Tip. Warminster is the president of the Philosophers, and that the secretary, treasurer, auditor, registrar, and all that lot, get a month's notice to jack it up unless they're on the front desk. There you are! Of course they won't like it—can't help that. No back-deskers for us. Front desk or nothing!"

This oration, the longest I ever delivered so far, and in all probability the longest I ever shall deliver, was listened to with a curious mixture of discomfort and attention. At first it was nearly howled down, but it took as it went on. Warminster, for whom I really did not feel quite so much admiration as my words seemed to imply, but who yet was the hard-working man of our lot—Warminster was wonderfully pleased with it. The others, one by one, dropped their noisy protests, and looked out of the window. Trimble attempted a little bravado, by sticking his tongue in his cheek; but my peroration was listened to with marked attention.

"Cuts down the club a bit," said Coxhead, who occupied a desk in class on the third row, "if it's only to be top-deskers."

"Cuts old Sal out, to begin with," said Langrish, who was just on the bench of honour.

"It'll cut you out next week, old hoss," said I.

"Me! What are you talking about?"

"You wait till the week's order is up: you'll see."

Langrish glared indignantly.

"If you think an idiot like you is going to—"

"Look here," said Warminster, "I vote we go easy at first, and make it any one who's not gone down in order in a month."

"I say, nobody who's not gone up one in the term," suggested Langrish, glancing defiantly at me.

"All serene," said I, "that'll suit my book. It'll be roughish on you, though."

"Will it? See how you'll feel when you're chucked out neck and crop, my beauty!"

My main object had been to get out of being president. But, somehow, in doing it I had struck a note which made the Philosophers sit up. It was no credit to me it happened so, but it was one of those lucky flukes which sometimes turn out well and do a good stroke without the striker being aware of it.

Warminster was unanimously elected president, and bore his blushing honours with due meekness.

"Old Sal"—the Philosophers had taken to abbreviating my pet name this term, I know not on what principle of familiarity—"Old Sal piles it on a bit," remarked he. "Of course he couldn't help rotting the club a bit last term. That's the way he's born. But considering what a rank outsider he was, I suppose he did his best." (Laughter, and cries of "What about Jarman's guy?") "Yes, that was a howling mess. I vote we keep out of that this term, or leave it to the louts. I tell you what," said he, "I vote we make a show up at the sports next month, and take some of the side out of those day-boy kids. They fancy themselves a jolly sight too much."

"Dicky Brown told me," said I, "they were sure of both the jumps and the Quarter-mile and the Tug—and that Selkirk's were going to pull off the others, all except the Half-mile Handicap; and we may get that, he says, because they'll probably give us fifty or sixty yards' lead."

"Howling cheek!" exclaimed every one in furious rage. The idea of being given sixty yards' start in a half-mile by a day boy was too much even for a Philosopher.

Whereupon we solemnly considered the list of events "under 15," and divided them out among ourselves, with a vow to eat our heads if we didn't pull off as many for Sharpe's as all the rest of the school put together.

We decided to postpone making our entries till the last moment, so as to delude the enemy into the impression that we were shirking the sports altogether. Then we would, as Warminster politely put it, "drop down and rot the lot."

Before we adjourned for the night the question of Tempest and Crofter came up, a propos of a report, which some one mentioned, that Tempest had entered for the Open Mile against Redwood, and was expected to prove a warm customer.

"Is Crofter in?"

"No—Pridgin is, but of course he won't come up to scratch, and Wales only enters for the show of the thing."

"Crofter couldn't look in at Tempest over the Mile," said Langrish, "but he ought to enter, for all that."

"Can he look in at Tempest over anything?" said I.

"Don't ask questions, and you won't be told no whoppers," astutely replied Trimble. "I wonder if he expects us to back him up?"

"I sha'n't," said one. "Nor shall I," said one or two others.

"I vote we let him alone," said Coxhead. "What's he got to do with us? When does he come across us? Only when there's a row on. He's got nothing at all to say to us at other times."

"You mean, if we want to let him alone we shall have to shut up rows?" inquired Langrish. "Rather rough, isn't it?"

"Not if he knows the reason," suggested I. "Let's send him a round- robin and let him know."

"Not half a bad idea."

Whereupon the following candid epistle was concocted and signed by all present:—

"To T. Crofter, Esquire, Captain Sharpe's pro tem., etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

"Dear Crofter,—We the undersigned Philosophers wish to say we're going steady this term on our own hooks, and hope you will not think it's because of you. We don't want to be interfered with by any chap except old Tempest, who ought to be cock of Sharpe's, so we've decided to go steady, so as not to be interfered with, because we would rather not you interfered with us, because we're all serene and are backing up Tempest, and hope he'll pull off the Mile that you've not entered for. We aren't down on you, because you pulled Tempest through last term, but it's rough you're cock of the house instead of him, and therefore on that account we are going steady, so as not to give you the fag of interfering with us, which we don't mind Tempest doing because we consider he has more right to interfere with us than you. Hoping you are well and in good health, as this leaves us, Believe us, with kind regards to all at home, Yours very kindly and in alphabetical order, so that you needn't know who started this letter. Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead, Thomas Jones, Everard Langrish, Jonathan T. Purkis, Alfred James Remington Trimble, Percy Algernon Warminster, and others."

This important document, the writing of which, I grieve to say, necessitated frequent reference to the English Dictionary, Langrish, as Crofter's fag, undertook to deliver, and faithfully discharged his mission by leaving it on the captain's table when he was out of his study.

It was decided to resist the temptation of sending Mr Jarman a similar explanatory letter, for fear it might lead to a row which would call for interference. Nor was it deemed prudent under the circumstances to commit ourselves in writing to Tempest, whom we hoped to convince of our loyalty by cheering him on every possible occasion and otherwise making things pleasant for him.

How Crofter enjoyed his letter we none of us knew. He was inconsiderate enough to give no sign of having received it; and still more inconsiderate to allow himself on more than one occasion to be publicly complimented by the doctor and Mr Sharpe on the order of the house.

Meanwhile the Philosophers stuck to their new programme. I had the satisfaction of pulling down Langrish from his place on the top desk at the end of the first week, and he had the triumph of recovering his seat at the end of the week after. In the seclusion of the faggery we indulged in a few mild recriminations, which were the natural outcome of our rivalry; but they only served to blow off steam, and we were too keen to win our self-imposed battles in class to allow personal feeling to interfere much with our work.

Mr Sharpe was fairly astonished, and took off his glasses, and rubbed his mild eyes as he read over our really meritorious exercises and listened to our sometimes positively coherent feats of construing.

Secretly, too, but with great precaution, and in spots far removed from the detection of the day boys, we practised grimly at jumping and sprinting and record-breaking generally, and finally, as the critical time for making our entries approached, agreed upon the particular exploit which each of us was to undertake for the honour and glory of Sharpe's house in general and Philosophy in particular.

Before that time arrived, however, one awkward incident occurred, to remind me I had even yet not quite purged myself of the follies of last term. I stumbled against Crofter just outside his door.

"Come in," said he.

I obeyed, guessing that at last we were to hear something of our famous letter.

I was disappointed, however. Crofter made no reference to it, but said—

"Those bills you paid for me last term, Jones iv.—did none of the people allow you any discount?"

"Discount," said I, "what's that? We haven't got to it yet in Syntax."

"Don't be a young ass. Did none of them give you any change?"

"Rather, all of them. I brought it back, or used it to pay the rest."

"What I mean is, you didn't make anything out of it for yourself, did you?"

"Me—oh!" the conscious blushes suddenly mounted as I grasped his meaning.

"Yes, you."

"Well, only, you see, it was—"

"Come, no lies. I know all about it. Did you or did you not?"

"Not from the hat man," said I.

"From all the others?"

"Only—"

"Yes or no, that's what I want to know."

"Yes, but—"

"That will do. Now I understand why you were so pleased with the job. It's a profitable thing to help a friend sometimes. Tempest will be amused when he hears."

"Oh, I say, don't—really I didn't fancy—"

"That will do, I say. Cut—do you hear? I only wanted to know whether I was right or not in what I told Tempest."

"Oh, but—" pleaded I, with a groan of misery.

"If you don't cut I'll lick you for disobedience."

This, after all my good resolutions and hopes that all was squared and that before long Tempest would believe in me again!

I slunk away in despair, and curled myself up in my bed that night, the most miserable boy in Low Heath.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

PRETTY WARM ALL ROUND.

"Dicky, old chap, I'm in a howling mess."

"The same old one, or a new one?"

"It's about those blessed bills of Tempest's—I wish I'd let them alone. You see, it was this way. How was I to know? I'm sure I never meant to do anything shady."

"I dare say not, but what are you talking about?"

"Why, I've been regularly let in. You see, I—"

"Look here, old chap, let's hear what it is," said the practical Dicky.

"Why, the fact is, most of the chaps wanted to stand me something when I squared up with them, and Crofter tries to make out I'm a thief, and he's going to show me up to Tempest."

"But you didn't let them?"

"Well, yes, one or two. You see, Marple gave me a pencil-sharpener, and Rammage a strawberry ice, and Ringstead a net-bag and spikes—jolly bad ones too, they all came out in a week."

"And does Crofter say you swindled him or Tempest?"

"I didn't think I was swindling anybody," said I evasively.

"You made a pretty good thing out of it, though."

"I know. I say, Dicky, what's to be done? I thought I was going to pull round all square this term—really I did—and now I'm in a regular fix."

Dicky pondered.

"It was a bit shady," said he, with his refreshing candour; "the sort of thing Ananias and—"

"Oh, for pity's sake, Dicky, if that's all you've got to say—"

"It's not. I think you'd best make it good somehow. Can't you give them back?"

"How can I give back the strawberry ice?"

This was a poser, certainly, and set Dicky thinking again.

"Have you got the other things?" asked he.

"No; the pencil-sharpener smashed first time I used it, and the net-bag got lost at home."

"Awkward. You'll have to buy new ones."

"Who for?"

"Tempest, of course. They were his bills."

"But it was Crofter's money."

"But Tempest has paid him back."

The result of this conversation was, that instead of practising for the Quarter-mile that afternoon I went down town with a bag, and expended five shillings of my term's pocket-money in the purchase of a pencil- sharpener, a strawberry ice, a net-bag, and a set of patent screw spikes.

Dicky, like a brick, undertook to convey these to Tempest, with the following letter, which I wrote at his suggestion.

"Dear Tempest,—I send you back the change I got out of the bills I got last term. I'm sorrier than I can say, and hope you won't hate me more than you do. Dicky will tell you how jolly blue I am, and how we all hope you'll win the Mile. We aren't backing up Crofter, and hope you'll soon be captain again. Please excuse me writing, but I don't like to come and tell you this, as you're so down on me.

"Yours truly,—

"T. Jones iv."

I also penned a further letter for Crofter:—

"Dear Crofter,—You needn't mind telling Tempest, as I've done so and paid him back. With thanks all the same,—

"Yours truly,—

"T.J. iv."

I felt vastly easier in my mind when this polite letter was at an end, and when I saw the faithful Dicky depart to execute his brotherly mission. My one fear was lest the strawberry ice should get warm before it reached its destination.

I waited in vain for any sign of response from Tempest. The Philosophers went down during the afternoon to watch him training for his race; but he vouchsafed us no regard, and, for all I knew, still put me down as a thief and a sharper. Dicky, whom I met later on, explained that he had failed to catch Tempest in his study, but had deposited the articles along with the letter on his table, so that, if he did not know of them yet, he soon would.

My anxiety was not at all allayed by a casual encounter with Crofter in the evening. He summoned me into his study, where I saw my billet- doux lying on the table.

"I suppose you wrote this?" said he.

"Yes."

"And you think everything's clear now, do you?"

"Isn't it?" said I.

"I dare say Dr England will be able to tell you. By the way, why did you only give me 2 shillings 6 pence change instead of 3 shillings 6 pence?"

"There was only 2 shillings 6 pence to give."

"Really? I thought so too till your clever management of the tips tempted me to look over the bills again. I see that what you paid only came to L4 16 shillings 6 pence, instead of L4 17 shillings 6 pence. I don't want the other shilling, but hope you bought yourself something nice with it. You must consider it a present from Tempest, not me."

I timed red and white in the sudden confusion of that announcement. I was positively certain 2 shillings 6 pence had been the change, and that if there was any mistake it must be on the part of the tradesmen, not me. But how was I likely to convince Crofter, or, for the matter of that, Tempest, that such was the case?

"I promise you," said I, "I only had 2 shillings 6 pence change. Really, Crofter, do believe me."

"I believe every word you say," said Crofter, with a smile. "I have every reason to, haven't I?"

"But, really and truly—"

"What's the use of saying any more? Of course, it's all really and truly. I've no doubt Tempest believes it too."

"Please let me see the bills," pleaded I; "I'll show you I'm right."

"Unfortunately Tempest has them. I dare say he will be delighted."

"You haven't told him about this, have you?" I gasped, in helpless misery.

"I'm going to; it's too good a joke to be kept to myself; I don't suppose he'll mind. Certainly he won't be surprised."

"Oh, Crofter, for goodness' sake, don't tell him this!" said I, blundering on into an appearance of guiltiness of which I was quite innocent. "I'm wanting so awfully to be friends with him again. I've given him back all I got out of the shops; and it will spoil everything if you tell him this, really—it isn't true either."

Crofter laughed pleasantly.

"It's rather likely I should shield you, isn't it? when all this term you and your friends have been insulting and defying me, and setting yourself to upset my authority as captain of the house."

"Oh, but we aren't!"

"What does this precious thing mean?" demanded he, producing the famous round-robin; "it's meant to be all politeness, I suppose."

"It only means," faltered I, "that we are sorry Tempest is not captain."

"Naturally. It's nice to have a captain one can swindle and rob, isn't it?"

I groaned miserably—it seemed no use trying to put myself right.

"If you chose to be civil and back me up, it would be different," said Crofter.

"But we are—we're going as steady as anything," said I.

"What do you mean by going to Pridgin and Wales and Tempest for exeats and special leave instead of to me?" he demanded.

This was a point I was unprepared for. It was true that the Philosophers, in their desire not to be interfered with by the new captain, had made a point of applying, as they were entitled to do, to any of the other prefects of the house in preference to Crofter for exeats and occasional leave to go without bounds. It had always been considered the prerogative of the captain of the house to grant these; but, strictly speaking, the other prefects had the right too. I tried to explain as much.

"Of course," said he, "it is a very neat way of ignoring my authority. I expect you to come to me. I shall not refuse any reasonable request, but I'm not going to be insulted in my own house."

"But—" said I.

"There is no 'but' about it. If you want to prevent your being shown up to your friend as an amiable young swindler, you can stop it by undertaking that you and your lot will do what I tell you. If not, it is your own look-out, that's all."

Luckily the school bell enabled me to get away without giving any pledge. Fool as I was, I knew what all this meant. It was an attempt to buy us all over at the cost of that unlucky shilling, and with it to secure Crofter in the authority which he so dearly coveted, but so far so imperfectly enjoyed.

The Philosophers, as might be expected, waxed very indignant when I made a clean breast of the whole matter. With their usual frankness they quite admitted that I might have pilfered the shilling. That sort of thing, they remarked, was quite in my line, and in keeping with my character generally; and they hoped to live to see me hung. But as to caving in to Crofter as the cost of my shelter, they drew the line at that. He had no right to impose new rules, or take away the immemorial privileges of the "Sharpers." Besides, if they gave in on this point, they would immediately have to go and ask his leave to practise for the Sports in Callow Meadow, which was just out of bounds, and where, in strict seclusion, diligent practice had been going on for a week, with most promising results.

I was thereupon ordered to write a laconic rejoinder to the tempting offer, the Philosophers promising to back me up in the matter of the shilling and see me through it.

With a heavy heart, therefore, I sat down and penned the following brief epistle, which was approved by the faggery and ordered to be laid on Crofter's table before bed-time.

"Dear Crofter,—We all think it's not good enough. It's all a lie about the shilling. Yours sincerely, T.J. iv."

Some of the Philosophers demurred to the sentence about the shilling, which appeared to commit them to an opinion they did not hold. But I had my way for once, and retired to bed, when all was done, wondering whenever peace would come, and I and my friend should rejoice to see one another again as of old.

I do not know how soon I fell asleep. It must have been pretty soon; for I can remember seeing Crofter come into the dormitory and turn out the gas; and I can remember in the general stillness hearing voices and the noise of poking the fire in Mr Sharpe's room downstairs. After that I forgot everything, until suddenly I discovered myself awake again.

Things seemed strange as I slowly turned my head on the pillow and blinked up with half-opened eyes. The dormitory seemed hot and stuffy; somebody or something was making a noise, and I wished they would stop. I could see nothing, except the hazy outline of my shirt hanging on the back of the chair, and even that seemed to come and go as I watched it. I was indisposed to move, and my mind was half asleep still. The one thing I did long for was for the noise to stop and some one to open a window. It was simply choking; I could hardly breathe, and—

Suddenly my shirt seemed to turn red, and by the lurid light it emitted I could see smoke coming over the top of the door. Then the side of the room grew red too, and seemed to close in on me, getting redder and redder as it did so, till finally by a frantic effort I raised myself in my bed and yelled—

"Fire!"

The answer was a great volume of smoke, which leapt out at me like a savage beast and sent me back on to the pillow; a deafening roar outside, and a sudden blaze, which half-blinded me and stifled the cry that was on my lips.

That is all I can remember distinctly. I was vaguely conscious of hearing my name called, of seeing my door move, of everything whirling round and round, and finally of falling, or getting, or being dragged out of bed.

The next thing I was aware of was that I was lying in a strange bed, with a headache, but otherwise tolerably comfortable, though awfully thirsty, and as weak as a mouse.

"Water, please," I remarked at large.

Instantly a face bent over me—a strangely familiar face, which after a moment's reflection I told myself was my mother's.

It was such a surprise that I forgot about the water, and took a nap instead.

In due time I must have woke again, this time by candlelight.

"Mother, are you there?"

"Yes, darling; what is it?"

"My shirt caught fire, and—"

"Hush, dear. Don't try to talk."

I didn't quite see why. I was really curious about several things. In fact, I thirsted for information.

"Why mayn't I talk, mother?"

"Because you've been ill."

"Did I get doctor's leave?"

"Yes, dear."

"Mother?"

"Well, sonny darling."

"How did you get here?"

"They sent and told me you—"

"You didn't believe about that shilling? Really there was only 2 shillings 6 pence change."

"Yes, yes, dear. Hush now, there's a good boy."

"Mother?"

"Well, Tommy dear."

"Was there a fire last night?"

"It was a week ago, sonny."

"Who was the fellow called me? Was he riled at me for not answering?"

"Oh no—you were almost suffocated."

"Where shall I sleep now? Have they mended my cubicle?"

"You'll sleep here, dear. All the boys are over here."

"Was all the dormitory on fire, then?"

"Yes; but thank God every one was saved."

"Is Langrish all right?"

"Oh yes, all of them are."

"Will he be game for the High Jump?"

"Surely, surely—but you're talking too much, sonny."

"Mother?"

"What is it, darling?"

"Does Tempest know I've been ill?"

"Yes," and her eyes seemed to fill with tears as she bent over me.

"Will you tell him about the shilling?"

"Yes, if you like."

"Mother, why are you crying? Is Tempest ill too?"

"No, dear—but—"

"Tell us, mother."

"If it had not been for Tempest," said she, "I should have had no boy to-day."

"Did he get me out, then?" said I, getting thoroughly aroused.

"Yes, Heaven bless him for it!" she replied, kissing my forehead.

"That'll be a score for him," said I; "I'm so glad."

My mother evidently did not quite understand this point of view, and concluded I had been talking more than was good for me, and once more implored me to be silent.

But I had no notion of giving up my inquiries at this stage.

"Did he get hurt doing it?" I asked.

"Only his hand a little."

"How did he get at me?"

"Every one thought you were safe out of the burning room with the others. When it was found you were not, Tempest rushed back before any one could stop him, and carried you out. He had not got outside with you more than a second or two when the roof and staircase and all fell in."

Here she shuddered as once more she bent over me and kissed me.

This was all I wanted to hear at present, and I closed my eyes in order to think it over the better.

My chief sensation was one of exultation that Tempest should risk his life for me. It meant that I had won him back in spite of myself. Then when I recalled the frightful blaze and noise of that night, I began to realise what my rescue must have meant to any one. No one but a fellow utterly scornful of danger, and utterly determined to save a life in peril at all cost, could have ventured into that place. He would have done it for any one, I knew; but to come deliberately after me, who had ruined his chances last term, and whom he despised as a pilferer and a sneak—this was an act of heroism which it baffled me to contemplate, and in the contemplation of which consequently I succumbed once more to sleep and forgot everything.

As I slowly got better (and, after all, I was not much damaged, as soon as I had got over the effects of the suffocation and terror of that awful night) I heard more about the fire. Permission was given me to see one friend a day for ten minutes at a time, and the reader may imagine the wild excitement of those ten minutes.

I naturally called for Dicky Brown as my first man. He came, looking rather scared, and was evidently relieved to find I was something better than a mass of burns, and able to do my share in the conversation.

"It was a close shave for you, I can tell you," he said. "All the other fellows hopped out long before the fire got bad, and no one fancied you weren't out too. You must have been sleeping jolly sound. All of a sudden one of your lot yelled out that you were missing. It was so hot then the fellows were all standing back, but old Tempest, almost before the chap had shouted, nipped into the middle of it, and made a dash for your cubicle. My word! I wish I'd been there to see it! You were as good as done for when he collared you and hauled you out. He fell with you half-way down the stairs, but Sharpe and Pridgin and one or two others caught him and fished him out with you over his shoulder. He swears he's not damaged, but he's got his hand in a sling. I say, old chap, it's no use blubbing; it's all right how."

"I wasn't blubbing," said I. "When you've got a cold in your head your eyes water sometimes, don't they?"

"Rather, buckets," said the magnanimous Dicky.

Langrish was my next interviewer; and his account as an eye-witness was graphic, and not calculated entirely to cure my "cold in the head."

"You see, it's this way," said he. "Jarman was smoking in Sharpe's room, and chucked his cigar into the waste-paper basket or somewhere by mistake, and while he and Sharpe toddled across the quad, the thing flared up and went up the curtains, and when old Sharpe came back the whole place was in a blaze. I twigged it pretty sharp, and so did Trim, and there was a regular stampede. No one ever supposed you'd go snoring all through it. Crofter and Wales were first outside, looking as white as milk. Bless you, it was such a rush and shindy, no one could see anybody. Of course we made sure you were all serene. Think of you sleeping through it!"

"I was in the end cubicle, you see," said I.

"For all that, you might have stuck your head out to see what the fun was about," said Langrish, in rather an aggrieved tone. "Sharpe turned up presently, with his face all grimy with smoke, and yelled, 'Is every one here?' 'Yes,' said Crofter—silly ass, how could he tell? Then Coxhead said to me, 'Where's Sarah got to?' That made me look round, and I can tell you I was pretty sick when I couldn't see you. Just fancy a chap sleeping away through it all! Why, the ant and the sluggard," said Langrish, getting a little mixed in his proverbs, "weren't in it with you. So I yelled 'Sarah!' with all my might. You should have seen the chaps sit up when they heard your name. Then old Tempest, with his mouth shut and looking middling pasty about the face, broke through the scrimmage and sent us right and left, and made a regular header into the place. Sharpe yelled to him to come back; some tried to yell, but couldn't for lumps in their throats, and we all closed up. I can tell you it was a hot place. The smoke rolled out and got in our eyes, and the wood and stuff cracked and blazed, and sounded like the waves at Dover. We never expected to see him or you come back. The stairs were going to bits as fast as they could, and great bits of burning wood were tumbling off the roof. Then the smoke shifted somehow, and we heard Sharpe yell, 'Heavens!' Then there was a dull row like something tumbling, and Pridgin and Sharpe dashed in. We got kept back, or we'd have given you a leg-up too. Then you strolled in, fast asleep still—I never saw such a snoozer!—on Tempest's arm. He was pretty well done, and couldn't have pulled it off if Sharpe and Pridgin hadn't hiked him out. Even then he couldn't stand. So I hope you're jolly well pleased with yourself. I hope it will be a lesson to you, young Sarah, to keep one eye open while you're asleep. We were jolly glad you got canted out, though you are a bit of a mule. But it would have been rough on you to miss the Sports. They say Tempest's burned his hand pretty bad, but he means to have a shot at the Mile. I say, Redwood was asking after you. Jarman's jolly sick that it was his fault about the fire. He's been quite civil, and been to ask about you every day. Look sharp and get right, I say, or it'll rot the Sports if you don't. Hullo, there comes your mater. Ta, ta, old hoss. It's rather ripping you scraped through all right."

He was a good sort, Langrish. He did not tell me, what I heard later, that at the time of the fire he had to be held back by main force from following Tempest in quest of me; and that he had rather a "cold in his head" when he saw me hauled out safe and sound.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

"SMALL AND EARLY" IN THE SANATORIUM.

My recovery was far too rapid to please me. I never had such a jolly time in all my life. My mother was in and out all day; there were no lessons. I was allowed to summon any chum I liked to my bedside. I was receiving messages daily from masters and seniors, and, best of all, I had nothing the matter with me except, a strong disinclination to exert myself, and an occasional headache or dizziness when I sat up.

I had come up to Low Heath that term with the honest determination to "lie low." I little expected, however, that I should find myself quite so literally adhering to my resolution.

My one trouble was that all this time I had not seen Tempest. I did not like to send for him, in case he should not appreciate the compliment. And he, as I guessed, would not care to come of his own accord for the uncomfortable ceremony of receiving my thanks. My mother told me he had often asked about me; but when she asked him to come and see me he had replied,—"I'll see him as soon as he gets about again." When she inquired about his hand he had replied airily that it was all right, and he was only keeping it in the sling to get it right for the Sports. "But," said my mother, "I wish he would let the doctor see it, or give up running till it is well."

"But," said I, "he's a chance of winning off Redwood." This argument, which in ninety-nine cases out of one hundred in Low Heath would have been absolutely conclusive, failed to impress my mother in the least. She attached no importance to "winning off Redwood" compared with a boy's health, and obdurately protested that if she were Tempest's mother she would not allow him to think of running.

It was only my agitated appeals to her not to interpose that prevented her speaking to Dr England about the matter, and so knocking the race on the head altogether.

I took it as a compliment to myself that the Sports had been put off a fortnight in consequence of the fire. That warm event had so upset everything and monopolised so much attention that Low Heath would not have come up to scratch at all on the day originally fixed. And whereas the new date permitted of my being present to assist—though, alas I not to compete—in the day's proceedings, I felt specially satisfied with the alteration.

I had naturally heard a good deal of Philosophical gossip during my convalescence. On my last evening in hospital especially, there was quite a symposium.

My mother, in an innocent moment, had remarked, "I should so like to have one or two of your friends to tea, sonny, before I go home. The doctor says it will not do you any harm—and we can have them in here, as you are the only invalid in hospital."

"That'll be ten, with you and me," said I.

"Do you want quite so many?" asked she, beginning to get a little concerned.

"Must have the lot or none," said I decisively. "We can cut out Rackstraw and Walsh, if you like—they're paupers."

"Oh, Tommy!" said the dear, tender-hearted one, "if they are not as well off as—"

"Oh, that's not it. They can shell out as well as anybody; only they got on our club for nothing on condition of towing the boats, cleaning up, and that sort of thing."

"At any rate, let us have them," said my mother.

"All serene. Will you write the invitations? I say, mother, do you mind writing as well as you can? Our chaps are rather particular, you know, and I wouldn't like them to snuff up at you."

My poor dear mother began, I think, to repent of her hospitable offer, but decided to go through with it now.

So she got eight nice little sheets of scented invitation note, with envelopes to match, and wrote,—

"Mrs Jones requests the pleasure of Mr Alfred James Remington Trimble's company to tea in the Sanatorium parlour this evening at 6 p.m.;" and so on, in each case.

My suggestion to add "R.S.V.P." and "Evening dress de rigueur" she thought it best to decline. But her kind leniency was thrown away, for within half an hour eight notes dropped in upon us, couched in the politest phraseology.

Here was Langrish's, for instance:—

"Everard Langrish, Esquire, begs to thank Mrs Jones for asking him to tea at six sharp, when he will be very pleased to fall in with her wishes and be of service in any other way her better feelings may dictate."

Langrish told me afterwards he cribbed this last sentence out of a story he had read in a weekly newspaper. He rather fancied it was "on the spot."

Trimble's was less romantic:—

"Dear Madam,—I accept with thanks. Sarah gets rather outside sometimes, but we do what we can for him. Till then,—

"I am yours affectionately,—

"A.J.R. Trimble."

Warminster's was, no doubt, meant to be impressive:—"The President of the Philosophical Conversation Club presents his compliments to Mrs Jones, and desires to inform her of his intention to wait upon her at the hour named in her letter. He trusts that Mrs Jones is in good health, and that her ailing child will be spared to her a little longer. Having several matters to attend to, the President of the Philosophical Conversation Club must now abruptly terminate, namely, Percy Algernon Warminster."

The ending seemed to me decidedly weak compared with the rest. I will only give one more—that of Coxhead:—

"Dear Mrs Jones, I'll come to tea; At six o'clock you shall me see. I'm sorry Sarah's been laid up And drinks his physic from a cup. Unless unto the contrary I hear. My Eton suit I think I'll wear. And now 'farewell,' as great John Knox said. Yours truly, Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead."

This effusion struck me as rather like cheek; but my mother seemed to like it.

As evening approached I began to grow very nervous, and have to confess that my mother was the cause of my concern. I was so afraid she was not properly impressed with the gravity of the occasion—that perhaps she would not be dressed at her best—or that the tea might not be up to the mark—or that for any cause the fellows should consider they had been "done." I'm sure I wearied the life out of her by my inquiries as to the nature of the jam, as to whether the cake would go round twice, whether any of the teacups were cracked, whether the nine chairs ranged round the little room were all sound on their legs, who would open the door to let them in, whether my mother would mind not proposing juvenile games like table-turning, or clumps, and whether when the time came for them to go she would mind not looking at her watch or yawning, for fear they should think it a hint.

All which points the dear soul faithfully promised should be borne in mind and attended to, with a little quiet banter at my expense, which helped to remind me that, after all, one's mother may be trusted not to disgrace a fellow, if left to herself.

In due time she presented herself in her Sunday dress, looking very pretty and smart—quite creditable, in fact. The tea also, as it appeared laid out on the sideboard—I had urged, by the way, that it should be served in party style, and not partaken of round a table— looked a well-found meal for the most exacting of Philosophers. I myself reposed in state in bed, arrayed in my Eton jacket and best collar and choker. The fire in the hearth was both cheerful and adequate, and the knowledge that the Sanatorium maid was downstairs in her cap and clean apron, to show the young gentlemen up, finally relieved my anxiety.

In due time there was a ring, and a sound of the funereal tramp of eighteen feet on the staircase, and I knew that Mrs Jones's party had begun.

They all trooped in together, looking very grave and shy, and spick and span in their full-dress, and evidently on their good behaviour. My mother shook hands with each in unexceptionable style, repeating his name as I announced it from the bed, and expressing her pleasure at making his acquaintance.

The sight of me propped up on my pillows, somewhat pale still, and as shy as themselves, seemed to impress them a good deal, and added to the funereal character of the entertainment. A long pause ensued, broken only by the entrance of the maid with the teapot, and Langrish's remark to Trimble that it was a fine day.