Follow My Leader: The Boys of Templeton

Talbot Baines Reed

"Follow My leader"

Chapter One.

The Boys of Templeton.

How our heroes enter upon more than one career.

On a raw, damp morning in early spring, a rather forlorn group of three youngsters might have been seen on the doorstep of Mountjoy Preparatory School, casting nervous glances up and down the drive, and looking anything but a picture of the life and spirits they really represented.

That they were bound on an important journey was very evident. They were muffled up in ulsters, and wore gloves and top hats—a vanity no Mountjoy boy ever succumbed to, except under dire necessity. Yet it was clear they were not homeward bound, for no trunks encumbered the lobby, and no suggestion of Dulce Domum betrayed itself in their dismal features. Nor had they been expelled, for though their looks might favour the supposition, they talked about the hour they should get back that evening, and wondered if Mrs Ashford would have supper ready for them in her own parlour. And it was equally plain that, whatever their destination might be, they were not starting on a truant’s expedition, for the said Mrs Ashford presently came out and handed them each a small parcel of sandwiches, and enjoined on them most particularly to keep well buttoned up, and not let their feet get wet.

“It will be a cold drive for you, boys,” said she; “I’ve told Tom to put up at Markridge, so you will have a mile walk to warm you up before you get to Templeton.”

A waggonette appeared at the end of the drive, and began to approach them.

“Ah, there’s the trap; I’ll tell Mr Ashford—”

Mr Ashford appeared just as the vehicle reached the door.

“Well, boys, ready for the road? Good bye, and good luck. Don’t forget whose son Edward the Fifth was, Coote. Keep your heads and you’ll get on all right. I trust you not to get into mischief on the way. All right, Tom.”

During this short harangue the three boys hoisted themselves, one by one, into the waggonette, and bade a subdued farewell to their preceptor, who stood on the doorstep, waving to them cheerily, until they turned a corner and found themselves actually on the road to Templeton.

Not to keep the reader further in suspense as to the purpose of this important expedition, our three young gentlemen, having severally attained the responsible age of fourteen summers, and having severally absorbed into their systems as much of the scholastic pabulum of Mountjoy House as that preparatory institution was in the habit of dispensing to boys destined for a higher sphere, were this morning on their way, in awe and trembling, to the examination hall of Templeton school, there to submit themselves to an ordeal which would decide whether or not they were worthy to emerge from their probationary state and take their rank among the public schoolboys of the land.

Such being the case, it is little wonder they looked fidgety as they caught their last glimpse of Mr Ashford, and realised that before they came in sight of Mountjoy again a crisis in the lives of each of them would have come and gone.

“Whose son was he?” said Coote, appealingly, in about five minutes.

His voice sounded quite startling, after the long, solemn silence which had gone before.

His two companions stared at him, afterwards at one another; then one of them said—

“I forget.”

“Whose son was he?” said Coote, turning with an air of desperation to the other.

“Richard the Third’s,” said the latter.

Coote mused, and inwardly repeated a string of names.

“Doesn’t sound right,” said he. “Are you sure, Dick?”

“Who else could it be?” said the young gentleman addressed as Dick, whose real name was Richardson.

“Hanged if I know,” said the unhappy Coote, proceeding to write an R and a 3 on his thumb-nail with a pencil. “It doesn’t look right I believe because your own name’s Richardson, you think everybody else is Richard’s son too.”

And the perpetrator of this very mild joke bent his head over his learned thumb-nail, and frowned.

It was a point of honour at Mountjoy always to punish a joke summarily, whether good, bad, or indifferent. For a short time, consequently, the paternity of Edward the Fifth was lost sight of, as was also Coote himself, in the performance of the duty which devolved on Richardson and his companion.

This matter of business being at last satisfactorily settled, and Tom, the driver, who had considerately pulled up by the road-side during the “negotiations,” being ordered to “forge ahead,” the party returned to its former attitude of gloomy anticipation.

“It’s a precious rum thing,” said Richardson, “neither you nor Heathcote can remember a simple question like that. I’d almost forgot it, myself.”

“I know I shan’t remember anything when the time comes,” said Heathcote. “I said my Latin Syntax over to Ashford, without a mistake, yesterday, and I’ve forgotten every word of it now.”

“What I funk is the vivâ voce Latin prose,” said Coote. “I say, Dick, what’s the gender of ‘Amnis, a river?’”

Dick looked knowing, and laughed.

“None of your jokes,” said he, “you don’t catch me that way—‘Amnis,’ a city, is neuter.”

Coote’s face lengthened, as he made a further note on his other thumb-nail.

“I could have sworn it was a river,” said he. “I say, whatever shall I do? I don’t know how I shall get through it.”

“Through what—the river?” said Heathcote. “Bless you, you’ll get through swimmingly.”

There was a moment’s pause. Richardson looked at Coote; Coote looked at Richardson, and between them they thought they saw a joke.

Tom pulled up by the road-side once more, while Heathcote arranged with his creditors on the floor of the waggonette. When, at length, the order to proceed was given, that trusty Jehu ventured on a mild expostulation. “Look’ee here, young gem’an,” said he, touching his hat. “You’ve got to get to Templeton by ten o’clock, and it’s past nine now. I guess you’d better save up them larks for when you’re coming home.”

“None of your cheek, Tom,” said Richardson, “or we’ll have you down here, and pay you out, my boy. Put it on, can’t you? Why don’t you whip the beast up?”

The prospect of coming down to be paid out by his vivacious passengers was sufficiently alarming to Tom to induce him to take their admonition seriously to heart; and for the rest of the journey, although several times business transactions were taking place on the floor of the vehicle, the plodding horse held on its course, and Markridge duly hove in sight.

With the approaching end of the journey, the boys once more became serious and uncomfortable.

“I say,” said Coote, in a whisper, as if Dr Winter, at Templeton, a mile away, were within hearing, “do tell me whose son he was. I’m certain he wasn’t Richard the Third’s. Don’t be a cad, Dick; you might tell a fellow. I’d tell you, if I knew.”

“I’ve told you one father,” said Dick, sternly, “and he didn’t have more. If you want another, stick down Edward the Sixth.”

Coote’s face brightened, as he produced his pencil and cleaned his largest unoccupied nail.

“That sounds more—, Oh, but, I say, how can Edward the Sixth be Edward the Fifth’s father? Besides, he had no family and— Oh, what a howling howler I shall come!”

His friends regarded him sympathetically, and assisted him to dismount.

“We shall have to step out,” said Richardson; “it’s five-and-twenty to ten, and it’s a good mile. Look here, Tom; you’ve got to come and fetch us at the school, do you hear? We’re not going to fag back here after the exam.”

“My orders was to wait here till you pick me up, young gentlemen,” said Tom, grinning. “Mind what you’re up to in them ’saminations.”

With which parting sally our heroes found themselves alone, with their faces towards Templeton.

To any wayfarers less overwhelmed with care, that mile walk from Markridge to Templeton over the breezy downs, with the fresh sea air meeting you, with the musical hum of the waves on the beach below, and the glimmer of the spring sun on the ocean far ahead, would have been bracing and inspiriting. As it was, it was not without its attractions even for the three boys; for did they not stand on the precincts of that enchanted ground occupied and glorified by the heroes of Templeton? Was not this very road along which they walked a highway along which Templeton walked, or peradventure raced, or it may be bicycled? Were not these downs the hunting-ground over which the Templeton Harriers coursed in chase of the Templeton hares? Was not that square tower ahead the very citadel of their fortress? and that distant bell that tolled, was it not a voice which spoke to Templeton in tones of familiar fellowship every hour?

They trembled as they heard that bell and came nearer and nearer to the grand square tower. They eyed furtively everyone who passed them on the road, and imagined every man a master and every boy a Templetonian.

A shop with “mortar-boards” displayed in its window seemed like a temple crowded with shrines; and a confectioner’s shop, in which two young gentlemen in gowns sat and refreshed themselves, was like a distant glimpse of Olympus where the gods banqueted.

A boy with a towel over his shoulder lounged past them, and surveyed them listlessly as he went by.

How they cowered and trembled beneath that scrutiny! How they dreaded lest their jackets might be too long, or that the studs in their shirts might not be visible! How they hated themselves for blushing, and wished to goodness they knew what to do with their hands!

How their legs shook beneath them as they came under the shadow of the great tower and looked nervously for the porter’s lodge! They would have liked to look as if they knew the place; it seemed so foolish to have to ask any one where the porter lived.

“Just go and see if it’s up that passage,” said Richardson to Coote, pointing out a narrow opening on one side of the tower.

Coote looked at the place doubtfully.

“Hadn’t we better all try?” said he.

“What’s the good? Beckon if it’s right, and we’ll come.”

The unfortunate Coote departed on his quest much as a man who walks into a cave where a bear possibly resides.

His companions meanwhile occupied themselves with examining the gateway and trying to appear as if architectural curiosity and nothing else had been the object of their passing visit to Templeton.

In a few minutes Coote reappeared with a long face.

“Well? is it right?”

“No; it’s a dust-bin.”

The great clock above them began to boom out ten.

“We must find out somehow,” said Richardson. “We’d better ask at this door.”

And, to the alarm of his companions, he boldly tapped on a door under the gate.

A man in uniform opened it.

“Well, young gentlemen, what’s your pleasure?”

“Please can you tell us where the porter’s lodge is?” said Richardson, in his most persuasive tone.

“I can. I’m the porter, and this is the lodge. What do you want?”

“Please we’re Mr Ashford’s boys, come for the examination. Here’s a note from Mr Ashford for Dr Winter.”

The porter took the note, and bade the panic-stricken trio follow him across the quadrangle.

What a walk that was! Across that noble square, with its two great elm-trees laden with noisy rooks; with its wide-fenced lawn and sun-dial; with its cloisters and red brick houses; with its sculptures and Latin mottoes.

And even all these were as nothing to the few boys who loitered about in its enclosure—some pacing arm-in-arm, some hurrying with books under their arms, some diverting themselves more or less noisily, some shouting or whistling or singing—all at home in the place; and all unlike the three trembling victims who trotted in the wake of the porter towards the dreadful hall of examination.

At the door, Richardson felt a frantic clutch on his arm.

“Oh! I say, Dick,” gasped Coote, holding out a shaking ringer, with a legend on its nail, “whatever is this the date for—1476? I put it down, and— Oh! I say, can’t you remember?”

But Richardson, though he scorned to show it, was too agitated even to suggest an event to fit the disconsolate date, and poor Coote had to totter up the stairs, hopelessly convinced that he had nothing at his fingers’ ends after all.

They found themselves walking up a long, high-ceilinged room, with desks all round and a few very appalling oil portraits ranged along the walls, to a table where sat a small, handsome gentleman in cap and gown.

He took Mr Ashford’s letter, and the boys knew they stood in the presence of Dr Winter.

“Richardson, Heathcote, Coote,” said the Doctor. “Answer to your names—which is Richardson?”

“I am, please, sir.”

“Heathcote?”

“I am, sir, please.”

“Coote?”

“I am, if you please, sir.”

“Richardson, go to desk 6; Heathcote, desk 13; Coote, desk 25.”

Coote groaned inwardly. It was all up with him now, and he might just as well throw up the sponge before he began. With a friend within call he might yet have struggled through. But what hope was there when the nearer of them was twelve desks away?

For two hours a solemn silence reigned in that examination hall, broken only by the scratching of pens and the secret sighs of one and another of the victims. The pictures on the walls, as they looked down, caught the eye of many a wistful upturned face, and marked the devouring of many a penholder, and the tearing of many a hair.

In vain Coote searched his nails from thumb to little finger. No question fitted to his painfully collected answers. Edward the Fifth was ignored, the sex of “Amnis” was not even hinted at, and “1476” never once came to his rescue. And yet, he reminded himself over and over again, he and Heathcote had said their Latin syntax to Mr Ashford only the day before without a mistake.

“Cease writing,” said the Doctor, as the clock struck two, “and the boys at desks 1 to 10 come up here.”

This was the signal for the cruellest of all that day’s horrors. If the written examination had slain its thousands, the vivâ voce slew its tens of thousands. Even Richardson stumbled; and Heathcote, when his turn came, gave himself up for lost. The Doctor’s impassive face betrayed no emotion, and gave no token, either for joy, or hope, or despair. He merely said “That will do” after each victim had performed; and even when Coote, after a mighty effort, rendered “O tempora! O mores!” as “Oh, the tempers of the Moors,” he quietly said, “Thank you; now the next boy.”

At last it was all over, and they found themselves standing once more in the great quadrangle, not very sure what had happened to them, but feeling as if they had just undergone a surgical operation not unlike that of flaying alive.

However, once outside the terrible portal of Templeton, their hearts gradually thawed within them. The confectioner’s shop, now crowded with “gods,” held them in awe for a season, and as long as the road was specked with mortar-boards they held their peace, and meditated on their shirt-studs. But when Templeton lay behind them, and they stepped once more on to the breezy heath, they shook off the nightmare that weighed on their spirits and were themselves again.

“Precious glad it’s over,” said Richardson. “Beast, that arithmetic paper was.”

“I liked it better than the English,” said Coote. “I say, is ‘for’ a preposition or an adverb? I couldn’t remember.”

“Oh, look here! shut up riddles now,” said Richardson, “we’ve had enough of them. Let’s talk about our three and not your ‘for,’ you Coote you.”

Whereupon Richardson started to run, a proceeding which at once convinced his companions that his last observation had been intended as a joke. As in duty bound they gave chase, but the fleet-footed Dick was too many for them; and when at last they came up with him he was strongly intrenched on the box-seat of the empty waggonette at Markridge, with Tom’s whip in his hand, beyond all attack.

“I say,” said he, after his pursuers had taken breath and granted an amnesty, “it would be great fun to drive home by ourselves. Tom’s not here. I asked them. He’s gone to see his aunt, or somebody, and left word he’d be back at three o’clock. Like his cheek. I vote we don’t wait for him.”

“All serene,” said the others, “but we shall want the horse, shan’t we?”

“Perhaps we shall,” said Dick, with a grin, “unless you’d like to pull the trap. The horse is in the stable, and we can tip the fellow to put him in for us.”

The “fellow” was quite amenable to this sort of persuasion, and grinningly complied with the whim of the young gentlemen; secretly enjoying the prospect of Tom’s dismay.

“’Taint no concern of mine,” said he, philosophically. “If you tells me to do it, I does it.”

“And if we tells you to open your mouth and shut your eyes, and you’ll find sixpence in your hand,—you’ll find it there,” said Dick.

“Of course you knows how to drive,” said the stableman.

“Rather! Do you think we’re babies? Here, shy us the reins. Come along, you fellows, there’s room for all three on the box. Now then, Joe, give her her head. Come up, you beast! Swish! See if we don’t make her step out. Let her go!”

With some misgivings, Joe obeyed, and next moment the waggonette swayed majestically out of the yard very much like a small steam-tug going out of harbour in half a cap of wind.

“Rum, the way she pitches,” said Dick presently; “she didn’t do it when we came.”

“Looks to me as if the horse wasn’t quite sober,” suggested Coote.

“Perhaps, if you pulled both reins at the same time, instead of one at a time,” put in Heathcote, “she wouldn’t wobble so much.”

“You duffer; she’d stop dead, if I did that.”

“Suppose you don’t pull either,” said Heathcote.

Richardson pooh-poohed the notion, but acted on it all the same, with highly satisfactorily results. The trap glided along smoothly, and all anxiety as to the management of the mare appeared to be at an end.

“I left word for Tom,” said Richardson, “if he stepped out, he’d catch us up. Ha, ha! Won’t he be wild?”

“Wonder if he’ll get us in a row with Ashford?” said Heathcote.

“Not he. What’s the harm? Just a little horse-play, that’s all.”

Heathcote and Coote became grave.

“Look here,” said the former, “we let you off last time, but you’ll catch it now. Collar him that side, Coote, and have him over.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Heathcote,” cried the Jehu, as he found himself suddenly seized on either hand. “Let go, while I’m driving. Do you hear, Coote; let go, or there’ll be a smash!”

But as “letting go” was an accomplishment not taught at Mountjoy House, Richardson had to adopt stronger measures than mere persuasion in order to clear himself of his embarrassments.

Dropping the reins and flinging his arms vehemently back, he managed to dislodge his assailants, though not without dislodging himself at the same time, and a long and somewhat painful creditors’ meeting down in the waggonette was the consequence.

The mare, whose patience had been gradually evaporating during this strange journey, conscious of the riot behind her, and feeling the reins dropping loosely over her tail, took the whole matter very much to heart, and showed her disapproval of the whole proceedings by taking to her heels and bolting straight away.

The business meeting inside stood forthwith adjourned. With scared faces, the boys struggled to their feet, and, holding on to the rail of the box-seat, peered over to ascertain the cause of this alarming diversion.

“It’s a bolt!” said Richardson, the only one of the three who retained wits enough to think or speak. “Hang on, you fellows; I’ll try and get the reins. Help me up!”

As well as the swaying of the vehicle would allow it, they helped him hoist himself up on to the box. But for a long time all his efforts to catch the reins were in vain, and once or twice it seemed as if nothing could save him from being pitched off his perch on to the road. Luckily the mare kept a straight course, and at length, by a tremendous stretch, well supported from the rear by his faithful comrades, the boy succeeded in reaching the reins and pulling them up over the mare’s tail.

“Hang on now!” said he; “we’re all right if I can only guide her.”

Chapter Two.

How our heroes fall out and yet remain friends.

Mountjoy House had a narrow escape that afternoon of losing three of its most promising pupils.

The boys themselves by no means realised the peril of their situation. Indeed, after the first alarm, and finding that, by clinging tightly to the rail of the box-seat, they could support themselves on their feet on the floor of the swinging vehicle, Heathcote and Coote began almost to enjoy it, and were rather sorry one or two of the Templeton boys were not at hand to see how Mountjoy did things.

Richardson, however, with the reins in his hands, but utterly powerless to check the headlong career of the mare, or to do anything but guide her, took a more serious view of the situation, and heartily wished the drive was at an end.

It was a flat road all the way to Mountjoy—no steep hill to breathe the runaway, and no ploughed field to curb her ardour. It was a narrow road, too, so narrow that, for two vehicles to pass one another, it was necessary for one of the two to draw up carefully at the very verge. And as the verge in the present case meant the edge of rather a steep embankment, the prospect was not altogether a cheering one for an inexperienced boy, who, if he knew very little about driving, knew quite well that everything depended on his own nerve and coolness.

And Richardson not only had a head, but knew how to keep it. With a rein tightly clutched in each hand, with his feet firmly pressed against the footboard, with a sharp eye out over the mare’s ears, and a grim twitch on his determined mouth, he went over the chances in his own mind.

“If she goes on like this, we shall get to Mountjoy in half an hour. What a pace! We’re bound to smash up before we get there! Perhaps these fellows had better try and jump for it. Hallo! lucky we didn’t go over that stone! Wonder if I could pull her up if I got on her back? She might kick up and smash the trap! Wonder if she will pull up, or go over the bank, or what? Tom—Tom will have to run hard to catch us. Whew! what a swing! I could have sworn we were over!”

This last peril, and the involuntary cry of the two boys clinging on behind him, silenced even this mental soliloquy for a bit. But the waggonette, after two or three desperate plunges, righted itself and continued its mad career at the heels of the mare.

“What would happen if we went over? Jolly awkward to get pitched over on to my head or down among the mare’s feet! She’d kick, I guess! Those fellows inside could jump and— By Jove! there comes something on the road! We’re in for it now! Either a smash, or over the bank, or— Hallo! there’s a gate open!”

This last inward exclamation was caused by the sight of an open gate some distance ahead, through which a rough cart-track branched off from the road towards the sand-hills on the left. Richardson, with the instinct of desperation, seized upon this as the only way of escape from the peril which threatened them.

“Look out, you fellows!” cried he; “hang on tight on the right side while we turn, and jump well out if we go over.”

They watched him breathlessly as they came towards the gate. The vehicle which was meeting them and their own were about equal distance from the place, and it was clear their fate must be settled in less than a minute.

Richardson waved to the driver of the approaching cart to pull up, and at the same time edged the mare as far as he could on to the off-side of the road, so as to give her a wide turn in.

“Now for it!” said he to himself, pulling the left rein; “if this don’t do, I’ll give up driving.”

The mare, perhaps weary, perhaps perplexed at the sight of the cart in front, perhaps ready for a new diversion, obeyed the lead and swerved off at the gate. For a moment the waggonette tottered on its left wheel, and, but for the weight of the two passengers on the other side, would have caught the gate post and shattered itself to atoms in the narrow passage.

As it was, it cleared the peril by an inch, and then, plunging on to the soft, rough track, capsized gently, mare and all, landing its three occupants a yard or two off with their noses in the mud.

It was an undignified end to an heroic drive, and Richardson, as he picked himself up and cleared the mud from his eyes, felt half disappointed that no bones were broken or joints dislocated after all. Coote did certainly contribute a grain of consolation by announcing that he believed one of his legs was broken. But even this hope of glory was short-lived, for that young hero finding no one at leisure to assist him to his feet rose by himself, and walked some distance to a grass bank where he could sit down and examine for himself the extent of his injuries.

“Wal, young squire,” said a voice at Dick’s side, as that young gentleman found eyesight enough to look about him, “you’ve done it this time.”

The owner of the voice was the driver of the cart, and the tones and looks with which he made the remark were anything but unflattering to Richardson.

“It was a close squeak through the gate,” said the latter, “not six inches either side; and if it hadn’t been for the ruts we should have kept up all right till now. I say, do you think the trap’s damaged, or the mare?”

The mare was lying very comfortably on her side taking a good breath after her race, and not offering to resume her feet. As for the waggonette it was lying equally comfortably on its side, with one wheel up in the air.

“Shaft broken,” said the driver, “that’s all.”

“That’s all!” said Dick, dolefully, “we shall catch it, and no mistake.”

The man grinned.

“You can’t expect to play games of that sort without scratching the varnish off,” said he. “No fault of yours you haven’t got your necks broke.”

“Suppose we try to get her up?” said Richardson, looking as if this last information had very little comfort in it.

So among them they unharnessed the mare and managed to disengage her from the vehicle and get her to her feet.

“She’s all sound,” said the man, after a careful overhauling.

“She’s a cad,” said Dick, “and I shouldn’t have been sorry if she’d broken her neck. Look at the smash she’s made.”

The trap was indeed far worse damaged than they supposed as first. Not only was a shaft broken, but a wheel was off, and the rail all along one side was torn away. It was clear there was no more driving to be got out of it that afternoon, and the boys gave up the attempt to raise it in disgust.

“Do you know Tom, our man—Ashford’s man?” said Dick.

“Who? Tom Tranter? Yes, I knows him.”

“Well, you’ll meet him on the road between here and Markridge, walking, or perhaps running. Tell him we’ve had a spill and he’d better see after the trap, will you? We’ll go on.”

“What about the horse, though?” said Heathcote.

“I suppose we shall have to take the beast along with us. We can’t leave her here.”

“I think we’d better stop till Tom comes, and all go on together,” suggested Heathcote.

“I suppose you funk it with Ashford,” said Dick whose temper was somewhat ruffled by misfortune. “I don’t. If you two like to stop you can. I’ll go on with the mare.”

“Oh, no, we’ll all come,” said Heathcote. “I’m not afraid, no more is Coote.”

“All serene then, come on. Mind you tell Tom, I say,” added he to the carter. “Good-bye, and thanks awfully.”

And they departed in doleful procession, Dick, with the whip in his hand, leading the mare by the mouth, and Heathcote and Coote following like chief mourners, just out of range of the animal’s heels.

“What shall we say to Ashford?” asked Heathcote, after a little.

“Say? What do you mean?” said Dick.

“He’s sure to ask us what has happened.”

“Well, we shall tell him, I suppose.”

“There’ll be an awful row.”

“Of course there will.”

“We shall get licked.”

“Of course we shall. What of it?”

“Only,” said Heathcote, with a little hesitation, “I suppose there’s no way of getting out of it?”

“Not unless you tell lies. You and Coote can tell some if you like—I shan’t.”

“I’m not going to tell any,” said Coote, “I’ve told quite enough in my exam. papers.”

“Oh, of course, I don’t mean telling crams,” said Heathcote, who really didn’t exactly know what he did mean. “I’ll back you up, old man.”

“Thanks. I say, as we are in a row, mightn’t we just as well take it out of this beastly horse? If Coote led him you and I could take cock shots at him from behind.”

“Oh, yes,” said Coote, “and hit me by mistake; not if I know it.”

“We might aim at Coote,” suggested Heathcote, by way of solving the difficulty, “and hit the mare by mistake.”

“Perhaps it would be rather low,” said Dick. “I don’t see, though, why she shouldn’t carry us. She’s a long back; plenty of room for all three of us.”

“The middle for me,” said Coote.

“Think she’d kick up?” asked Heathcote.

“Not she, she couldn’t lift with all of us on her. Come on. Whoa! you beast. Give us a leg up, somebody. Whoa! Hold her head, Coote, and keep her from going round and round. Now then. By Jove! what a way up it is!”

By a mighty effort of combined hoisting and climbing, the boys, one after the other, scaled the lofty ridge, and perched themselves, as securely as they could, well forward on the mare’s long back.

Luckily for them, the patient animal endured her burden meekly, and plodded on in a listless manner, pricking her ears occasionally at the riot which went on on her back, and once or twice rattling the bones of her riders by a mild attempt at a trot, but otherwise showing no signs of renewing her former more energetic protest.

In this manner, after a weary and not altogether refreshing journey, the three jaded, tightly-packed heroes came to a standstill at the door of Mountjoy House, where, one after the other, they slid sadly from their perches, and addressed themselves to the satisfying of Mrs Ashford’s natural curiosity, only hoping the interview would not be protracted, and so defer for long the supper to which they all eagerly looked forward.

“Why, what’s all this?” said the matron.

“Where’s the waggonette, and Tom?” chimed in Mr Ashford, appearing at the same moment.

“Please, sir,” said Dick, “we didn’t wait for Tom, and drove home, and there was a little accident. I was driving at the time, sir. We got spilt, and the trap was a little damaged. We left word for Tom to see to it, and I’ll write and get my father to pay for mending it. We’re all awfully sorry, sir. Dr Winter sends his regards, and we shall hear the result of the exam. on Thursday. One of the wheels came off, but I fancy it will go on again. It was a rut did it. We were coming along at a very good pace, and should have been here an hour ago if it hadn’t been for the accident. We’re sorry to be late, sir.”

After which ample explanation and apology the boys felt themselves decidedly aggrieved that they were not at once ushered in to supper. Mr Ashford, however, being a mortal of only limited perception, required a good deal more information; and a painful and somewhat petulant cross-examination ensued, the result of which was that our heroes were informed they were not to be trusted, that both Mr and Mrs Ashford were disappointed in them, that they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and that they would hear more about the matter to-morrow.

And what about the supper?—that glorious spread of coffee and hot toast, and eggs and bacon, the anticipation of which had borne them up in all the perils and fatigue of the day, and had shone like a beacon star to guide them home? The subject was ignored, basely ignored; and the culprits were ordered to join the ordinary school supper and appease their hunger on bread and cheese and cold boiled beef, and slake their thirst on “swipes.”

Then did the spirits of Richardson, Heathcote and Coote wax fierce within them. Then did they call Mr Ashford a cad, and Mrs Ashford a sneak. Then did they kick all the little boys within reach, and scowl furiously upon the big ones. Then did they wish the mare was dead and Templeton a ruin!

As, when Jove frowns and Mercury and Vulcan scowl, the hills hide their heads and the valleys tremble beneath the storm, so did the youth of Mountjoy quake and cower that evening as it raised its eyes and beheld those three gloomy heroes devour their beef and drink their swipes. No one ventured to ask how they had fared, or wherefore they looked sad; but they knew something had happened. The little boys gazed with awe-struck wonder at the heroes who had that day been at Templeton, and contended for Templeton honours. The elder boys wondered if gloom was part of Templeton “form,” and when their turn would come to look as black and majestic; and all marvelled at the supper those three ate, and at the chasm they left in the cold boiled beef!

“Come on, you fellows,” said Richardson, as soon as the meal was finished. “I’m going to bed; I’m fagged.”

“So am I,” said Heathcote.

“So am I,” said Coote.

And the triumvirate stalked from the room, leaving Mountjoy more than ever convinced something terrific had happened.

If Coote had had his way, he would rather have stayed up. He slept in a different room from Richardson and Heathcote, and it was rather slow going to bed by himself at half-past seven. But as it was evident from Dick’s manner that this was the proper course to take under the circumstances, he took it, and was very soon dreaming that he and Edward the Fifth’s father were trotting round the Templeton quadrangle on the mare, much to the admiration of the Templeton boys, who assembled in their thousands to witness the exploit.

Next day the uncomfortable topic of the mare and the waggonette was renewed in a long conference with Mr Ashford.

As supper was no longer pending, and as a night’s rest had intervened, the boys were rather more disposed to enter into details. But they failed to satisfy Mr Ashford that they were not to blame for what had occurred.

“I am less concerned,” said he, “about the damage done to the waggonette than I am to think I cannot trust you as fully as I ought to be able to trust my head boys. I hope during the week or two that remains of this term you will try to win back the confidence you have lost. I must, in justice to my other boys, punish you. Under the circumstances, I shall not cane you, but till the end of the term you must each of you lose your hour’s play between twelve and one.”

Mr Ashford paused. Perhaps he expected an outburst of gratitude. Perhaps he didn’t exactly know what to say next. In either case, he found he had made a mistake.

The boys, with an instinct not, certainly, of self-righteousness, but of common justice, felt that they had had punishment enough already for their sin. Mr Ashford took no account of those few seconds when the waggonette was dashing through the gate and reeling to its fall. He reckoned as nothing the weary jolt home, the indignity of that supper last night, and the suspense of that early morning. He made no allowance for an absence of malice in what they had done, and gave them no credit—although, indeed, neither did they give themselves credit—for the regret and straightforwardness with which they had confessed it. He proposed to treat them, the head boys of Mountjoy, as common delinquents, and punish them as he would punish a cheat, or a bully, or mutineer.

It wasn’t fair—they knew it; and if Ashford didn’t know it, too—well, he ought.

“We’d rather be caned, sir,” said Richardson, speaking for all three.

Mr Ashford regarded the speaker with sharp surprise.

“Richardson, kindly remember I am the best judge of what punishment you deserve.”

“It’s not fair to keep us in all the term,” said Dick, his cheeks mounting colour with the desperateness of his boldness.

Mr Ashford changed colour, too, but his cheeks turned pale.

“Leave my sight, sir, instantly! How do you dare to use language like that to me!”

Fortunately for the dignity, as well as for the comfort, of the three boys, Dick made no attempt to prolong the argument. He turned and left the room, followed by his two faithful henchmen, little imagining that, if any one had scored in this unsatisfactory interview, he had.

Don’t let the reader imagine that any mystical glory belongs to the schoolboy who happens to “score one” off his master. If he does it consciously, the chances are he is a snob for doing it. If he does it unconsciously, as Dick did here, then the misfortune of the master by no means means the bliss of the boy.

Dick felt anything but blissful as he stalked moodily to the schoolroom that morning and growled his injuries to his allies.

But Mr Ashford, as soon as his first burst of temper had evaporated, like an honest, sensible man, sat down and reviewed the situation; and it occurred to him, on reviewing it, that he had made a mistake. It was, of course, extremely painful and humiliating to have to acknowledge it; but, once acknowledged, it would have been far more humiliating to Mr Ashford’s sense of honour to persist in it.

He summoned the boys once more to his presence, and they trooped in like three prisoners brought up on remand to hear their final sentence.

The master’s mouth twitched nervously, and he half repented of the ordeal he had set before himself.

“You said just now, Richardson, that the punishment I proposed to inflict on you was not fair?”

“Yes, sir, we think so,” replied Dick, simply.

“I think so, too,” said Mr Ashford, equally simply, “and I shall say no more about it. Now you can go.”

The boys gaped at him in mingled admiration and bewilderment.

“You can go,” repeated the master.

Richardson took a hasty survey of his companions’ countenances, and said—

“Will you cane us instead, please sir?”

“No, Richardson, that would not be fair either.”

Richardson made one more effort.

“Please, sir, we think we deserve something.”

“People don’t always get their deserts in this world, my boy,” said the master, with a smile. “Now please go when I tell you.”

Mr Ashford rallied three waverers to his standard that morning. They didn’t profess to understand the meaning of it all, but they could see that the master had sacrificed something to do them justice, and with the native chivalry of boys, they made his cause theirs, and did all they could to cover his retreat.

Two days later, a letter by the post was brought in to Mr Ashford in the middle of school.

Coote’s face grew crimson as he saw it, and the faces of his companions grew long and solemn. A sudden silence fell on the room, broken only by the rustle of the paper as the master tore open the envelope and produced the printed document. His eyes glanced hurriedly down it, and a shade of trouble crossed his brow.

“We’re gone coons,” groaned Heathcote.

“Don’t speak to me,” said Dick.

Coote said nothing, but wished one of the windows was open on a hot day like this.

“This paper contains the result of the entrance examination at Templeton,” said Mr Ashford. “Out of thirty-six candidates, Heathcote has passed fifteenth, and Richardson twenty-first. Coote, I am sorry to say, has not passed.”

Chapter Three.

How our heroes gird on their armour.

Our heroes, each in the bosom of his own family, spent a somewhat anxious Easter holiday.

Of the three, Coote’s prospects were decidedly the least cheery. Mountjoy House without Richardson and Heathcote would be desolation itself, and the heart of our hero quailed within him as he thought of the long dull evenings and the dreary classes of the coming friendless term.

“Never mind, old man,” Dick had said, cheerily, as the “Firm” talked their prospects over on the day before the holidays, “you’re bound to scrape through the July exam.; and then won’t we have a jollification when you turn up?”

But all this was sorry comfort for the dejected Coote, who retired home and spent half his holidays learning dates, so determined was he not to be “out of it” next time.

As for Heathcote and Richardson, they were neither of them without their perturbations of spirit. Not that either of them realised—who ever does?—the momentous epoch in their lives which had just arrived, when childhood like a pleasant familiar landscape lies behind, and the hill of life clouded in mist and haze rises before, all unknown and unexplored.

Heathcote, who was his grandmother’s only joy, and had no nearer relatives, did hear some remarks to this effect as he girded himself for the coming campaign. But he evaded them with an “Oh, yes, I know, all serene,” and was far more interested in the prospect of a new Eton jacket and Sunday surplice than in a detailed examination of his past personal history.

The feeling uppermost in his mind was that Dick was going to Templeton too, and beyond that his anxieties and trepidations extended no further than the possibility of being called green by his new schoolfellows.

Richardson had the great advantage of being one of a real family circle.

He was the eldest of a large family, the heads of which feared God, and tried to train their children to become honest men and women.

How far they had succeeded with Dick, or—to give him his real Christian name, now we have him at home—with Basil, the reader may have already formed an opinion. He had his faults—what boy hasn’t?—and he wasn’t specially clever. But he had pluck and hope, and resolution, and without being hopelessly conceited, had confidence enough in himself to carry him through most things.

“Don’t be in too great a hurry to choose your friends, my boy,” said his father, as the two walked up and down the London platform. “You’ll find plenty ready enough, but give them a week or two before you swear eternal friendship with any of them.”

Dick thought this rather strange advice, and got out of it by saying—

“Oh, I shall have Georgie Heathcote, you know. I shan’t much care about the other fellows.”

“Don’t be too sure. And, remember this, my boy, be specially on your guard with any of them that flatter you. They’ll soon find out your weak point and that’s where they’ll have you.”

Dick certainly considered this a little strong even for a parent. But somehow the advice stuck, for all that, and he remembered it afterwards.

“As to other matters,” said the father, “your mother, I know, has spoken for us both. Be honest to everybody, most of all yourself, and remember a boy can fear God without being a prig— Ah, here’s the train.”

It was a dismal farewell, that between father and son, when the moment of parting really came. Neither of them had expected it would be so hard, and when at last the whistle blew, and their hands parted, both were thankful the train slipped swiftly from the station and turned a corner at once.

After the bustle and excitement of the last few days, Dick found the loneliness of the empty carriage decidedly unpleasant, and for a short time after leaving town, was nearer moping than he had ever been before.

It would be an hour before the train reached X—, where Heathcote would get in. It would be all right then, but meanwhile he wished he had something to do.

So he fell to devouring the provisions his mother and sisters had put up for his special benefit, and felt in decidedly better heart when the meal was done.

Then he hauled down his hat-box, and tried on his new “pot,” and felt still more soothed.

Then he extricated his new dressing-case from his travelling-bag, and examined, with increasing comfort, each several weapon it contained, until the discovery of a razor in an unsuspected corner completed his good cheer, and he began to whistle.

In the midst of this occupation the train pulled up, and Heathcote, with his hat-box and bag invaded the carriage.

“Hallo, old man,” said Dick with a nod, “you’ve turned up, then? Look here, isn’t this a stunning turnout? Don’t go sitting down on my razor, I say.”

“Excuse me a second,” said Heathcote, putting down his traps and turning to the window, “grandma’s here, and I’ve got to say good-bye.”

“Good-bye, grandma,” added the dutiful youth, holding out his hand to a venerable lady who stood by the window.

“Good-bye, Georgie. Give me a kiss, my dear boy.”

Georgie didn’t like kissing in public, especially when the public consisted of Dick. And, yet, he couldn’t well get out of it. So he hurried through the operation as quickly as possible, and stood with his duty towards his relative and his interest towards the razor, wondering why the train didn’t start.

It started at last, and after a few random flickings of his handkerchief out of the window, he was able to devote his entire attention to his friend’s cutlery.

One exhibition provoked another. Heathcote’s “pot” was produced and critically compared with Dick’s. He had no dressing-case, certainly, but he had a silver watch and a steel chain, also a pocket inkpot, and a railway key. And by the way, he thought, the sooner that railway key was brought into play the better.

By its aid they successfully resisted invasion at the different stations as they went along, until at length Heathcote’s watch told them that the next station would be Templeton. Whereat they became grave and packed up their bags, and looked rather wistfully out of the window.

“Father says,” remarked Dick, “only the new boys go up to-day. The rest come to-morrow.”

“Rather a good job,” said Heathcote.

A long silence followed.

“Think there’ll be any one to meet us?” said Dick. “Don’t know. I wish Coote was to be there too.”

Another pause.

“I expect they’ll be jolly enough fellows,” said Dick.

“Oh yes. They don’t bully now in schools, I believe.”

“No; they say it’s going out. Perhaps it’s as well.”

“We shall be pretty well used to the place by to-morrow, I fancy.”

“Yes. It’ll be rather nice to see them all turn up.”

“I expect, you know, they’ll have such a lot to do, they won’t bother about new fellows. I know I shouldn’t.”

“They might about the awful green ones, perhaps. Ha, ha! Wouldn’t it be fun if old Coote was here!”

“Yes, poor old Coote! You know I’m half sorry to leave Mountjoy. It was a jolly old school, wasn’t it?”

The shrieking of the whistle and the grinding of the brake put an end to further conversation for the present.

As they alighted, each with his hat-box and bag and umbrella, and stood on the platform, they felt moved by a sincere affection for the carriage they were leaving. Indeed, there is no saying what little encouragement would not have sufficed to send them back into its hospitable shelter.

“Here you are, sir—this way for the school—this cab, sir!”—cried half a dozen cabmen, darting whip in hand upon our heroes, as they stood looking about them.

“Don’t you go along with them,” said one confidentially. “They’ll charge you half-a-crown. Come along, young gentlemen, I’ll take you for two bob.”

“Go on. You think the young gentlemen are greenhorns. No fear. They know what’s what. They ain’t agoin’ to be seen drivin’ up the Quad in a Noah’s Ark like that. Come along, young gents; leave him for the milksops. The like of you rides in a hansom, I know.”

Of course, this artful student of juvenile nature carried the day, and there was great cheering and crowing and chaffing, when the hansom, with the two trunks on the top, and the two anxious faces inside, peering over the top of their hat-boxes and bags rattled triumphantly out of the station.

As Templeton school was barely three minutes’ drive from the station, there was very little leisure either for conversation or the recovery of their composure, before the gallant steed was clattering over the cobbles of the great Quadrangle.

They pulled up at a door which appeared to belong to a bell of imposing magnitude, which the cabman, alighting, proceeded to pull with an energy that awoke the echoes of that solemn square, and made our two heroes draw their breath short and sharp.

“Hop out, young gentlemen,” said the cabman, helping his passengers and their luggage out. “It’s a busy time, and I’m in a hurry. A shilling each, and sixpence a piece for the traps; that’s two and three makes five, and leave the driver to you.”

Considering the distance they had come, it seemed rather a long price, and Heathcote ventured very mildly to ask—

“The other man at the station said two shillings.”

“Bah!” said the cabman in tones of unfeigned disgust, “you are green ones after all! He’d have charged a bob a piece for the traps, and landed you up to eight bob, and stood no nonsense too about it. Come, settle up, young gentlemen, please. The Templeton boys I’m used to always fork out like gentlemen.”

Dick took out his purse, and produced five-and-sixpence, which he gave the driver, just as the door opened and the school matron presented herself.

“Is that your cab?” said she, pointing to the receding hansom.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How much did he charge you?”

“Five shillings, ma’am.”

The lady uttered an exclamation of mingled wrath and contempt. “It’s double his right fare. Run quick, and you’ll catch him.”

Heathcote started to run, shouting meekly, and waving his hand to the man to stop.

But the man good-humouredly declined the invitation, raising his hat gallantly to the lady, and putting his tongue into his cheek, as he touched the horse up into a trot, and rattled out of the square.

Heathcote returned rather sheepishly, and the two friends followed the lady indoors feeling that their entry into Templeton had been anything but triumphant.

“The idea!” said the matron, partly to herself and partly to the boys, “of his landing you and all your luggage on the pavement like that, and then going off, before I came. He knew well enough I should have seen he only got his right fare. The wretch!”

The boys did not know at the time, but they discovered it afterwards, that Mrs Partlett, the matron, had a standing feud with all the cabmen of Templeton, whose delight it was to enjoy themselves at her expense—a pastime they could not more effectively achieve than by fleecing her young charges, so to speak, under her very nose.

“Now,” said she, when presently she had recovered her equanimity, “if you’ll unlock these things, you can go and take a walk round the Quadrangle and look about you, while I unpack. The bell will ring for new boys’ tea in half an hour.”

They obeyed, and took a melancholy, but interested stroll round the great court. They read all the Latin mottoes, and were horrified to find one or two which they could not translate.

Fancy a Templeton boy not being able to understand his own mottoes!

They read the names on the different masters’ doors; and dwelt with special reverence on the door-plate of Mr Westover, in whose house they were to reside. They deciphered the carvings on the great gate, and shuddered as they saw the name of one “Joe Bolt” cut rude and deep across the forehead of the cherub who stood sentinel at the chapel portal.

All was wonder in that strange walk. The wonder of untasted proprietorship. It was their school, their quadrangle, their chapel, their elm-trees; and yet they scarcely liked to inspect them too closely, or behave themselves towards them too familiarly.

One or two boys were taking solitary strolls, like themselves. They were new boys too—nearly all of them afflicted with the same uneasiness, some more, some less.

It was amusing to see the way these new boys held themselves one to another as they crossed and passed one another in that afternoon’s promenade. There was no falling into one another’s arms in bursts of mutual sympathy. There was no forced gaiety and indifference, as though one would say “I don’t think much of the place after all.” No. With blunt English pride, each boy bridled up a bit as a stranger drew near, and looked straight in front of him, till the coast was clear.

At length the bell above the matron’s door began to toll, and there was a general movement among the stragglers in its direction.

About twenty boys, mostly of our heroes’ age, assembled in the tea room. Their small band looked almost lost in that great hall, as they clustered, of one accord, for warmth and comfort, at one end of the long table.

The matron entered and said grace, and then proceeded to pour out tea for her hungry family, while the boys themselves, at her injunction, passed round the bread-and-butter and eggs.

A meal is one of the most civilising institutions going; and Dick, after two cups of Templeton tea, and several cubic inches of Templeton bread-and-butter, felt amiably inclined towards his left-hand neighbour, a little timorous-looking boy, who blushed when anybody looked at him, and nearly fainted when he heard his own voice answering Mrs Partlett’s enquiry whether he wanted another cup.

Apart from a friendly motive, it seemed to Dick it would be good practice to begin talking to a youth of this unalarming aspect. He therefore enquired, “Are you a new boy?”

The boy started to hear himself addressed; then looking shyly up in the speaker’s face, and divining that no mischief lurked there, he replied—

“Yes.”

Dick took another gulp of tea, and continued, “Where do you live—in London?”

“No—I live in Devonshire.”

Dick returned to his meal again, and exchanged some sentences with Heathcote before he resumed.

“What school were you at before?”

“I wasn’t at any—I had lessons at home.”

“A tutor?”

The boy blushed very much, and looked appealingly at Dick, as though to beg him to receive the disclosure he was about to make kindly.

“No—my mother taught me.”

Dick did receive it kindly. That is, he didn’t laugh. He felt sorry for the boy and what was in store for him when the news got abroad. He also felt much less reserved in continuing the conversation.

“Heathcote here and I were at Mountjoy; so we’re pretty well used to kicking about,” said he, patronisingly. “I suppose you didn’t go in for the entrance exam, then?”

“Yes, I did,” said the boy.

“Poor chap,” thought Dick, “fancy a fellow who’s never left his mammy’s apron-strings going in for an exam. How did you get on?” he added, turning to his companion.

“Pretty well, I think,” said the boy shyly.

“I was twenty-first out of thirty-six,” said Dick, “and Heathcote here was fifteenth—where were you?”

Again the boy made a mute appeal for toleration, as he replied, “I was first.”

Dick put down his cup, and stared at him.

“Go on!” said he.

“It was down on the list so,” said the boy with an apologetic air. “They sent one with the names printed.”

Dick made a desperate onslaught on the bread-and-butter, regarding his neighbour out of the corners of his eyes from time to time, quite at a loss to make him out.

“How old are you?” he demanded presently.

“Thirteen.”

“What’s your name?”

“Bertie Aspinall.”

“Whose house are you going to live in?”

“Mr Westover’s.”

“Oh!” said Dick, abruptly ending the conversation, and turning round towards Heathcote.

In due time the meal was over, and the boys were told they could do as they liked for the next hour, until the matron was at leisure to show them their quarters.

So for another hour the promenade in the Quadrangle was resumed. Not so dismally, however, as before. The tea had broken the ice wonderfully, and instead of the studied avoidance of the afternoon, one group and another fell now to comparing notes, and rehearsing the legends they had heard of Templeton and its inmates. And gradually a fellow-feeling made every one wondrous kind, and the little army of twenty in the prospect of to-morrow’s battles, drew together in bonds of self-defence, and felt all very like brothers.

Aspinall, however, who knew no one, and had not dared to join himself to any of the groups, paced in solitude at a distance, hoping for nothing better than that he might escape notice and be left to himself. But Dick, whose interest in him had become very decided, found him out before long and, much to his terror, insisted in introducing him to Heathcote and attaching him to their party.

“There’s nothing to be in a funk about, young ’un,” said he. “I know I don’t mean to funk it, whatever they do to me.”

“I’ll back you up, old man, all I can,” said Heathcote.

“I expect it’s far the best way not to kick out, but just go through with it,” said Dick. “That’s what my father says, and he had a pretty rough time of it, he said, at first.”

“Oh, yes; I’m sure it’s all the worse for a fellow if he funks or gets out of temper.”

All this was very alarming talk for the timorous small boy to overhear, and he longed, a hundred times, to be safe back in Devonshire.

“I’m afraid,” he faltered. “I know—I shall be a coward.”

“Don’t be a young ass,” said Dick. “Heathcote and I will back you up all we can, won’t we, Georgie?”

“Rather,” said Heathcote.

“If you do, it won’t be half so bad,” said the boy, brightening up a bit; “it’s dreadful to be a coward.”

“Well, why are you one?” said Dick. “No one’s obliged to be one.”

“I suppose I can’t help it. I try hard.”

“There goes the bell. I suppose that’s for us to go in,” said Dick, as the summons once more sounded.

They found the matron with a list in her hand, which she proceeded to call over, bidding each boy answer to his name. The first twelve were the new boys of Westover’s house, and they included our two heroes and Aspinall, who were forthwith marched, together with their night apparel, across the court to their new quarters.

Here they were received by another matron, who presided over the wardrobes of the youth of Westover’s, and by her they were escorted to one of the dormitories, where, for that night at any rate, they were to be permitted to sleep in the comfort of one another’s society.

“New boys are to call on the Doctor after breakfast in the morning,” announced she. “Breakfast at eight, and no morning chapel. Good-night!”

It was not long before the dormitory was silent. One by one, the tired boys dropped off, most of them with heavy hearts as they thought of the morrow.

Among the last was Dick, who, as he lay awake and went over, in his mind, the experiences of the day, was startled by what sounded very like a sob in the bed next to his.

He had half a mind to get up and go and say something to the dismal little Devonshire boy.

But on second thoughts he thought the kindest thing would be to let the poor fellow have his cry out, so he turned over and tried not to hear it; and while trying he fell asleep.

Chapter Four.

How our heroes are put through their paces.

“The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold” early next day. The twenty innocent lambs whom, in the last chapter, we left sweetly folded in slumber had barely had time to arise and comb their hair when the advance-guard of the hungry tyrant appeared in their midst.

This was no other than a truck-load of trunks, portmanteaux, bags and hat-boxes sent up from the station, the owners of which, so the alarming rumour spread, were on the road.

It was an agitated meal our heroes partook of with the spectacle of that truck before their eyes, and many an anxious ear was pricked for the first sound of the approaching horde.

But the horde, being aware that nothing was expected of it till mid-day, by no means saw the fun of surrendering its liberty at 10 o’clock, and went down to bathe in the harbour on the way up, so that the fate which impended was kept for two good hours in suspense.

Meanwhile, the interview with the Doctor was accomplished. It was not very alarming. Your new boy would sooner face twenty doctors than one hero of the middle Fifth. The head master asked a few kindly questions of each boy, and, so to speak, took stock of him before adding his name formally to the school list. He also added a few words of advice to the company generally, and enlightened them as to a few of the chief school rules. The others, he said, they would learn soon enough.

Whereat they all said, “Thank you, sir,” and retired.

Dick and Heathcote, with young Aspinall in tow, walked back to Westover’s house together, and were nearly half-way there, when Aspinall suddenly clutched Dick’s arm and whispered—

“There’s one!”

They all stood still and gazed as if it was a spectre, not a human being, they expected.

What they really did see was a rather nice-looking boy of sixteen or seventeen lounging in at the great gateway, looking about him with a familiar air, and apparently bending his steps straight for Westover’s.

It was an awkward situation for our three new boys. Every step brought them nearer under the observation of the “Assyrian,” and at every step they felt more awkward and abashed.

Dick did his best to put on a little swagger. He stuck one hand in his pocket, and twitched his hat a trifle on one side. Heathcote, too, instinctively let slip his jacket button so as to betray his watch-chain, and laughed rather loudly at something which nobody said. Poor young Aspinall attempted no such demonstration, but slipped under the lee of his protectors, and wondered what would become of him.

The old boy and the new foregathered just at the door of Westover’s, and it was not till they actually stood face to face that the former gave any sign of being aware of the presence of the trio. He then honoured them with a casual survey as they stood back to let him enter first.

“New kids?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Westover’s?”

“Yes.”

The hero grunted and passed in, and they heard him shouting to the matron to ask if his traps had come from the station, and whether anybody had come yet.

Anybody come! He didn’t count them, that was plain.

Not knowing exactly what to do, they determined on another walk round the Quad, preferring to be reconnoitred by the enemy in the open, and not indoors—possibly in a corner.

The enemy reconnoitred in force. After the first arrival, boys dropped in in twos and threes, in cabs, in omnibuses, in high spirits, in low spirits. The old square began to get lively. The echoes which had slept soundly for the past fortnight woke up suddenly, and the rooks in the elms began to grow uneasy, and summoned a cabinet council to discuss what was going on in the lower world.

“Hallo, Duff, old man,” cried one boy near to our heroes, as he caught sight of a chum across the square. “Seen Raggles?”

“Yes; he’s got a cargo down. He’s asked me.”

“Tell him I’m up, will you?”

“What’s a cargo?” asked Heathcote, as the speaker went past.

“Goodness knows,” said Dick—“perhaps it’s a crib.”

“My brother Will used to call a hamper a cargo,” said Aspinall.

“Humph,” said Dick, who never liked to be corrected, “there’s something in that.”

“I hope there is,” said Heathcote.

It said a great deal for the solemnity of the occasion that Dick did not at once proceed to administer condign punishment. He took note of the offence, though, and punished the offender quietly in bed some days after. Just at the present moment, had he been inclined to square accounts, he had no leisure; for a sudden cry of “Dredger!” was raised, whereat they noticed a number of boys step off the pavement on to the grass. Before they could conjecture what this sudden manoeuvre might mean, a rush of steps arose behind, and next moment they were caught up in the toils of a net constructed of towels knotted together, stretching across the path, and held at each end by two swift runners who swept them along at a headlong pace, catching up a shoal of stray fish on the way until even the stalwart dredgers were compelled, from the very weight of their “take,” to slacken speed.

A crowd collected to witness the emptying of the net. One by one the trembling small fry were grabbed and passed round to answer a string of questions such as—

“What’s your name?”

“Are you most like your father or your mother?”

“Who’s your hatter?”

“Can you swim?”

“Who was the father of Zebedee’s children?”

“Are you a Radical or a Tory?”

All of which questions each luckless catechumen was required to answer truly, and in a loud, distinct voice, amid the most embarrassing cheers and jeers and hootings of the audience.

Dick got through his fairly well till he came to the political question, when he made the great mistake of saying he didn’t know whether he was a Radical or a Tory. For, as he might have expected, every one was down on him, and he was sent forth a marked man to make up his mind on the question.

Heathcote, whose sorrow it was to be separated from his friend in the landing of the catch, was less lucky. He professed himself like his mother, which was greatly against him. His hatter also was a country artist instead of a Londoner, and that he discovered was an extremely grave offence. And as for his politics, he made a greater mistake even than Dick, for he professed himself imbued with opinions “between the two,” an announcement which brought down a torrent of abuse and scorn, mingled with cries of “kick him for a half-and-half prig!” an observation which Heathcote was very sorry indeed to hear.

As the reader may guess, poor young Aspinall had a very bad time of it. He began to cry as soon as the first question was propounded. But this demonstration failed to shelter him. A general hiss greeted the sound of his whimper, and cries of, “Where’s his bottle?”

“Meow!”

“Hush-a-bye baby!” His ruthless tyrants, who knew no distinction between the tears of a crocodile and the tears of a terrified child, made him go through his catechism to the bitter end. They howled with delight when they heard him call himself Bertie, and paused in dead silence to hear him say whether he was like “papa or mamma”—“or nurse?” as some one suggested. He took refuge in tears again, with the result that his inquisitors were more than ever determined to get their answer.

“Hang it, you young ass,” said one boy, whom the child, even in his flutter and misery, recognised as the boy who had accosted them at the door of Westover’s that morning, “can’t you answer without blubbering like that? Nobody’s going to eat you up.”

This friendly admonition served to set the boy on his feet, and he stammered out, “Mother.”

“You weren’t asked if you were like your mother,” shouted some one, “are you most like ‘papa or mamma?’”

“Mamma,” faltered the boy. Whereat there was great jubilation, as there was also when he described his hatter as Mr. Smith of Totnes.

“Can you swim?”

“N–no, I’m afraid not.”

“That’s a pity, with the lot you blubber. You’ll get drowned some day.”

Terrific cheers greeted this sally, in the midst of which the boy was almost forgotten.

But the political test remained.

“Now, Bertie dear, are you a Radical or a Tory?” he was asked.

The boy took a deep breath, and said—

“I’m a Radical.”

At which straightforward and unlooked-for reply there were great cheers and counter-cheers, in the midst of which the scared little Radical was hustled down from his perch and sent flying to join his friends, and calm the fluttering of his poor little heart.

It being evidently unsafe to remain longer in the Quadrangle, the dejected trio betook themselves with many misgivings, to their house.

Westover’s presented a striking contrast to the quiet scene of yesterday evening. It being still a quarter to twelve, and term not being supposed to commence till mid-day, the short interval of freedom from school rules was being made use of to the best advantage.

The matron, shouted at and besieged on all sides, already stood at bay, with her hands to her ears, having abandoned any attempt to do anything for anybody. The house porter was in a similar condition of strike. He had once been knocked completely over by rival claimants on his assistance, and he had several times been nearly pulled limb from limb by disappointed employers. He, therefore, stood with his back to the wall and his arms folded, waiting till the storm should blow itself out.

Upstairs, in the studies, riot scarcely less exuberant was taking place. Bosom friends, reunited after three weeks’ separation, celebrated their reunion with paeans of jubilation and war-whoops of triumph. “Cargoes” were being unladen here; Liddell-and-Scott was officiating as a cricket ball there; a siege was going on round this door, and a hand-to-hand scrimmage between the posts of that. A few of the placid ones were quietly unpacking in the midst of the Babel, and one or two were actually writing home.

Our heroes, fancying the looks neither of the matron’s hall nor of the lobby upstairs, deemed it prudent to retreat as quickly as possible to the junior schoolroom, there to await, in the calm atmosphere of expectant scholarship, the ringing of the twelve o’clock bell.

Has the reader ever visited that famous resort of youth, the Zoo? Has he stood on that terrace five minutes before dinner-time and listened to the deep-mouthed growl of the lion, the barking of the wolf, the shriek of the hyaena, as they pace their cages and await their meal? Then, turning on his heel, has he quitted that stately scene and pushed back the door of the monkey house?

Even so it was with our heroes. The junior schoolroom was as the matron’s hall and the studies thrown into one.—At first, to the untutored eyes of the visitors, it looked like a surging sea of unkempt heads and waving elbows; then, as their vision grew accustomed to the scene, they beheld faces and legs and boots; then, amid the general din, they distinguished voices, and perceived that the sea was made up of human beings.

At the which they would fain have retreated; but, as old Virgil says—and we won’t insult our readers by translating the verses—

“Facilis descensus Averni, Sed revocare gradum Hoc opus, hic labor est.”

Their retreat was cut off before they were well in the room, and, amid loud cries of “New kids!” “Bertie!” “Scrunch!” they were escorted to the nearest form, where they forthwith received a most warm and pressing welcome into their new quarters. The top boy of the form, in his emotion, planted his feet against the wall and began to push inwards. The bottom boy, equally overcome, planted his feet in the hollow of a desk and also pushed inwards. Every one else, in fellow-feeling, pushed inwards too, except our heroes, who, being in the exact centre, remained passive recipients of their schoolfellows’ welcome until the line showed signs of rising up at the point where Aspinall’s white face pointed the middle; whereupon the bottom boy considerately let go with his feet, and the occupants of the form were poured like water on the floor.

After being thus welcomed on some half-dozen forms, our heroes began to feel that even good fellowship may pall, and were glad, decidedly glad, to hear the great bell beginning to sound forth.

School that morning was rather a farce; the master was not in the humour for it, nor were the boys. After calling over names and announcing the subjects which would engage the attention of the different classes, and reading over, in case any one had forgotten them, the rules of Westover’s house, the class was dismissed for the present, all except the new boys being permitted to go out into the court or playing-fields till dinner.

It was a welcome relief to our new boys to find themselves together once more with the enemy beyond reach.

Their ranks showed signs of severe conflict. One boy, who had rashly worn a light blue necktie in the morning, wore no necktie now; Heathcote’s jacket was burst under the arm; Dick bore no scars in his raiment, but his nose was rather on one side and his face was rather grimy; Aspinall was white and hot, and the “skeery” look about his eyes proclaimed he had had almost enough for one day.

After dinner, at which our heroes rejoiced to find “the Assyrians” had something more serious to do than to heed them, Templeton went out into the fields to air itself. There was nothing special doing. A few enthusiastic athletes had donned their flannels, and were taking practice trots round the half-mile path. Another lot were kicking about a football in an aimless way. Others were passing round a cricket ball at long range. But most were loafing, apparently undecided what to turn themselves to thus early in the term.

One or two of the Fifth, however, appeared to have some business on hand, in which, much to their surprise, our new boys found they were concerned.

The senior whose arrival they had witnessed in the morning came up to where they were, and said:

“You’re all three new boys, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” they replied.

“Well, go up to the flag-staff there, and wait for me.”

With much inward trepidation they obeyed, wondering what was to happen.

Swinstead, for that was the name of the Fifth-form fellow, continued his tour of the field, accosting all the new boys in turn, and giving them the same order.

At length, the long-suffering twenty clustered round the flag-staff, and awaited their fate.

It was simple enough. Every new boy was expected to race on his first day at Templeton, and that was what was expected of them now.

“Let’s have your names—look sharp,” said one Fifth-form fellow, with a pencil and paper in his hand, who seemed to look upon the affair as rather a bore. “Come on. Sing out one at a time.”

They did sing out one at a time.

“Twenty of them,” said the senior, running down his list. “Four fives, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Swinstead. “Clear the course, somebody, and call the fellows.”

So the course was cleared, and proclamation made that the new boys were about to race. Whereat Templeton lined the quarter-mile track; and showed a languid interest in the contest. Swinstead called over the first five names on his list.

“Take off your coats and waistcoats,” said he.

They obeyed. Dick, who was not in the first heat, took charge of Heathcote’s garments, and secretly bade him “put it on.”

“Toe the line,” said Swinstead. “Are you ready? Off!”

They started. It was a straggling procession. Two of the boys could scarcely use their legs, and of the other three Heathcote was the only one who showed any pace, and, greatly to Dick’s delight, came in easily first.

Dick’s turn came in the second round, and he, greatly to Heathcote’s delight, won in a canter.

In the fourth heat Aspinall ran; but he, poor fellow, could scarcely struggle on to the end, and had literally to be driven the last fifty yards. For no new boy was allowed to shirk his race.

Templeton evinced a more decided interest in the final round. It had looked on as a matter of duty on the trial heats; but it got a trifle excited over the final. The winner of the fourth round, the youth who had been robbed of his light blue tie, commanded the most general favour. Swinstead on the other hand secretly fancied Dick, and one or two others were divided between Heathcote and the winner of the third round.

“Keep your elbows in, and don’t look round so much,” whispered Swinstead to Dick, as the four champions toed the line.

Dick nodded gratefully for the advice.

“Now then. Are you ready?

“Go!” cried the starter.

The hero of the blue tie led off amid great jubilation among the sportsmen. But Swinstead, who trotted beside the race, still preferred Dick, and liked the way he kept up to the leader’s heels in the first hundred yards. Heathcote, in his turn, kept well up to Dick, and had nothing to fear from the other man.

“Pretty race,” said some one.

“Good action number two,” replied another.

“Swinstead fancies him, and he knows what’s what.”

“I should have said number three, myself.”

Two hundred yards were done, and scarcely an inch had the position of the three runners altered.

Then Swinstead called.

“Now then, young ’un.”

Dick knew the call was meant for him, and his spirit rose within him. He “waited on his man,” as they say, and before the next hundred yards were done he was abreast, with Heathcote close on the heels of both.

Frantic were the cries of the sportsmen to their man. But his face was red, and his mouth was open.

“He’s done!” was the cry of the disgusted knowing ones. And the knowing ones were right. Dick walked away, as fresh as a daisy, in the last hundred yards, while Heathcote blowing hard stepped up abreast of the favourite. It was a close run for second honours; but the Mountjoy boy stuck to it, and staggered up a neck in front, with ten clear yards between him and the heels of the victorious Dick.

Chapter Five.

How Heathcote nearly catches cold.

Dick felt decidedly pleased with himself, as he walked back arm-in-arm with Heathcote, after his victory.

He felt that he had a right to hold up his head in Templeton already, and although he still experienced some difficulty in managing his hands and keeping down his blushes when he met one of the Fifth, he felt decidedly fortified against the inquisitive glances of the juniors.

In fact, in the benevolence of his heart, he felt so anxious lest any of these young aspirants to a view of the hero who had won the new boys’ race should be disappointed, that he prolonged his walk, and made a circuit of the great square with his friend, so as to give every one a fair chance.

At tea, to which Templeton trooped in ravenously after their first afternoon’s blow in the open air, he sat with an interesting expression of langour on his face, enduring the scrutiny to which he was treated with an air of charming unconsciousness, from which any one might suppose he harboured not the slightest desire to hear what Swinstead was saying to his neighbour, as they both looked his way. It was a pity he could not hear it.

“Look at that young prig,” said Swinstead’s neighbour. “He can’t get over it. It’s gone to his head.”

“Young ass!” said Swinstead; “ran well too.”

“It would be a good turn to take him down a peg.”

“What’s the use? He’ll come down soon enough.”

For all that, the two friends could not resist the temptation, when, after tea, they caught sight of Dick and his chum going out into the Quad, of beckoning to the former to come to them.

“Those fellows want me,” said Dick to his friend, in a tone as much as to say, “I’m so used to holding familiar converse with the Fifth that it’s really almost beginning to be a grind. But I don’t like to disappoint them this time.”

“Well, how do you feel?” said Swinstead.

“Oh, all right,” replied Dick, showing unmistakeable signs of intoxication.

“Capital run you made,” said the other. “Middling,” said Dick, deprecatingly. “I hadn’t my shoes, that makes a difference.”

“It does,” said the two elders.

“Rather a nice turf track you’ve got,” said the boy presently, by way of filling up an awkward gap.

“Glad you like it. Some of the fellows growl at it; but we’ll tell them you think it good.”

It was rather an anxious moment to see how the fish would take it. But he swallowed it, hook and all.

“We used to run a good deal at our old school, you know,” said he. “Some of us, that is.”

“Ah, you’re just the man we want for the Harriers. They’re badly off for a whipper-in; and we had to stop hunting all last term because we hadn’t got one.”

“Oh!” said Dick.

“Yes. But it’ll be all right if you’ll take it—won’t it be, Birket?”

“Rather!” said Birket. “He’d be a brick if he did.”

“I don’t mind trying,” said Dick modestly.

“Will you really? Thanks, awfully! You know Cresswell? No, by the way, he’s not here yet. He’s in the Sixth, and has been acting as whipper-in till we got a proper chap. He’ll be here in the morning. Any one will tell you where he hangs out. He’ll bless you, I can tell you, for taking the job out of his hands. You never saw the pace he goes at when he tries to run, eh, Birket?”

“Rather not,” said Birket. “It’s a regular joke. A snail’s nothing to him.”

“How has he managed to whip in?” asked Dick, rather amused at the idea of this Sixth-form snail.

“Bless you, we’ve had no runs lately, that’s why. But we shall make up now you’ve come.”

Dick heartily wished he had run in his shoes that afternoon. He was sure he could have done the distance two or even three seconds better if he had.

“If you’ll really go in for it,” said Birket, “go to him early to-morrow, and tell him who you are; and say you are going to act as whipper-in, and that you have arranged it all with us.”

Dick looked a little concerned.

“Hadn’t you better come with me?” he asked, “I don’t know him.”

“We shall be in class. But he’ll know if you mention our names. Say we sent you, and that you won the new boys’ race. Do you twig?”

“All right,” said Dick, beginning to feel he had something really big on hand.

“You’re a young trump,” said Birket, “and, I say don’t forget to ask him to give you the whip. We might manage a run to-morrow. Good-night. Glad you’ve come to Templeton.”

“Look here, by the way,” said Swinstead, as they parted, “don’t say anything about it to anybody. There’s such a lot of jealousy over these things. Best to get it all settled first. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes,” said Dick, feeling a good deal bewildered, and doubtful whether after all he had not been foolish in undertaking so important a task.

He returned to his chum in an abstracted frame of mind. He had certainly expected his achievement that afternoon would give him a “footing” in Templeton, but in his wildest dreams he had not supposed it would give him such a lift as this.

Whipper-in of the Templeton Harriers was rapid promotion for a new boy on his first day. But then, he reflected, if they really were hard up for a fellow to take the office, it would be rather ungracious to refuse it.

“What did they want you for?” asked Heathcote.

“Oh, talking about the race, don’t you know, and that sort of thing,” said Dick, equivocally.

“Did they say anything about me?”

“Not a word, old man.”

Whereat Heathcote turned a little crusty, and wondered that ten yards in a quarter of a mile should make such a difference.

Dick was bursting to tell him all about it, and made matters far worse by betraying that he had a secret, which he could on no account impart.

“You’ll know to-morrow, most likely,” said he. “I’m awfully sorry they made me promise to keep it close. But I’ll tell you first of all when its settled; and I may be able to give you a leg up before long.”

Heathcote said he did not want a leg up; and feeling decidedly out of humour, made some excuse to go indoors and hunt up young Aspinall.

On his way he encountered a junior, next to whom he had sat at dinner, and with whom he had then exchanged a few words.

“Where are you going?” demanded that youthful warrior.

“Indoors,” said Heathcote.

“No, you aren’t,” replied the bravo, standing like a wolf across the way.

It was an awkward position for a pacific boy like Heathcote, who mildly enquired—

“Why not?”

“Because you cheeked me,” replied the wolf.

“How? I didn’t mean to,” replied the lamb.

“That’ll do. You’ve got to apologise.”

“Apologise! What for?”

“Speaking to me at dinner-time.”

The blood of the Heathcotes began to tingle.

“Suppose I don’t apologise?” asked he.

“You’ll be sorry for it.”

“What will you do?”

“Lick you.”

“Then,” said Heathcote, mildly, “you’d better begin.”

The youthful champion evidently was not prepared for this cordial invitation, and looked anything but pleased to hear it.

“Well, why don’t you begin?” said Heathcote, following up his advantage.

“Because,” said the boy, looking rather uncomfortably around him, “I wouldn’t dirty my fingers on such a beast.”

Now if Heathcote had been a man of the world he would have divined that the present was a rare opportunity for catching his bumptious young friend by the ear, and making him carry out his threat then and there. But, being a simple-minded new boy, unlearned in the ways of the world, he merely said “Pooh!” and walked on, leaving his assailant in possession of the field, calling out “coward!” and “sneak!” after him till he was out of sight.

He was rather sorry afterwards for his mistake, as it turned out he might have been much more profitably and pleasantly employed outside than in.

Aspinall, whom he had come to look after, was nowhere visible, and, feeling somewhat concerned for his safety, Heathcote ventured to enquire of a junior who was loafing about in the passage, if he knew where the little new fellow was.

“In bed, of course,” said the junior, “and I’d advise you not to let yourself be seen, unless you want to get in an awful row,” added he solemnly.

“What about?” asked Heathcote.

“Why, not being in bed. My eye! it’ll be rather warm for you, I tell you, if any of the Fifth catch you.”

“Why, it’s only half-past seven?”

“Well, and don’t you know the rule about new boys always having to be in bed by seven?” exclaimed the junior in tones of alarm.

“No. I don’t believe it is the rule,” said Heathcote.

“All right,” said the boy, “you needn’t believe it unless you like. But don’t say you weren’t told, that’s all,” and he walked off, whistling.

Heathcote was perplexed. He suspected a practical joke in everything, and had this junior been a trifle less solemn, he would have had no doubt that this was one. As it was, he was sorry he had offended him, and lost the chance of making quite sure. Dick, he knew, was still out of doors, and he, it was certain, knew nothing about the rule.

But just then a Fifth-form fellow came along, and cut off the retreat.

He eyed the new boy critically as he advanced, and stopped in front of him.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Heathcote.”

“A new boy?”

“Yes.”

“How is it you’re not in bed? Do you know the time?”

“Yes,” said Heathcote, convinced now that the junior had been right, “but I didn’t know—that is—”

“Shut up and don’t tell lies,” said the Fifth-form boy, severely. “Go to bed instantly, and write me out 200 lines of Virgil before breakfast to-morrow. I’ve a good mind to send your name up to Westover.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” began Heathcote; “no one told me—”

“I’ve told you; and if you don’t go at once Westover shall hear of it.”

The dormitory, when he reached it, was deserted. Not even Aspinall was there; and for a moment Heathcote began again vaguely to suspect a plot. From this delusion, he was, however, speedily relieved by the appearance of a boy, who followed him into the room, and demanded.

“Look here; what are you up to here?”

“I was—that is, I was told to go to bed,” said Heathcote.

“Well, and if you were, what business have you got here? Go to your own den.”

“This is where I slept last night,” said Heathcote, pointing to the identical bed he had occupied.

“You did! Like your howling cheek.”

“Where is my bed room then?” asked Heathcote.

“Why didn’t you ask the matron? I’m not going to fag for you. There, in that second door; and take my advice, slip into bed as quick as you can, unless you want one of the Fifth to catch you, and give you a hundred lines.”

Heathcote whipped up his night-gown and made precipitately for the door, finally convinced that he was in a fair way of getting into a row very early in his Templeton career.

The door opened into a little room about the size of a small ship’s cabin, and here he undressed as quickly as he could, in the fading daylight, and slipped into bed, inwardly congratulating himself that no one had detected him in the act, and that he had a good prospect, contrary to his expectations, of getting to sleep comfortably. The thought of the 200 lines, certainly, was unpleasant. But “sufficient unto the day,” thought the philosophic Heathcote. He was far more concerned at the fate of the unsuspecting Dick. What would become of him, poor fellow?

Amid these reflections he fell peacefully asleep. The next thing he was conscious of, in what seemed to him the middle of the night, was the sudden removal of the clothes from the bed, and a figure holding a light, catching him by the arm, and demanding fiercely—

“What do you mean by it?”

His first impulse was to smile at the thought that it was only a dream, but he quickly changed his mind, and sat up with his eyes very wide open as the figure repeated—

“What do you mean by it? Get out of this!”

The speaker was a big boy, whom Heathcote, in the midst of his bewilderment, recognised as having seen at the Fifth-form table in Hall.

“What’s the matter?” faltered the new boy.

“The matter! you impudent young beggar. Come, get out of this. I’ll teach you to play larks with me. Get out of my bed.”

Heathcote promptly obeyed.

“I didn’t know—I was told it was where I was to sleep,” he said.

“Shut up, and don’t tell lies,” said the senior, taking off his slipper and passing his hand down the sole of it.

“Really I didn’t do it on purpose,” pleaded Heathcote. “I was told to do it.”

The case was evidently not one for argument. As Heathcote turned round, the silence of the night hour was broken for some moments by the echoes of that slipper-sole.

It was no use objecting—still less resisting. So Heathcote bore it like a man, and occupied his leisure moments during the ceremony in chalking up a long score against his friend the junior.

“Now, make my bed,” said the executioner when the transaction was complete.

The boy obeyed in silence—wonderfully warm despite the lightness of his attire. His comfort would have been complete had that junior only been there to help him. The Fifth-form boy insisted on the bed being made from the very beginning—including the turning of the mattress and the shaking of each several sheet and blanket—so that the process was a lengthy one, and, but for the occasional consolations of the slipper, might have become chilly also.

“Now, clear out,” said the owner of the apartment.

“Where am I to go?” asked Heathcote, beginning to feel rather forlorn.

“Out of here!” repeated the senior.

“I don’t—”

The senior took up the slipper again.

“Please may I take my clothes?” said Heathcote.

“Are you going or not?”

“Please give me my trou—”

He was on the other side of the door before the second syllable came, and the click of the latch told him that after all he might save his breath.

Heathcote was in a predicament. The corridor was dark, and draughty, and he was far from home; what was he to do? “Three courses,” as the wise man says, “were open to him.” Either he might camp out where he was, and by the aid of door-mats and carpet extemporise a bed till the morning; or he might commence a demonstration against the door from which he had just been ejected till somebody came and saw him into his rights—or, failing his rights, into his trousers; or he might commence a house-to-house canvass, up one side of the corridor and down the other, in hopes of finding either an empty chamber or one tenanted by a friend.

There was a good deal to be said for each, though on the whole he personally inclined to the last course. Indeed he went so far as to grope his way to the end of the passage with a view to starting fair, when a sound of footsteps and a white flutter ahead sent his heart to his mouth, and made him shiver with something more than the evening breeze.

He stood where he was, rooted to the spot, and listened. An awful silence seemed to fall upon the place. Had he hit on the Templeton ghost?—on the disembodied spirit of some luckless martyr to the ferocity of a last century bully? Or, was it an ambuscade prepared for himself? or, was it some companion in—

Yes! there was a sob, and Heathcote’s soul rejoiced as he recognised it.

“Is that you, young ’un?” he said in a deep whisper.

The footsteps suddenly ceased, the white flutter stopped, and next moment there rose a shriek in the still night air which made all Westover’s jump in its sleep, and opened, as if by magic, half the doors in the long corridor. Aspinall had seen a ghost!

Amid all the airily-clad forms that hovered out to learn the cause of the disturbance, Heathcote felt comforted. His one regret was that he was unable to recognise his friend the junior, in whose debt he was in nocturnal garb; but he recognised Dick to his great delight, and hurriedly explained to him as well as to about fifty other enquirers, the circumstances—that is, so much of them as seemed worth repetition.

Between them they contrived to reassure the terrified Aspinall, who, it turned out, had been the victim of a similar trick to that played on Heathcote.

“Where are you sleeping?” said the latter to Dick.

“The old place. Where ever did you get to?”

“I’ll tell you. Has any one got my bed there?”

“No. Come on—here, Aspinall, catch hold—look sharp out of the passage. Are you coming, too, Heathcote?”

To his astonishment, Heathcote darted suddenly from his side and dived in at an open door. Before his friend could guess what he meant, he returned with a bundle of clothes in his arms, and a triumphant smile on his face.

“Hurrah!” said he. “Got ’em at last!”

“Whose are they?” asked Dick.

“Mine, my boy. By Jove, I am glad to get them again.”

“Cave there! Westover!” called some one near him. And, as if by magic, the passage was empty in a moment, our heroes being the last to scuttle into their dormitory, with Aspinall between them.

Dick lay awake for some time that night. He was excited, and considered, on the whole, he had made a fair start at Templeton. He had won the new boys’ race, and he was the whipper-in-elect of the Templeton Harriers. Fellows respected him; possibly a good many of them feared him. Certainly, they let him alone.

“For all that,” meditated he, “it won’t do to get cocked up by it. Father said I was to be on my guard against fellows who flattered me, so I must keep my eyes open, or some one will be trying to make a fool of me. If Cresswell’s a nice fellow, I’ll have a talk with him to-morrow about young Aspinall, and see if we can’t do anything to give him a leg up, poor young beggar. I wonder if I’m an ass to accept the whipping-in so easily? Any how, I suppose I can resign if it’s too much grind. Heigho! I’m sleepy.”

Chapter Six.

How our heroes begin to feel at home.

Heathcote awoke early the next morning with his friend the junior seriously on his mind. One or two fellows were already dressing themselves in flannels as he roused himself, amongst others the young hero who had threatened to fight him the evening before.

“Hallo!” said that young gentleman, in a friendly tone, as if nothing but the most cordial courtesies had passed between them, “coming down to bathe?”

“All serene,” said Heathcote, not, however, without his suspicions. If any one had told him it was a fine morning, he would, in his present state of mind, have suspected the words as part of a deep-laid scheme to fool him. But, he reflected, he had not much to fear from this mock-heroic junior, and as long as he kept him in sight no great harm could happen.

“Come on, then,” said the boy, whose name, by the way, was Gosse; “we shall only just have time to do it before chapel.”

“Wait a second, till I tell Dick. He’d like to come, too,” said Heathcote.

“What’s the use of waking him when he’s fagged? Besides, he’s got to wash and dress his baby, and give him his bottle, so he wouldn’t have time. Aren’t you ready?”

“Yes,” said Heathcote, flinging himself into his hardly-regained garments.

The “Templeton Tub,” as the bathing place was colloquially termed, was a small natural harbour among the rocks at the foot of the cliff on which the school stood. It was a picturesque spot at all times; but this bright spring morning, with the distant headlands lighting up in the rising sunlight, and the blue sea heaving lazily among the rocks as though not yet awake, Heathcote thought it one of the prettiest places he had ever seen.

The “Tub” suited all sorts of bathers. The little timid waders could dip their toes and splash their hair in the shallow basin in-shore. The more advanced could wade out shoulder-deep, and puff and flounder with one foot on the ground and the other up above their heads, and delude the world into the notion they were swimming. For others there was the spring-board, from which to take a header into deep water; and, further out still, the rocks rose in ledges, where practised divers could take the water from any height they liked, from four feet to thirty. Except with leave, no boy was permitted to swim beyond the harbour mouth into the open. But leave was constantly being applied for, and as constantly granted; and perhaps every boy, at some time or other, cast wistful glances at the black buoy bobbing a mile out at sea, and wondered when he, like Pontifex and Mansfield, and other of the Sixth, should be able to wear the image of it on his belt, and call himself a Templeton “shark?”

Heathcote, on his first appearance at the “Tub,” acquitted himself creditably. He took a mild header from the spring-board without more than ordinary splashing, and swam across the pool and back in fair style. Gosse, who only went in from the low ledge, and swam half-way across and back, was good enough to give him some very good advice, and promise to make a good swimmer of him in time. Whereat Heathcote looked grateful, and wished Dick had been there to astonish some of them.

One or two of the Fifth, including Swinstead and Birket, arrived as the youngsters were dressing.

“Hallo!” said Swinstead to Heathcote, “you here? Where’s your chum?”

“Asleep,” said Heathcote, quite pleased to think he should be able to tell Dick he had been having a talk with Swinstead that morning.

“Have you been in?”

“Yes.”

“Can you swim?”

“Yes, a little,” said Gosse, answering for him. “We’re about equal.”

Heathcote couldn’t stand the barefaced libel meekly.

“Why, you can’t swim once across!” he said, scornfully, “and you can’t go in off the board!”

The Fifth-form boys laughed.

“Ha, ha!” said Swinstead, “he’s letting you have it, Gossy.”

“He’s telling beastly crams,” said Gosse, “and I’ll kick him when we get back.”

“I’ll swim you across the pool and back, first!” said Heathcote.

The seniors were delighted. The new boy’s spirit pleased them, and the prospect of taking down the junior pleased them still more.

“That’s fair,” said Birket. “Come on, strip.”

Heathcote was ready in a trice. Gosse looked uncomfortable.

“I’m not going in again,” he said; “I’ve got a cold.”

“Yes, you are,” replied Birket; “I’ll help you.”

This threat was quite enough for the discomfited junior, who slowly divested himself of his garments.

“Now then! plenty of room for both of you on the board.”

“No,” said Gosse; “I’ve not got any cotton wool for my ears. I don’t care about going in off the board unless I have.”

“That’s soon remedied,” said Swinstead, producing some wool from his pocket and proceeding to stuff it into each of the boy’s ears.

Poor Gosse was fairly cornered, and took his place on the board beside Heathcote, the picture of discontent and apprehension.

“Now then, once across and back. Are you ready?” said Birket, seating himself beside his friend on a ledge.

“No,” said Gosse, looking down at the water and getting off the board.

“Do you funk it?”

“No.”

“Then go in! Hurry up, or we’ll come and help you!”

“I’d—I’d rather go in from the edge,” said the boy.

“You funk the board then?”

The boy looked at the board, then at his tyrants, then at the water.

“I suppose I do,” said he, sulkily.

“Then put on your clothes and cut it,” said Swinstead, scornfully. Then, turning to Heathcote, he shouted. “Now then, young ’un, in you go.”

Heathcote plunged. He was nervous, and splashed more, perhaps, than usual, but it was a tolerable header, on the whole, for a new boy, and the spectators were not displeased with the performance or the swim across the pool and back which followed.

“All right,” said Swinstead; “stick to it, young un, and turn up regularly. Can your chum swim?”

“Rather!” said Heathcote, taking his head out of the towel. “I wish I could swim as well as he can.”

“Humph!” said Swinstead, when presently the two Seniors were left to themselves. “Number Two’s modest; Number One’s cocky.”

“Therefore,” said Birket, “Number Two will remain Number Two, and number One will remain Number One.”

“Right you are, most learned Plato! but I’m curious to see how Number One gets out of his friendly call on Cresswell. Think he’ll cheek it?”

“Yes; and we shan’t hear many particulars from him.”

Birket was right, as he very often was.

Dick, on waking, was a good deal perplexed, to find his friend absent, and when he heard the reason he was more than perplexed—he was vexed. It wasn’t right of Heathcote, or loyal, to take advantage of him in this way, and he should complain of it.

Meanwhile he had plenty to occupy his mind in endeavouring to recover his “baby’s” wardrobe, a quest which, as time went on and the chapel bell began to sound, came to be exciting.

However, just as he was about to go to the matron and represent to her the delicate position of affairs, a bundle was thrown in through the ventilator over the door, and fell into the middle of the dormitory floor. Where it came from there was no time to inquire.

Aspinall was hustled into his garments as quickly as possible, and then hustled down the stairs and into chapel just as the bell ceased ringing and the door began to close.

Heathcote was there among the other new boys, looking rather guilty, as well he might. The sight of him, with his dripping locks and clear shining face, interfered a good deal with Dick’s attention to the service—almost as much as did the buzz of talk all round him, the open disorder in the stalls opposite, and the look of undisguised horror on Aspinall’s face.

As Dick caught sight of that look his own conscience pricked him, and he made a vehement effort to recall his wandering mind and fix it on the words which were being read. He flushed as he saw boys opposite point his way and laugh, with hands clasped in mock devotion, and he felt angry with himself, and young Aspinall, and everybody, for laying him open to the imputation of being a prig.

He glanced again towards Heathcote. Heathcote was standing with his hands in his pockets looking about him. What business had Heathcote to look about him when he (Dick) was standing at attention? Why should Heathcote escape the jeers of mockers, while he (Dick) had to bear the brunt of them? It wasn’t fair. And yet he wasn’t going to put his hands in his pockets and look about him to give them the triumph of saying they laughed him into it. No!

So Dick stood steadily and reverently all the service, and was observed by not a few as one of the good ones of whom good things might be expected.

When chapel was over fate once more severed him from his chum, and deferred the explanation to which both were looking forward.

The matron kidnapped Master Richardson on his way into the house, in order to call his attention to a serious inconsistency between the number of his shirts in his portmanteau, and the number on the inventory accompanying them, an inconsistency which Dick was unable to throw any light on whatever, except that he supposed it must be a mistake, and it didn’t much matter.

It certainly mattered less than the fact that, owing to this delay, he had lost his seat next to Heathcote at breakfast, and had to take his place at the lowest table, where he could not even see his friend.

There was great joking during the meal about the escapade in the lobby last night, the general opinion being that it had been grand sport all round, and that it was lucky the monitors weren’t at home at the time.

“Beastly grind,” said one youngster—“all of them coming back to-day. A fellow can’t turn round but they interfere.”

“Are all the Sixth monitors?” asked Dick.

“Rather,” replied his neighbour, whom Dick discovered afterwards to be no other than Raggles, the hero of the “cargo,” whose fame he had heard the day before.

“What’s the name of the captain?”

“Oh, Ponty! He doesn’t hurt,” said the boy. “It’s beasts like Mansfield, and Cresswell, and that lot who come down on you.”

Dick would fain have inquired what sort of fellow Cresswell was, but he was too anxious not to let the affair of the whipper-in leak out, and refrained. He asked a few vague questions about the Sixth generally, and gathered from his companion that, with a very few exceptions, they were all “beasts” in school, that one or two of them were rather good at cricket, and swimming, and football, and that the monitorial system at Templeton, and at all other public schools, required revision. From which Dick argued shrewdly that Master Raggles sometimes got into rows.

By the time he had made this discovery the bell rang for first school, and there was a general movement to the door.

The two chums foregathered in the hall.

“Pity you weren’t up in time for a bathe,” said Heathcote, artfully securing the first word.

“I heard you went. Too much fag getting up so early. I mean to go down in the afternoon, when most of the fellows turn up.”

“Swinstead and Birket were there. I wish you’d been there.”

“Not worth the grind. You can come with me this afternoon, if you like. Some of the ‘sharks’ will be down as well.”

Heathcote began to discover he had done a foolish thing; and when he found his friend launching the “sharks” at his head in this familiar way he felt it was no use holding out any longer.

“It was awfully low of me not to call you this morning,” said he, “but you looked so fast asleep, you know.”

“So I was,” said Dick, unbending. “I’m glad you didn’t rout me up, for I was regularly fagged last night.”

“What time will you be going this afternoon?”

“Depends. I’ve got to see one of the Sixth as soon as he turns up, but that won’t take long.”

Heathcote retired routed. His friend was too many for him. He (Heathcote) had no one bigger than Swinstead and Birket to impress his friend with. Dick had “sharks,” and behind them “one of the Sixth.” What was the use of opposing himself to such odds?

“Wait for us, won’t you?” was all he could say; and next moment they were at their respective desks, and school had begun.

Dick’s quick ears caught the sound of cabs in the quadrangle and the noise of luggage in the hall while school was going on, and his mind became a little anxious as the prospect of his coming interview loomed nearer before him. He hoped Cresswell was a jolly fellow, and that there would be no one else in his study when he went to call upon him. He had carefully studied the geography of his fortress, so he knew exactly where to go without asking any one, which was a blessing.

As soon as class was over he made his way to the matron’s room.

“Do you know if Cresswell has come yet, please.”

“Yes, what do you want with him?”

“Oh! nothing,” said Dick dissembling, “I only wanted to know.”

And he removed himself promptly from the reach of further questions.

Little dreaming of the visit with which he was to be so shortly honoured, Cresswell, the fleetest foot and the steadiest head in Templeton, was complacently unpacking his goods and chattels in the

privacy of his own study. He wasn’t sorry to get back to Templeton, for he was fond of the old place, and the summer term was always the jolliest of the year. There was cricket coming on, and lawn tennis, and the long evening runs, and the early morning dips. And there was plenty of work ahead in the schools too, and the prospect of an exhibition at Midsummer, if only Freckleton gave him the chance.

Altogether the Sixth-form athlete was in a contented frame of mind, as he emptied his portmanteau and tossed his belongings into their respective quarters.

So intent was he on his occupation, that it was a full minute before he became aware of a small boy standing at his open door, and tapping modestly. As he looked up and met the eyes of the already doubtful Dick, both boys inwardly thought, “I rather like that fellow”—a conclusion which, as far as Dick was concerned, made it still more difficult for him to broach the subject of his mission.

Cresswell was still kneeling down, so it was impossible to form an opinion of his legs, but his arms and shoulders certainly did not look like those of a “snail.”

“What do you want, youngster?” said Cresswell.

“Oh,” said Dick, screwing himself up to the pitch, “Swinstead told me to come to you.”

“Oh,” said the other, in a tone of great interest, “what about?”

“About the—I mean—something about the—the Harriers,” said Dick, suddenly beginning to see things in a new light.

“About the Harriers?” said Cresswell, rising to his feet and lounging up against the mantel-piece, in order to take a good survey of his visitor. “What does Mr Swinstead want to know about the Harriers?”

The sight of the champion there, drawn up to his full height, with power and speed written on every turn of his figure, sent Dick’s mind jumping, at one bound, to the truth. What an ass he had been going to make of himself, and what a time he would have had if he hadn’t found out the trick in time! As it was, he could not help laughing at the idea of his own ridiculous position, and the narrow escape he had had.

“What are you grinning at?” said Cresswell sharply, not understanding the little burst of merriment in his presence.

Dick recovered himself, and said simply, “They’ve been trying to make a fool of me. I beg your pardon for bothering you.”

“Hold hard!” said Cresswell, as the boy was about to retreat. “It’s very likely they have made a fool of you—they’re used to hard work. But you’re not going to make a fool of me. Come in and tell me all about it.”

Dick coloured up crimson, and threw himself on the monitor’s mercy.

“You’ll think me such an ass,” said he, appealingly. “It’s really nothing.”

“I do think you an ass already,” said the senior, “so, out with it.”

Whereupon Dick, blushing deeply, told him the whole story in a way which quite captivated the listener by its artlessness.

“They said you were an awful muff, and couldn’t run any faster than a snail, you know,”—began he—“and as I had pulled off the new boys’ race, they said they’d make me Whipper-in of the Harriers instead of you, and told me to come and tell you so, and ask you to give me the whip.”

Cresswell laughed in spite of himself.

“Do you really want it?” he asked.

“Not now, thank you.”

“I suppose you’d been swaggering after you’d won the race, and they wanted to take the conceit out of you?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And have they succeeded?”

“Well—yes,” said Dick. “I think they have.”

“Then, they’ve done you a very good turn, my boy, and you’ll be grateful to them some day. As for the whip, you can tell them if they’ll come here for it, I’ll give it to them with pleasure. There goes the dinner bell—cut off, or you’ll be late.”

“Thanks, Cresswell. I suppose,” said the boy, lingering a moment at the door, “you won’t be obliged to tell everybody about it?”

“You can do that better than I can,” said the Sixth-form boy, laughing.

And Dick felt, as he hurried down to Hall, that he was something more than well out of it. Instead of meeting the fate which his own conceit had prepared, he had secured a friend at court, who, something told him, would stand by him in the coming term. His self-esteem had had a fall, but his self-respect had had a decided lift; for he felt now that he went in and out under inspection, and that Cresswell’s good opinion was a distinction by all means to be coveted.

As a token of his improved frame of mind, he made frank confession of the whole story to Heathcote during dinner; and found his friend, as he knew he would be, brimful of sympathy and relief at his narrow escape.

Swinstead and Birket, as they watched their man from their distant table, were decidedly perplexed by his cheerful demeanour, and full of curiosity to learn the history of the interview.

They waylaid him casually in the court that afternoon.

“Well, have you settled it?” said Birket.

“Eh? Oh, yes, it’s all right,” replied Dick, rather enjoying himself.

“He made no difficulty about it, did he?”

“Not a bit. Jolly as possible.”

It was not often that two Fifth-form boys at Templeton felt uncomfortable in the presence of a new junior, but Swinstead and Birket certainly did feel a trifle disconcerted at the coolness of their young victim.

“You told him we sent you?”

“Rather. He was awfully obliged.”

“Was he? And did he give you the whip?”

“No, he hadn’t got it handy. But I told him he could give it to you two next time he met you—and he’s going to.”

And to the consternation of his patrons the new boy walked off, whistling sweetly to himself and watching attentively the flight of the rooks round the school tower.

“Old man, we shall have some trouble with Number One,” said Swinstead, laughing.

“Yes, we’ve caught a Tartar for once,” said Birket. “You and I may retire into private life for a bit, I fancy.”

Chapter Seven.

A General Election.

The return of the Sixth, our heroes discovered, made a wonderful change in the school life of Templeton. The Fifth, who always made the best use of their two day’s authority while they had it, retired almost mysteriously into private life in favour of their betters. All school sports, and gatherings, and riots had to depend no longer upon the sweet will of those who sported, or gathered, or rioted, but on the pleasure of the monitors. The school societies and institutions began to wake up after their holiday, and generally speaking the wheels of Templeton which, during the first two days had bumped noisily over the cobbles, got at last on to the lines, and began to spin round at their accustomed pace.

In no part of the school was this change more felt than among the juniors. They liked being off the line now and then, and they always rebelled when the iron hand of the law picked them up and set them back on the track. It wasn’t only that they couldn’t run riot, and make Templeton a bear-garden. That was bad enough. But in addition to that, they had to fag for the Sixth, and after a week or two of liberty the return to servitude is always painful.

“You kids,” said Raggles, two days after the return of the Sixth, “mind you show up at Den after Elections this evening.”

“What is Den, and who are Elections?” asked Dick.

“What, don’t you know? Awful green lot of new kids you are. Elections is after tea in the hall, and Den’s directly after that.”

Raggles was very much affronted, when, after this lucid explanation, Dick again enquired—

“What do you mean by Den and Elections?”

“Look here, what a howling idiot you must be if you’ve got to be told half a dozen times. I’ll spell it for you if you like.”

“All serene,” said Heathcote. “Two to one you come a cropper over Elections.”

“Who do they elect?” asked Dick.

“Why, everybody, of course. The captains of the clubs, and all that. Hang it, you’ll be there. What’s the use of fagging to tell you?”

“And what about the Den? Who lives in it?”

“Look here! I shall lick you, Richardson, if you go on like that. You green kids are a lot too cheeky.”

And the offended envoy went off in a huff, leaving his hearers in a state of excited uncertainty as to the nature of the ceremony to which their company had been invited.

As the reader may like to have a rather more definite explanation than that afforded by Mr Raggles, let him know that unlike most public schools, the school year at Templeton began after the Easter holidays, instead of after the summer holidays. The new boys came up then for the most part (though a few “second chances,” as they were called, straggled in in the autumn term), and the various appointments to offices of honour and duty, the inauguration of the clubs, and the apportionment of the fags always formed an interesting feature of the new term. The whole of the business was transacted in a mass meeting of the school, known by the name of “Elections,” where, under the solemn auspices of the Sixth, Templeton was invited to pick out its own rulers, and settle its own programme for the ensuing year.

Elections, as a rule, passed off harmoniously, the school acquiescing on most points in the recommendations of the Sixth, and, except on matters of great excitement, rarely venturing to lift up its voice in opposition. The juniors, however, generally contrived to have their fling, usually on the question of fagging, which being a recognised institution at Templeton, formed a standing bone of contention. And, as part of the business of Elections was the solemn drawing of lots for new boys to fill the vacancies caused by removal or promotion, the opportunity generally commended itself as a fit one for some little demonstration.

The Juniors’ Den at Templeton, that is, the popular assembly of those youthful Templetonians who had not yet reached the dignity of the Fourth Form, had always been the most radical association in the school. Though they differed amongst themselves in most things, they were as one man in denouncing fagging and monitors. Their motto was—down with both; and it pleased them not a little to discover that though their agitation did little good in the way of reforming Templeton, it served to keep their “Den” well before the school, and sometimes to cause anxiety in high places.

Such was the state of school politics at Templeton, when Dick and Heathcote obeyed the summons to attend their first Elections, on the first Saturday of the new term.

They found the Great Hall crowded with benches, rather like chapel, with a raised dais at the upper end for the Sixth, a long table in front for the ‘reporters,’ and the rest of the space divided into clusters of seats, occupied by members of the various school organisations represented. Of these clusters, by far the largest was that devoted to the accommodation of the Den, towards which our heroes, actively piloted by Raggles and Gosse, and a few kindred spirits, were conducted in state, just as the proceedings were about to begin.

“Come and squash up in the corner,” said Raggles; “we’re well behind, and shan’t be seen if we want to shine.”

“Shine,” as our heroes discovered in due time, was a poetical way of expressing what in commonplace language would be called, “kicking up a shine.”

“Shall you cheer Ponty?” asked Gosse of his friend.

“Rather. He’s a muff. I shall howl at Mansfield, though, and Cresswell.”

“I shan’t howl at Cresswell,” said Dick boldly.

“Why not? He’s a beast. You’ll get kicked, if you don’t, I say.”

“I suppose they’ll make him Whipper-in again,” said another boy near them. Dick looked uncomfortable for a moment. But the indifferent looks on his neighbours’ faces convinced him the story had not yet reached the Den.

“Cazenove thinks he ought to get it,” said Gosse, amid a general laugh, for Cazenove was almost as round as he was high. “Shall I put you up, old man? Hullo, here they come! There’s Ponty. Clap up, you fellows.”

A big cheer greeted Pontifex, the captain of the school, as he strolled on to the dais, and took the chair of state.

The new boys eyed him curiously. He was a burly, good-humoured, easy-going fellow, with an “anything for a quiet life” look about him, as he stretched himself comfortably in his seat, and looked placidly round the hall. The cheering had very little effect on his composure. Indeed, he may not have taken in that it was intended for him at all; for he took no notice of it, and appeared to be quite as much amused at the noise as any one else.

A great contrast to Pontifex was Mansfield, the vice-captain, who, with quick eye, and cool, determined mouth, sat next, and eyed the scene like a general who parades his forces and waits to give them the word of command. Like Pontifex, he seemed but little concerned, either with the cheers of his friends or the few howls of his mutinous juniors. He was used to noises, and they made very little difference to him one way or another. Cresswell, on the contrary, seemed decidedly pleased, when cheers and cries of “Well run!” greeted his appearance; and most of the other monitors—Cartwright, the quick-tempered, warm-hearted Templeton football captain; Freckleton, the studious “dark man;” Bull, the “knowing one,” with his horse-shoe pin; Pledge, the smirking “spider;” of the Sixth, and others—seemed to set no little store by the reception the school was pleased to accord them.

At last all were in their places, the door was shut—a traditional precaution against magisterial invasion—and Pontifex lounged to his feet.

“Well, you fellows,” said he, with a pleasant smile and in a pleasant voice, “here we are again at another Election. We’re always glad to see one another after the holidays—at least I am (cheers)—and I hope we’ve got a good year coming on. They tell me I’m captain of Templeton this year. (Laughter and cheers.) I can tell you I’m proud of it, and only wish I wasn’t going to Oxford in the autumn. (Cheers and cries of ‘Don’t go.’) The comfort is, you’ll have a rattling good captain in Mansfield when I’m gone. (Cheers and a few howls.) I don’t wonder some of the young ’uns howl, for he’ll make some of you sit up, which I could never do. (Great laughter among the Seniors, and signs of dissension in the Den.) But I’ve not got to make a speech. There’s a lot of business. The first thing is the cricket captain. There’s only one man fit for that, and I won’t go through the farce of proposing him. Those who say Mansfield’s the right man for cricket captain, hold up your hands.”

A forest of hands went up, for even the malcontents who didn’t approve of Mansfield as a monitor had nothing to say against his cricket, which was about as perfect as any that had been seen in the Templeton fields for a dozen years.

With similar unanimity Cresswell was re-elected Whipper-in of the Harriers, and no one held up his hand more enthusiastically for him than did Dick, who shuddered to think how he could ever have imagined himself on such a lofty pedestal.

Then followed in quick succession elections to the other high offices of state in Templeton—Cartwright to the football captaincy, Bull to the keepership of the fives and tennis, Freckleton to be warden of the port—a sinecure office, supposed to imply some duties connected with the “Tub,” but really only the relic of some ancient office handed down from bygone generations, and piously retained by a conservative posterity.

All these were re-elections and passed off without opposition, and as a matter of course.

When, however, Pontifex announced that the office of Usher of the Chapel was vacant, the duties of which were to mark the attendance of all boys and present weekly reports of their punctuality, and proceeded to nominate Pledge for the post, the first symptoms of opposition showed themselves, much to the delight of the Den.

“I move an amendment to that,” said Birket, looking a little nervous, but evidently in earnest. “I don’t think Pledge is the proper man. (Cheers.) I don’t like him myself—(loud cheers)—and I don’t think I’m very fastidious. (Great applause from the Den.) We want an honest, reliable man—(hear, hear)—who’ll keep our scores without fear or favour. (Applause.) You needn’t think I’m saying this for a lark. I’m pretty sure to catch it, but I don’t care; I’ll say what I think. (Cries of ‘We’ll back you up,’ and cheers.) You’re not obliged to have a monitor to be Usher of the Chapel, and I propose Swinstead be appointed.”

Birket sat down amid loud cheers. It had been a plucky thing for him to do, and very few would have undertaken so ungracious a task; but, now he had undertaken it, the meeting was evidently with him.

“Everybody here,” said Pontifex, “as long as he’s in order, has a right to express his opinion without fear. Two names have now been proposed—Pledge and Swinstead. Any more?”

No one broke the silence.

“Then I’ll put up Swinstead first. Who votes for Swinstead?”

Everybody, apparently. The Den, to a man, and the Middle school scarcely less unanimously.

“Now for Pledge.”

About a dozen, including Bull and one or two of the Sixth, a select few among the juniors, and a certain unwholesome-looking clique among the Fourth and Fifth.

It rather surprised our heroes to notice that Pledge, so far from appearing mortified by his reverse, took it with a decidedly amiable smile, which became almost grateful as it beamed into the corner where Birket and Swinstead, both flushed with excitement, sat.

“By Jingo! I wouldn’t be those two for a lot!” said Raggles.

“Now I think Pledge takes it very well,” said Heathcote.

Whereat there was a mighty laugh in the Den as the joke passed round, and the phenomenon of the “green new kid” blushing scarlet all over attracted general curiosity, and stopped the proceedings for several minutes.

As soon as order was restored, other elections were proceeded with, including the school librarian and the post fag, the duty of which latter office was to distribute the letters which came by the post to their respective owners. For this office there was always great competition, each “set” being anxious to get one of its own members, on whom it could depend.

The contest this year lay between Pauncefote, of Westover’s, and Duffield of Purbeck’s, and ever since the term opened canvassing had been going on actively on behalf of the respective candidates. I regret to say the laws relating to elections at Templeton were not as rigid as those which regulate public elections generally, and bribery and corruption were no name for some of the unscrupulous practices resorted to by the friends of either party to secure a vote. If a small boy ventured to express so much as a doubt as to his choice, his arm would be seized by the canvassing party and screwed till the required pledge was given. And woe to that small boy if an hour later the other side caught him by the other arm and begged the favour of his vote for their man! Nothing short of perjury would keep his arm in its socket. Nor was it once or twice only that the youth of Templeton would be made to forswear itself over the election of post fag. Several times a day the same luckless voter might be made to yield up his promise, until, at the end of a week, he would become too confused and weary to recollect for which side his word of honour had last been given. Nor did it much matter, for his vote in Hall depended entirely on the company nearest within reach of his arm; and if, by some grim fatality, he should chance to get with one arm towards each party, the effort of recording his vote was likely to prove one of the most serious undertakings of his mortal life.

Our heroes, luckily for them, found themselves planted in the midst of Pauncefote’s adherents, so that they experienced no difficulty at all in making up their minds how they should vote. They either did not see or did not notice a few threatening shouts and pantomimic gestures addressed to them by some of Duffield’s supporters in a remote corner of the room, and held up their hands for his opponent with the clear conscience of men who exercise a mighty privilege fearlessly.

“Stick up both hands,” said Gosse. “We shall be short.”

“It wouldn’t be fair,” said Dick, boldly.

“Howling prig!” said Gosse, in disgust, “canting young hypocrite; you’ll get it hot, I can tell you, if—”

“Shut up!” shouted Dick, rounding on him with a fierceness which astonished himself. It was a show to see the way in which Gosse collapsed under this thunderclap of righteous indignation. He looked round at Dick out of the corners of his eyes, very much as a small dog contemplates the boot that has just helped him half-way across the road, and positively forgot to keep his own grimy hand raised aloft till the counting was finished.

“Pauncefote has 108 votes. Now those who are in favour of Duffield?”

There was great excitement, and no little uproar, as the rival party made their show. Cries of, “Cheat! both hands up!” rose from the shocked adherents of Pauncefote; and a good deal of quiet service, in holding the arms of weaklings down to their sides, was rendered on the frontier. Finally, it was found that Duffield had in votes; whereat there were tremendous cheers and counter-cheers, not unmixed with recriminations, and imputations and threats, which promised our heroes a lively time of it when finally they adjourned to the Den.

Before that happened, however, a solemn ceremony had to be gone through, in which they were personally interested. The chairman read out a list of new boys, and ordered them to answer to their names, and come forward on to the platform. It was a nervous ordeal, even for the most self-composed, to be thus publicly trotted out in the presence of all Templeton, and to hear the derisive cheers with which his name and appearance were greeted as he obeyed.

“Look at his legs!” cried one, as Dick, inwardly hoping he was making a favourable impression, passed up the hall and mounted the steps. Whereupon Dick suddenly became conscious of his lower limbs—which, by the way, were as straight and tight a pair of shanks as any boy of fourteen could boast—and tried to hide them behind a chair.

“I can see them still!” cried a shrill voice, just as he thought he had succeeded; and poor Dick, who, an hour ago, had almost forgotten he was a new boy, had to endure a storm of laughter, and look as much at his ease as he could, while all Templeton mounted on chairs, and stretched its necks to catch a glimpse of his unfortunate legs.

Heathcote came in for a similar trial on account of his blushes, and poor Aspinall positively staggered, and finally broke down under allusions to the “bottle,” and “soothing syrup,” and “mamma” and “sister Lottie.”

The Sixth had the sense not to attempt to quell the disorder till it had had a fair chance of blowing itself off. Then Pontifex ordered the names to be put into a hat, and handed round for each of the monitors to draw. Each monitor accordingly drew, and announced the name of his future fag. In the first round Heathcote’s name and Aspinall’s both came up—the former, much to his disgust, falling to the lot of Pledge, the latter to that of Cresswell. Dick boiled with excitement as the hat started on its second round. Suppose he, too, should fall to the lot of a cad like Pledge, or a brute like Bull! Or, oh blissful notion! suppose Cresswell should draw him, too, as well as Aspinall.

The hat started; Pontifex drew a stranger; so did Mansfield. Then Cresswell drew, and, with a bound of delight, Dick heard his own name, and marked the gleam of pleasure which crossed his new master’s face as he turned towards him. He forgot all about his legs, he even missed Heathcote’s doleful look of disappointment, or the thankful sigh of young Aspinall. He felt as if something good had happened to him, and as if his star were still in the ascendant.

At the end of the Elections a cry of “three groans for fagging!” was proposed by some member of the Den, who took care to keep himself well concealed, and, as usual, was lustily responded to by all the interested parties. Which little demonstration being over, Pontifex announced that the meeting was over, and that “captain’s levée” would be held on that day week at 5:30.

Our heroes were promptly kidnapped, as they descended from the platform, by the emissaries of the Den, who hurried them off to the serene atmosphere of that dignified assembly, where, for an hour or more, they took part in denouncing everybody and everything, and assisted in a noble flow of patriotic eloquence on the duty of the oppressed towards the oppressor, and the slave towards his driver. The Sixth, meanwhile, rather glad to have Elections over, strolled off to their own quarters.

“More row than ever this year,” said Mansfield, as he followed Cresswell into his study. “Ponty’s too easy-going.”

“I don’t know. If you keep them in too tight they’ll burst. I think he’s right to give them some play.”

“Well, perhaps you’re right, Cress; but I’m afraid I shan’t be as easy with them as Ponty. My opinion is, that if you give them an inch they’ll take an ell. By the way, that was a queer thing about Pledge. Did you expect it?”

“No, but I’m not surprised. He’s a low cad—poor Forbes owed his expulsion last term to him, I’m positive. He simply set himself to drag him down, and he did it.”

“Pity he’s such a good bowler, one’s bound to keep him in the eleven, and the fellows always swear by the eleven. By the way, I hear we have our work cut out for us at Grandcourt this year. They’re a hot lot, and we play them on their own ground this time.”

“Oh, we shall do it, if only Ponty will wake up.”

These two enthusiasts for the good of Templeton would have been a good deal afflicted had they seen what the burly captain of the school was doing at that moment.

He was sitting in his easy-chair, the picture of comfort, with his feet up on the window-ledge, reading “Pickwick,” and laughing as he read. No sign of care was on his brow, and apparently no concern for Templeton was weighing on his mind; and even when a fag entered and brought him up a list of names of boys requiring his magisterial correction, he ordered him to put it on the table, and never even glanced at it for the next hour.

Pontifex, it is true, did not do himself justice. He passed for even more easy-going than he was, and when he did choose to make an effort—few fellows could better deal with the duties that fell to his lot. But, unfortunately, he didn’t make the effort often enough either for the good of Templeton or his own credit.

He was getting to the end of his chapter when the door opened again, and Pledge entered.

“Hallo,” said the captain, looking up after a bit, “you came a cropper, I say, this afternoon. What have you been up to?”

“That’s what I came to ask you,” said Pledge, with an amiable smile.

“Goodness knows! I was as much surprised as you. You know, between you and me, I don’t think you did Forbes much good last term.”

“Quite a mistake. I befriended him when everybody else was cutting him. He told me when he left I was the only friend he had here.”

“A good friend?” asked Pontifex, looking hard at his man.

“Really, Ponty, you don’t improve in your manners,” said Pledge, with a slightly embarrassed laugh.

“No offence, old man,” said the captain. “But, seriously, don’t you think you might do a little more good, or even a little less well, harm, you know, in Templeton than you do?”

“Most noble captain, we must see what can be done,” said Pledge, colouring a trifle, as he left the room.

“I’ve lost my pull on him, I suppose,” said the captain, taking up his “Pickwick.”

“By Jove! I wish I could make up my mind to kick him!”

Chapter Eight.

In which Heathcote becomes interesting.

Pledge was a type of fellow unfortunately not uncommon in some public schools, whom it is not easy to describe by any other word than dangerous. To look at him, to speak to him, to hear him, the ordinary observer would notice very little to single him out from fifty other boys of the same age and condition. He was clever, good-humoured, and obliging, he was a fine cricketer and lawn tennis player, he was rarely overtaken in any breach of school rules and he was decidedly lenient in the use of his monitorial authority.

For all that, fellows steered clear of him, or, when they came across him, felt uncomfortable till they could get out of his way. There were ugly stories about the harm he had done to more than one promising simple-minded young Templetonian in days past who had had the ill-luck to come under his influence. And although, as usual, such stories were exaggerated, it was pretty well-known why this plausible small boys’ friend was called “spider” by his enemies, who envied no one who fell into his web.

Heathcote accordingly came in for very little congratulation that evening after Elections when he was formally sworn in to the Den as the “spider’s” fag and was thoroughly frightened by the stories he heard and the still more alarming mysterious hints that were dropped for his benefit.

However, like a philosopher as he was, he determined to enjoy himself while he could, and therefore entered with spirit into the lively proceedings of that evening’s Den.

That important institution was, our heroes discovered, by no means an assembly of one idea. Although its leading motive might be said to be disorder, it existed for other purposes as well; as was clearly set forth in the articles of admission administered to each new boy on joining its honourable company.

Terrible and sweeping were the “affirmations” each Denite was required to make on the top of a crib to Caesar’s Commentaries.

(1) “I promise to stick by every chap of the Den whenever I am called upon.”

(2) “I promise never to sneak, or tell tales of any chap of the Den, under any circumstances.”

(3) “I promise never to fag for anybody more than I can possibly help.”

(4) “I promise to do all I can to make myself jolly to the Den.”

(5) “If I break any of these rules, I promise to let myself be kicked all round by the chaps of the Den, as long as I am able to stand it.”

Our heroes and young Aspinall were called upon solemnly to subscribe to each of these weighty promises, under threat of the most awful vengeance if they refused. And, as it seemed to each he might safely venture on the promise required, they went dutifully through the ceremony, and had the high privilege of exercising their new rights, ten minutes later, in kicking a couple of recalcitrant Denites, one of whom, as it happened, was the high-minded Mr Gosse, who had been detected in the act of telling tales to a monitor of one of his companions.

Mr Gosse availed himself on this occasion of the last clause of Rule 5, and lay down on the ground, after the first kick. He was, however, persuaded to resume his feet, and finally had the inward satisfaction of feeling that he had obeyed the requirements of the rule to the utmost.

This little matter of business being disposed of, and the usual patriotic speeches having been delivered, the Den, which was nothing if it was not original, proceeded to its elections—a somewhat tedious ceremony, which it was very difficult for a stranger to understand.

A vicious-looking youth, called Culver, was elected president of the club, Pauncefote (the rejected post fag) and Smith were appointed treasurers, and, greatly to the surprise of the new boys, but of no one else, Mr Gosse, still barely recovered from his loyalty to Rule 5, was elected secretary, and made a very amiable and highly-applauded speech, in returning thanks for the compliment paid to him.

After this, the Den resolved itself into a social gathering, and became rather tedious.

Dick was interrupted in a yawn by Messrs Pauncefote and Smith, who politely waited upon him for his subscription, a request which Culver, as president, and Gosse, as secretary, were also in attendance to see complied with.

“How much?” said Dick.

“Threepence,” said Smith, but was instantly jostled by a violent nudge from Gosse.

“How much tin have you got?” demanded that official.

Dick, who had long ere this lost any reverence he might be expected to entertain towards the secretary of the Den, replied:

“Threepence.”

“Howling cram!” observed Gosse. “I know you’ve more than that.”

“Ah! you’ve been putting your hands in my pockets then?”

Whereat there was a mighty cheer, and the Den was called to order to hear the joke, which it did with genuine merriment; and then and there passed a resolution unanimously, requesting Mr Gosse once more to comply with Rule 5. That young gentleman got out of it this time by making a public apology, and in no way abashed by the incident, proceeded to attend the treasurers during the remainder of their business circuit. Culver stayed behind, and said to Dick:—

“Awfully well you shut him up. I say, by the way, I suppose you don’t want a knife, do you?”

“Yes, I do. Have you got one?”

“Rather! but I’d sooner have a dog’s-head pin instead. I suppose you’ve not got one.”

Considering that Dick’s dog’s-head pin, the gift of his particular aunt, was all this time within a few inches of Culver’s nose, the inquiry was decidedly artless.

“Yes, I have,” said Dick, pointing to his scarf; “a jolly one, too.”

“How’d you like to swop?”

“Let’s see the knife,” replied the business-like Dick.

Culver produced the knife. Rather a sorry weapon, as regarded its chief blades. But it had a saw, and a gouge to remove stones from one’s boot.

“It’s a jolly fine knife,” said Culver, seeing that it was already making an impression; “and I’d be sorry to part with it.”

Dick mused on the weapon, and lightly rubbed his chin against his aunt’s dog’s-head.

“All right,” said he, putting the knife into his pocket, and slowly pulling out the pin. His conscience half smote him, as he saw his treasure being transferred to Culver’s scarf. But he was too proud to try to revoke his bargain, and consoled himself as best he could by fondling the knife in his pocket, and thinking how useful the gouge would be.

Before the evening was over he made the discovery that “swopping” was a favourite pastime of the leisure hours of the Den. He was startled at one period of the evening to notice Heathcote’s steel chain adorning the waistcoat of Gosse, and an hour later to find it in the possession of Raggles, who came over to Dick with it, and asked casually.

“I suppose you wouldn’t care to swop a knife for this?”

Dick was proof against the temptation. He didn’t want a steel chain. But he wished Culver would be moved to transfer the dog’s-head to some one who wanted a knife. That, however, Culver did not do. He seemed, as indeed his experience in business justified him in being, a good judge of a good bargain; and stuck very faithfully to his new pin, in spite of a considerable number of offers.

After joining in a few songs the airs of which were somewhat vague, the Den adjourned. As its proceedings had consisted in an uninterrupted uproar for two consecutive hours, the new boys, none of whom were seasoned to it, were all more or less tired.

Poor young Aspinall, in particular, was very tired. He had had a rough time of it; and had tremblingly complied with every demand any one chose to make of him. He had parted with all his available “swoppable” goods; he had stood on a form and sung little hymns to a derisive audience; he had answered questions as to his mother, his sister, and other members of his family; he had endured buffeting and kicks, till he was fairly worn out, and till it ceased to be amusing to torment him.

When finally he was released, and found himself on his way to the dormitory, under Dick’s sheltering wing, he broke down.

“I wish I was dead,” he said, miserably, “it’s awful here.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Dick, a trifle impatiently, for with all his good heart he got tired of the boy’s perpetual tears. “You’ll get used to it soon. Haven’t you got any pluck in you?”

“It’s all very well for you,” said the boy; “fellows seem to let you alone, and not care to touch you; but they see I can’t stand up for myself.”

“More shame if they do,” said Dick bluntly; “I don’t believe you when you say so. I call it cant. How do you know? You can’t tell till you try.”

“Oh, don’t be angry, please,” said the boy. “I know you are right; I really will try, if you stick up for me.”

“Never mind me,” said Dick, getting into bed.

Aspinall did not pursue the topic; but as he lay awake that night, feeling his heart jump at every footstep and word in the room, he made the most desperate and heroic resolves to become a perfect griffin to all Templeton. For all that, he also nearly made up his mind to steal out of bed and peep from the window, to see if there were any possibility of escaping home, while Templeton slept, to Devonshire.

The new boys all obeyed the summons of the half-past-six bell next morning with nervous alacrity. For it was something more than a mere call to shake off “dull sloth”—it was a reminder that they were fags, and that their masters lay in bed depending on them to rouse them in time for morning chapel.

The old fags smiled to see the feverish haste with which the new ones flung themselves into their garments, and started each on his rousing mission. These veterans had had their day of the same sort of thing. Now they knew better, and as long as they could continue occasionally to be found by their seniors with a duster in their hands, or toasting a piece of bread before the fire, the “new brooms” could be left to do all the other work, for which the old ones reaped the credit.

Heathcote, with very dismal forebodings, knocked at Pledge’s door.

“It’s time to get up, please,” said he.

“All right. Fetch me some hot water, will you? and brush my lace boots.”

Heathcote, as he started off to fetch the water, thought that the voice of his new master was certainly not as repulsive as he had been led by his numerous sympathisers to expect.

“However,” said he to himself, “you can’t always judge of a fellow by his voice.”

Which was very true, as he found immediately afterwards, when, as he was kneeling down at the tap, trying to coax the last few drops of hot water into his can, a voice behind him said—

“Look sharp, you fellow, don’t drink it all up,” and he looked up and saw Dick, and Dick’s can, bound on the same errand as his own.

“Hallo,” he said, “you won’t find much left.”

“You’ll have to give me some of yours then,” said Dick.

“I can’t, I’ve only got half a can-full as it is.”

“But Cresswell sent me, I tell you.”

“And Pledge sent me.”

“Pooh! He doesn’t matter. He’s a beast. Come, go halves, old man.”

Of course Heathcote went halves, and enquired as he did so whether Dick had got any boots to clean.

“I’ve put the young ’un on to that,” said Dick, rather grandly. “I left him crying on them just now.”

“How many fags has Cresswell got?”

“Us two,” said Dick, “at least I’ve not seen any more.”

“I believe I’m the only one Pledge has got.”

“Poor beggar! Thanks, Georgie. Get next to me at chapel.”

And the two friends went each his own way.

Pledge seemed, on the whole, agreeably surprised to get as much as a quarter of a can of hot water; and Heathcote, as he polished up the lace boots, felt he had begun well. His new master said little or nothing to him, as he put the study tidy, arranged the books, and got out the cup and saucer and coffee-pot ready for the senior’s breakfast.

“Is there anything else?” he asked as the chapel bell began to toll.

“No, that’s all just now. You can come and clear up after breakfast, and if you’ve got nothing to do after morning school, you can come and take a bat down at the nets, while I bowl.”

At the very least Heathcote had expected to be horrified, when this terrible ogre did speak, by a broadside of bad language; and he felt quite bewildered as he recalled the brief conversation and detected in it not a single word which could offend anybody. On the contrary, everything had been most proper and considerate, and the last invitation coming from a first eleven man to his new fag was quite gratuitously friendly.

“I don’t think he’s so bad,” he remarked to Dick, as they went from chapel to breakfast.

“All I know is,” said Dick, “Cresswell was asking me if it was my chum who had been drawn by Pledge, and when I told him, he told me I might say to you, from him, that you had better be careful not to get too chummy with the ‘spider;’ and the less you hang about his study the better. I don’t think Cresswell would say a thing like that unless he meant it.”

“I dare say not,” said Heathcote. “But I wish to goodness some one would say what it all means. I can’t make it out.”

After breakfast he repaired to his lord’s study, and cleared the table.

“Well,” said Pledge. “What about cricket?”

“Thanks, awfully,” said the fag, “I’d like it.”

“All serene. Come here as soon as school is up.” Which Heathcote did, and was girt hand and foot with pads, and led by his senior down into the fields, where for an hour he stood gallantly at the wickets, swiping heroically at every ball, and re-erecting his stumps about once an over, as often as they were overturned by the desolating fire of the crack bowler of Templeton.

A few stragglers came up and watched the practice; but Heathcote had the natural modesty to know that their curiosity did not extend to his batting, gallant as it was. Indeed, they almost ignored the existence of a bat anywhere, and even failed to be amused by the gradual demoralisation of the fag who wielded it, under the sense of the eyes that were upon him.

“Pledge is on his form this term,” said Cresswell, one of the onlookers, to his friend Cartwright.

“Tremendously,” said Cartwright. “Grandcourt won’t stand up to it, if it’s like that on match day. Who’s the kid at the wicket?”

“His new fag—poor little beggar!”

“It’s a pity. Poor Forbes was just like him a couple of years ago.”

“Never mind,” said Cresswell, “Mansfield has got his eyes open, and I fancy he’ll be down in that quarter when he’s captain. Old Ponty won’t do it. He’s worse than ever. Won’t even come to practice, till he’s finished ‘Pickwick,’ he says.”

And the two friends strolled off rather despondently.

In due time Heathcote was allowed to divest himself of his armour, and accompany his senior indoors.

“You didn’t make a bad stand, youngster,” said Pledge, as they walked across the field, “especially at the end. Have you done much cricket?”

“Not much,” said Heathcote, blushing at the compliment.

“You should stick to it. You’ll get plenty of chance this term.”

“And yet,” said Heathcote to himself, “this is the fellow everybody tells me is a beast to be fought shy of, and not trusted for a minute.” He was almost tempted to interrogate Pledge point-blank on what it all meant; but his shyness prevented him.

Nothing occurred during the day to solve the mystery. There was comparatively little to be done in the way of fagging; and what little there was, was amply compensated for by the help Pledge gave him in his Latin composition in the evening.

Later on, while Pledge was away somewhere, Heathcote was putting the books away on to the shelves, and generally tidying up the study, when the door partly opened, and a small round missive was tossed on to the floor of the room.

Heathcote regarded the intruder in a startled way, as if it had been some infernal machine; but presently took courage to advance and take the missive in his hand. It was a small round cardboard box, about the size of a tennis ball, which, much to his surprise, bore his own name, printed in pen and ink, on the outside. He opened it nervously, and found a note inside, also addressed to himself, which ran thus:—

“Heathcote.—This is from a friend. You are in peril. Don’t believe anything Pledge tells you. Suspect everything he does. He will try to make a blackguard of you. You had much better break with him, refuse to fag for him and take the consequences, than become his friend. Be warned in time.—Junius.”

This extraordinary epistle, all printed in an unrecognisable hand, set Heathcote’s heart beating and his colour coming and going in a manner quite new to him. Who was this “Junius,” and what was this conspiracy to terrify him? “Suspect everything he does.” A pretty piece of advice, certainly, to anybody. For instance, what villainy could be concealed in his bowling for an hour at the wickets, or rescuing young Aspinall from his tormentors? “He will try to make a blackguard of you.” Supposing Junius was right, would it not be warning enough to fight shy of him when he began to try? Heathcote had reached this stage in his meditations when he heard Pledge approaching. He hurriedly crushed the letter away into his pocket, and returned to the bookcase.

“Hullo, young fellow,” said Pledge, entering. “Putting things straight? Thanks. What about your Latin verses? Not done, as usual, I suppose. Let’s have a look. I’ll do them for you, and you can fetch them in the morning. Good-night.”

Heathcote retired, utterly puzzled. He could believe a good deal that he was told, but it took hard persuasion to make him believe that a senior who could do his Latin verses for him could be his worst enemy.

Chapter Nine.

A Literary Ghost.

For two whole days Heathcote let “Junius’s” letter burn holes in his pocket, not knowing what to think of it, or what to do with it. For him to take Dick into his confidence was, however, a mere matter of time, for Heathcote’s nature was not one which could hold a secret for many days together, and his loyalty to his “leader” was such that whenever the secret had to come out, Dick’s was the bosom that had to receive it.

“It’s rum,” said the latter, after having read the mysterious document twice through. “I don’t like it, Georgie.”

“The thing is, I can’t imagine who wrote it. You didn’t, did you?”

Dick laughed.

“Rather not. I don’t see the good of hole-in-the-corner ways of doing things like that.”

“Do you think Cresswell wrote it? He’s about the only senior that knows me, except Pledge.”

“I don’t fancy he did; it’s not his style,” said Dick, who seemed quite to have taken the whipper-in under his wing.

“He might know. I wonder, Dick, if you’d mind trying to find out? It maybe a trick, you know, after all.”

“Don’t look like it,” said Dick, glancing again at the letter. “It’s too like what everybody says about him.”

“That’s the worst of it. He’s hardly said a word to me since I’ve been his fag, and certainly nothing bad; and he writes my Latin verses for me, too. I fancy fellows are down on him too much.”

“Well,” said Dick, “I’ll try and pump Cresswell; but I wish to goodness, Georgie, you weren’t that beast’s fag.”

Every conversation he had on the subject, no matter with whom, ended in some such ejaculation, till Heathcote got quite used to it, and even ceased to be disturbed by it.

Indeed, he was half disappointed, after all the warning and sympathy he had received, to find no call made upon his virtue, and no opportunity of making a noble stand against the wiles of the “spider.” He would rather have enjoyed a mild passage of arms in defence of his uprightness; and it was a little like a “sell” to find Pledge turn out, after all, so uninterestingly like everybody else.

Dick duly took an opportunity of consulting Cresswell on his friend’s behalf.

“I say, Cresswell,” said he, one morning, as the senior and his fag walked back from the “Tub.”

“Who was Forbes?”

“Never mind,” said Cresswell, shortly.

This was a rebuff, certainly; but Dick stuck to his purpose.

“Heathcote asked me,” he said. “He’s Pledge’s fag, and everybody says to him he’ll come to grief like Forbes; and he doesn’t know what they mean.”

“You gave your chum my message, did you?” said Cresswell.

“Oh, yes; and, do you know, the other evening he had a letter thrown into him, he doesn’t know where from, saying the same thing?”

Cresswell whistled, and stared at his fag.

“Was it signed ‘Junius,’ and done up in a ball?” he asked, excitedly.

“Yes. Did you send it?”

“And was it in printed letters, so that nobody could tell the writing?”

“Yes. Do you know about it, I say?”

“No,” said Cresswell; “no more does anybody. Your chum’s had a letter from the ghost!”

“The what?”

“The Templeton ghost, my boy.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Dick.

“That’s all right. No more do I. But those who do, say its a bad sign to get a letter from ours. Forbes got one early last term.”

“Do you really mean—?” began Dick.