My Friend Smith: A Story of School and City Life

Talbot Baines Reed

"My Friend Smith"

Chapter One.

How I came to be sent to Stonebridge House.

“It was perfectly plain, Hudson, the boy could not be allowed to remain any longer a disgrace to the neighbourhood,” said my uncle.

“But, sir,” began my poor old nurse.

“That will do, Hudson,” said my uncle, decisively; “the matter is settled—Frederick is going to Stonebridge House on Monday.”

And my uncle stood up, and taking a coat-tail under each arm, established himself upon the hearthrug, with his back to Mrs Hudson. That was always a sign there was no more to be said; and off I was trotted out of the dreaded presence, not very sure whether to be elated or depressed by the conversation I had overheard.

And indeed I never was quite clear as to why, at the tender and guileless age of twelve, I was abruptly sent away from my native village of Brownstroke, to that select and popular “Academy for Backward and Troublesome Young Gentlemen,” (so the advertisement ran), known as Stonebridge House, in the neighbourhood of Cliffshire.

Other people appeared to divine the reason, and Mrs Hudson shook her head and wiped her eyes when I consulted her on the subject. It was queer. “I must be a very backward boy,” thought I to myself, “for try as I will, I don’t see it.”

You must know I was an orphan. I never could recollect my mother—nor could Mrs Hudson. As to my father, all I could recall of him was that he had bushy eyebrows, and used to tell me some most wonderful stories about lions and tigers and other beasts of prey, and used now and then to show me my mother’s likeness in a locket that hung on his watch-chain. They were both dead, and so I came to live with my uncle. Now, I could hardly tell why, but it never seemed to me as if my uncle appeared to regard it as a privilege to have me to take care of. He didn’t whack me as some fellows’ uncles do, nor did he particularly interfere with my concerns, as the manner of other uncles (so I am told), is. He just took as little notice as possible of me, and as long as I went regularly to Mrs Wren’s grammar-school in the village, and as long as Mrs Hudson kept my garments in proper order, and as long as I showed up duly on state occasions, and didn’t bring more than a square inch of clay on each heel (there was a natural affinity between clay and my heels), into his drawing-room, he scarcely seemed to be aware that his house possessed such a treasure as an only nephew.

The part of my life I liked least was the grammar-school. That was a horrid place. Mrs Wren was a good old soul, who spent one half of her time looking over her spectacles, and the other half under them, for something she never found. We big boys—for twelve is a good age for a dame’s grammar-school—we didn’t exactly get on at old Jenny Wren’s, as she was called. For we gradually discovered we knew almost as much as she did herself, and it dawned on us by degrees that somehow she didn’t know how to keep us in order. The consequence was, one or two boys, especially Jimmy Bates, the parish clerk’s son, and Joe Bobbins, the Italian oil and colourman’s son, didn’t behave very well. I was sorry to see it, and always told them so.

They got us other boys into all sorts of scrapes and trouble. One day they would hide poor Jenny’s spectacles, and then when search was made the lost treasure would be found in some one else’s desk. Or they would tie cotton reels on the four feet and tail of the old tabby cat, and launch her, with a horrid clatter, right into the middle of the room, just as I or one of the others happened to be scampering out. Or they would turn the little boys’ forms upside down, and compel them with terrible threats to sit on the iron feet, and then in the middle of the class “sneak” about them.

Poor Jenny couldn’t manage the school at all, with such boys as Jimmy Bates and Joe Bobbins in it. Up to boys of ten she was all right; but over ten she was all at sea.

However, she worked patiently on, and taught us all she could, and once or twice gave us a horrible fright by calling up at our houses, and reporting progress there (Mrs Hudson always received her when she came up to my uncle’s). And for all I know I might be at Jenny Wren’s school still if a tremendous event hadn’t happened in our village, which utterly upset the oldest established customs of Brownstroke.

We grammar-school boys never “hit” it exactly with the other town boys. Either they were jealous of us or we were jealous of them. I don’t know, but we hated the town boys, and they hated us.

Once or twice we had come into collision, though they always got the best of it. One winter they snowballed us to such a pitch that as long as the snow was on the ground a lot of the little kids would no more venture to school alone than a sane man would step over the side of a balloon.

Another time they lined the street down both sides, and laughed and pointed at us as we walked to school. That was far worse than snowballs, even with stones in them. You should have seen us, with pale faces and hurried steps, making our way amid the jeers and gibes of our tormentors—some of the little ones blubbering, one or two of the bigger ones looking hardly comfortable, and a few of the biggest inwardly ruminating when and how it would best be possible to kill that Runnit the news-boy, or Hodge the cow-boy!

These and many other torments and terrors we “Jenny Wrenites” had endured at the hands of our enemies the town boys, on the whole patiently. In process of time they got tired of one sort of torment, and before their learned heads had had time to invent a new one, we had had time to muster up courage and tell one another we didn’t care what they did.

Such a period had occurred just before my story opens. It was a whole month since the town boys had made our lives unhappy by calling, and howling, and yelling, and squeaking on every occasion they met us the following apparently inoffensive couplet:—

“A, B, C, Look at the baby!”

How we hated that cry, and quailed when we heard it! However, after about a fortnight’s diligent use of this terrible weapon the town boys subsided for a season, and we plucked up heart again. Four whole weeks passed, and we were never once molested! Something must be wrong in the village! Of course we all came to the conclusion that the town boys had at last seen the error of their ways, and were turning over new leaves.

Rash dream! One day when we were least expecting it, the “Philistines were upon us” again, and this time their device was to snatch off our caps! It was too terrible to think of! We could endure to be hooted at, and pelted, and said “A, B, C” to, but to have our little Scotch caps snatched off our heads and tossed over pailings and into puddles, was too much even for the meek disciples of Jenny Wren. The poor little boys got their mothers to fasten elastics to go under their chins, and even so walked nearly half a mile round to avoid the market cross. It was no use, the manoeuvre was discovered, and not only did the youngsters have their caps taken, but were flipped violently by the elastics in the face and about the ears in doing so. As for us older ones, some ran, other walked with their caps under their tunics, others held them on with both hands. The result was the same; our caps were captured!

Then did Jimmy Bates, and Joe Bobbins, and Harry Rasper, and I, meet one day, and declare to one another, that this sort of thing was not to be stood.

“Let’s tell Mother Wren,” said one.

“Or the policeman,” said another.

“Let’s write and tell Fred Batchelor’s uncle,” said another. That referred to my relative, who was always counted a “nob” in the village.

“I say, don’t do any,” said the redoubtable Bobbins. “The next time they do it to me I mean to kick!”

The sentiment was loudly applauded, and a regular council of war was held, with the following decision. We four were to go home together that afternoon, and without waiting to be chased, would ourselves give chase to the first bully we saw, and take his cap! The consequences of course might be fearful—fatal; but the blood of the “Jenny Wrenites” was up. Do it we would, or perish in the attempt.

I think we all got a little nervous as the afternoon school wore on and the hour for departing approached. Indeed, when we were about to start, Bates looked very like deserting straight away.

“Oh, you three go on,” he said, “I’ll catch you up; I just want to speak to Jenny.”

“No we don’t,” we all protested; “we’ll wait here, if it takes you till midnight to say what you’ve got to say to Jenny.”

This valiant determination put an end to Bates’s wavering, and with a rueful face he joined us.

“Now, mind,” said Rasper, “the first you see!”

“Well,” exclaimed I, starting suddenly to run, “that’s Cad Prog, the butcher-boy, there; come along.”

So it was! Of all our enemies Cad Prog was the most truculent, and most feared. The sight of his red head coming round the corner was always enough to strike panic into a score of youngsters, and even we bigger boys always looked meek when Prog came out to defy us.

He was strolling guilelessly along, and didn’t see us at first. Then suddenly he caught sight of us approaching, and next moment the blue apron and red head disappeared with a bolt round the corner.

“Come on!” shouted Rasper, who led.

“So we are!” cried we, and hue and cry was made for Cad Prog forthwith.

We sighted him as we turned the corner. He was making straight for the market. Perhaps to get an axe, I thought, or to hide, or to tell my uncle!

“Come on!” was the shout.

It’s wonderful how a short sharp chase warms up the blood even of a small boy of twelve. Before we were half down the street, even Bates had no thought left of deserting, and we all four pressed on, each determined not to be last.

The fugitive Prog kept his course to the market, but there doubled suddenly and bolted down Side Street. That was where he lived; he was going to run into his hole then, like a rabbit.

We gained no end on him in the turn, and were nearly up to him as he reached the door of his humble home.

He bolted in—so did we. He bolted up stairs—so did we. He plunged headlong into a room where was a little girl rocking a cradle—so did we. Then began a wild scuffle.

“Catch him! Take his cap off!” cried Bobbins.

“He hasn’t got a cap!” cried Rasper—“butcher-boys never have!”

“Then pull off his apron!” was the cry.

In the scuffle the little girl was trodden on, and the cradle clean upset. A crowd collected in the street. Cad Prog roared as loud as he could, so did his little sister, so did the baby, so did Jimmy Bates, so did Joe Bobbins, so did Harry Rasper, so did I. I did not care what happened; I went for Cad Prog, and have a vague idea of my hand and his nose being near together, and louder yells still.

Then all of a sudden there was a tramp of heavy footsteps on the stairs, and all I can remember after that was receiving a heavy cuff on my head, being dragged down into the street, where—so it seemed to me for the moment—at least a million people must have been congregated; and, finally, I know not how, I was standing in the middle of my uncle’s study floor, with my coat gone, my mouth bleeding, and my cap, after all, clean vanished!

It was a queer plight to be in. I heard a dinning in my ears of loud voices, and when I looked at the bust on the top of the bookcase it seemed to be toppling about anyhow. Some people were talking in the room, but the only voice I could recognise was my uncle’s. He was saying something about “not wanting to shield me,” and “locking-up,” the drift of which I afterwards slowly gathered, when the village policeman—we only had one at Brownstroke—addressing my uncle as “your honour,” said he would look in in the morning for further orders.

At this interesting juncture the bust began to wobble about again, and I saw and heard no more till I woke next morning, and found Mrs Hudson mopping my forehead with something, and saying, “There now, Master Freddy, lie quite still, there’s a good boy.”

“What’s the matter?” said I, putting up my hand to the place she was washing.

It was something like a bump!

“It’s only a bruise, Master Freddy—no bones broken, thank God!” said she, motioning me to be silent.

But I was in no mood to be silent. Slowly the recollection of yesterday’s events dawned on me.

“Did they get off Cad Prog’s apron,” I inquired, “after all?”

Of course, the good old soul thought this was sheer wandering of the mind, and she looked very frightened, and implored me to lie still.

It was a long time before I perceived any connection between our chase of the redoubtable Cad Prog up Side Street yesterday and my lying here bruised and in a darkened room to-day. At last I supposed Mr Prog must have conquered me; whereat I fired up again, and said, “Did the other fellows finish him up?”

“Oh, dear me, yes,” said the terrified nurse; “all up, every bit—there now—and asked for more!”

This consoled me. Presently a doctor came and looked at my forehead, and left some powders, which I heard him say I was to take in jam three times a day. I felt still more consoled.

In fact, reader, as you will have judged, I was a little damaged by the adventure in Side Street, and the noble exploit of my companions and myself had not ended all in glory.

A day or two after, when I got better, I found out more about it, and rather painfully too, because my uncle landed one day in my bedroom and commenced strongly to arraign me before him.

He bade me tell him what had happened, which I did as well as I could. At the end of it he said, “I suppose you are not aware that for a day or two it was uncertain whether you had not killed that child that was in the room?”

“I?” I exclaimed. “I never touched her! Indeed I didn’t, uncle!”

“You knocked over the cradle,” said my uncle, “and that’s much the same thing.”

I was silent. My uncle proceeded.

“And I suppose you are not aware that the barber who tried to take you down the stairs is now in the hospital with an abscess on his leg, the result of the kick you gave him?”

“Oh, I can’t have done it, uncle—oh, uncle!”

And here I was so overwhelmed with the vision of my enormities and their possible consequences that I became hysterical, and Mrs Hudson was summoned to the rescue.

The fact was, in the account of the fray I appear to have got credit for all the terrible deeds that were there done; and I, Master Freddy Batchelor, was, it appeared, notorious in the village as having been guilty of a savage and felonious assault upon one C. Prog, of having also assaulted and almost “manslaughtered” Miss Prog the younger, and further of having dealt with my feet against the shin of one Moppleton, a barber, in such manner as to render him incapable of pursuing his ordinary avocations, and being chargeable on the parish infirmary; besides sundry and divers damage to carpets, crockery, glass, doorposts, kerb-stones, and the jacket of the aforesaid C. Prog. On the whole, when I arose from my bed and stepped once more into the outer world, I found myself a very atrocious character indeed.

At home I was in disgrace, and abroad I was not allowed to wander beyond my uncle’s garden, except to church on Sunday under a heavy escort. So on the whole I had not a very good time of it. My uncle was terrifically glum, and appeared to think it most audacious if ever I chanced to laugh or sing or express any sentiment but deep grief and contrition in his presence. Mrs Hudson read me long lectures about the evil of slaying small children and laming barbers, and I was occasionally moved to tears at the thought of my own iniquities. But at the age of twelve it is hard to take upon oneself the settled gloom of an habitual criminal, and I was forced to let out at times and think of other things besides my wicked ways. I got let off school—that was one alleviation to my woe—and being free of the garden I had plenty of opportunity of letting off the steam. But it was slow work, as I have said; and I was really relieved when, a week or two afterwards, my uncle made the announcement with which this chapter begins.

How I fared, first at Stonebridge House, and subsequently in the City Life for which it was meant to train me, will be the theme of this particular veracious history.

Chapter Two.

How I made my First Acquaintance with Stonebridge House.

The eventful Monday came at last, and with my little box corded up, with Mrs Hudson as an escort, and a pair of brand-new knickerbockers upon my manly person, I started off from my uncle’s house in the coach for Stonebridge, with all the world before me.

I had taken a rather gloomy farewell of my affectionate relative in his study. He had cautioned me as to my conduct, and given me to understand that at Stonebridge House I should be a good deal more strictly looked after than I had ever been with him. Saying which he had bestowed on me a threepenny-bit as “pocket-money” for the term, and wished me good-bye. Under the circumstances I was not greatly overcome by this leave-taking, and settled down to make myself comfortable for my long drive with Mrs Hudson to Stonebridge.

Mrs Hudson had been my nurse ever since I could remember, and now the poor old soul and I were to part for good. For she was to see me safely inside the doors of Stonebridge House, and then go back, not to my uncle’s (where she would no longer be needed), but to her own home. Of course she was very much depressed by the prospect, and so indeed was I. For a good while we neither of us said much. Then, by way of changing the subject and beguiling the way, she began to address to me long and solemn exhortations as to my conduct at the new school. She knew as much about “schools for backward and troublesome boys” as I did; but that was no matter.

She made me promise, for one thing, that I would make a point of wearing a clean collar three times a week; and, for another, of calling the housekeeper’s attention to the very first sign of a hole in my socks. (As my socks, by the way, usually showed the daylight in upon six out of the ten toes, and one out of the two heels every time I took off my boots, I was promising a lot when I made this bargain!) Further, I was to see my Sunday clothes were always hung on pegs, and not laid in drawers; and my blue necktie, mind, was not to be touched till my black-and-pink was past work.

From these matters she passed on to my conduct towards my new masters and companions.

“Mind and always tell them the truth straight out, Freddy,” she said, “and say ‘sir’ whenever you speak to Mr Ladislaw—and say your prayers regularly night and day, won’t you? and be very careful to use your own comb and brush, and not lend them about to the other young gentlemen.”

Mrs Hudson, you see, had an easy way of flying from one topic to another. Her exhortations were crowded with pieces of good advice, which may have sounded funny when all strung together, but were each of them admirable taken separately. I of course promised her everything.

The journey was a long one, but the day was bright, and we had a good basketful of provender, so it was not tedious. At length the driver turned round, and said we should come in sight of Stonebridge at the next turn of the road.

My spirits began to sink for the first time. Dismal and all as Brownstroke had been, how did I know I should not be happier there, after all, than at this strange new place, where I knew no one? I wished the driver wouldn’t go so fast. Mrs Hudson saw my emotion, I think, for she once more opened fire, and, so to speak, gathered up the last crumbs of her good counsel.

“Oh, and Freddy dear,” fumbling nervously in her pocket, and letting down her veil, “write and tell me what they give you to eat; remember, pork’s bad for you, and leave your cuffs behind when you go out bird’s-nesting and all that. Mind, I’ll expect to hear about everything, especially about whether you get warm baths pretty regularly, and if Mr Ladislaw is a good Christian man—and look here, dear,” she continued hurriedly, producing a little parcel from the depths of her pocket, “you’re not to open this till I’m away, and be sure to take care of it, and don’t—”

“That there chimbley,” interrupted the driver at this stage, “is the fust ’ouse in Stonebridge.”

Five minutes later we were standing in the hall of Stonebridge House.

It didn’t look much like a school, I remember thinking. It was a large straggling building, rather like a farmhouse, with low ceilings and rickety stairs. The outside was neat, but not very picturesque, and the front garden seemed to have about as much grass in it as the stairs had carpets. As we stood waiting for some one to answer our ring, I listened nervously, I remember, for any sound or trace of my fellow “backward and troublesome boys,” but the school appeared to be confined to one of the long straggling wings behind, and not to encroach on the state portion of the house.

After a second vigorous pull at the bell by our coachman, a stern and scraggy female put in her appearance.

“Is this Frederick Batchelor?” she inquired, in tones which put my juvenile back up instantly.

“Yes, this is Master Freddy,” put in the nervous Mrs Hudson, anxious to conciliate every one on my behalf. “Freddy, dear, say—”

“Is that his box?” continued the stern dame.

“Yes,” said Mrs Hudson, feeling rather chilled; “that’s his box.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, except his umbrella, and a few—”

“Take the box up to my room,” said the lady to a boy who appeared at this moment. “Where is the key?”

“I’ve got that, marm,” replied Mrs Hudson, warming up a little, “and I should like to go over his things myself as they are unpacked.”

“Wholly unnecessary,” replied the female, holding out her hand for the key. “I see to everything of that kind here.”

“But I mean to open the box!” cried Mrs Hudson, breaking out into a passion quite unusual with her.

I, too, had been getting the steam up privately during the last few minutes, and the sight of Mrs Hudson’s agitation was enough to start the train.

“Yes,” said I, swelling out with indignation, “Mrs Hudson and I are going to open the box. You sha’n’t touch it!”

The female appeared to be not in the least put out by this little display of feeling. In fact, she seemed used to it, for she stood quietly with her arms folded, apparently waiting till we both of us thought fit to subside.

Poor Mrs Hudson was no match for this sort of battle. She lost her control, and expressed herself of things in general, and the female in particular, with a fluency which quite astonished me, and I did my little best to back her up. In the midst of our joint address a gentleman appeared on the scene, whom I correctly divined to be Mr Ladislaw himself.

Mr Ladislaw was a short, dapper man, in rather seedy clothes, with long sandy hair brushed right back over the top of his head, and no hair at all on his face. He might have been thirty, or he might have been fifty. His eyes were very small and close together; his brow was stern, and his mouth a good deal pulled down at the corners. Altogether, I didn’t take to him at first glance, still less when he broke into the conversation and distinctly took the part of Mrs Hudson’s adversary.

“What is all this, Miss Henniker?” he said in a quick, sharp voice, which made me very uncomfortable.

“This is Mr Jakeman’s servant,” answered the female. “She was talking a little rudely about Frederick Batchelor’s luggage here.”

“And so was I!” I shouted valiantly. “It’s not your luggage, and you sha’n’t have it, you old—beast!”

The last word came out half-involuntarily, and I was terribly frightened as soon as it had escaped my lips.

I do not know how Mr Ladislaw or Miss Henniker took it, for I dare not look up. I heard Mrs Hudson utter a mild protest, and next moment was conscious of being taken firmly by the hand by Mr Ladislaw and led to the door from which he had just emerged.

“Remain here, Batchelor,” said he, sternly, “till I come back.”

There was something in his voice and manner which took the spirit out of me, and he might have spared himself the trouble of locking the door behind him. I found myself in a small study, with shelves on the walls and a writing-table in the window, which looked out on to a playground, where, in the distance, I could catch sight of three boys swinging.

This first prospect of my future companions so interested me that I had actually nearly forgotten all about poor Mrs Hudson, when Mr Ladislaw entered the study and said—“The person is going now, Batchelor. If you like you can say good-bye.”

I flew out into the hall. Mrs Hudson was there crying, alone. What we said, and how we hugged one another, and how desperately we tried to be cheerful, I need not relate. I was utterly miserable. My only friend, the only friend I had, was going from me, leaving me in this cheerless place all alone. I would have given worlds to return with her. Mr Ladislaw stood by as we uttered our last farewells.

“Be a good boy, Freddy, dear; be a good boy,” was all she could say.

“So I will, so I will,” was all I could reply. Then she turned to where the coach was waiting. But once more she paused, and drew from her pocket another parcel, this time a box, of the nature of whose contents I could readily guess.

“It’s only a few sweets, dear. There, be a good boy. Good-bye, Freddy!”

And in another minute the coach was grating away over the gravel drive, and I stood utterly disconsolate in Stonebridge House, with my box of sweets in one hand and Mr Ladislaw at the other.

Some of my readers may have stood in a similar situation. If they have, I dare say they can remember it as vividly as any incident in their life. I know I can. I remember instinctively ramming the box into one of my side trousers pockets, and at the same time wondering whether both the hats hanging on the pegs were Mr Ladislaw’s, or whether one of them belonged to some one else.

Then suddenly it came over me that the former gentleman stood at my side, and all my misery returned as he said—

“I will take you to Miss Henniker, Batchelor; follow me.”

The sound of the wheels of Mrs Hudson’s coach were still audible down the road, and as I turned my back on them and followed Mr Ladislaw up the carpetless stairs, it seemed as if I was leaving all hope behind me.

I found Miss Henniker in the middle of a large parlour, with my box lying open on the ground beside her, and some of my vestments already spread out on the table. A half inclination to renew the rebellion came over me, as I thought how poor dear Mrs Hudson had been triumphed over; and all these tokens of her kindly soul, folded so neatly, inventoried so precisely, and all so white and well aired, had here fallen into strange hands, who reverenced them no more than—than the shirts and collars and cuffs of I do not know how many more “backward or troublesome” boys like myself. But I restrained my feelings.

“I will leave Batchelor in your charge for the present,” said Mr Ladislaw. At the same time he added something in an undertone to Miss Henniker which I did not catch, but which I was positive had reference to the dear departed Mrs Hudson, whereat I fumed inwardly, and vowed that somehow or other I would pay Miss Henniker out.

When Mr Ladislaw was gone Miss Henniker continued her work in silence, leaving me standing before her. She examined all my clothes, looked at the mark on every collar, every sock, and scrutinised the condition of every shirt-front and “dicky.” At last she came to my Sunday suit, at the sight of which I remembered all of a sudden my nurse’s injunction, and said, as meekly as possible, “Oh, if you please, Mrs Hudson says those are to be hung up, and not laid flat!”

Miss Henniker stared at me as if I had asked her her age!

“Silence!” she said, when she could sufficiently recover herself; “and—”

“And,” continued I, carried away with my subject, and really not hearing her remonstrance—“and, if you please, I’m to have three clean collars a week, and you’re to darn—”

“Frederick Batchelor!” exclaimed Miss Henniker, letting drop what she had in her hand, and stamping her foot with most unwonted animation; “did you hear me order you to hold your tongue? Don’t dare to speak again, sir, till you’re spoken to, or you will be punished.”

This tirade greatly surprised me. I had been quite pleased with myself for remembering all Mrs Hudson’s directions, and so intent on relieving my mind of them, that I had not noticed the growing rage of the middle-aged Henniker. In after years, when this story was told of me, I got the credit of being the only human being, who all by himself, had succeeded in “fetching” the Stonebridge housekeeper. At present, however, I was taken aback by her evident rage, and considered it prudent to give heed to her admonition. The unpacking was presently finished, and the scarlet in the Henniker’s face had gradually toned down to its normal tint, when, turning to me, she silently motioned me to follow her. I did so, along a long passage, in which there were at least two turnings. At the end of this was a door leading into a room containing half a dozen beds. Not a very cheerful room—long and low and badly lighted, with only two washstands, and a rather fusty flavour about the bedclothes. Don’t suppose, at my age, I was critical on such points; but when I take my boy to school, I do not think, with what I know now, I shall put him anywhere where the dormitory is like that of Stonebridge House.

“That,” said Miss Henniker, pointing to one of the beds, “is your bed, and you wash at this washstand.”

“Oh,” said I, again forgetting myself; “you are to be sure my brush and comb—”

“Silence, Batchelor!” once more reiterated Miss Henniker.

From the dormitory I was conducted to the schoolroom, and from the schoolroom to the dining-room, and from the dining-room to the boot-room, and my duties were explained in each.

It was in the latter apartment that I first made the acquaintance of one of my fellow “troublesome or backwards.”

A biggish boy was adopting the novel expedient for getting on a tight boot of turning his back to the wall and kicking out at it like a horse when I and my conductress entered.

The latter very nearly came in for one of the kicks.

“Flanagan,” said she, “that is not allowed. I shall give you a bad mark for it.”

Flanagan went on kicking till the end of the sentence, and then subsided ruefully, and said, “The bothering thing won’t come on or off, please, ma’am. It won’t come on with shoving.”

“If your boots are too small,” replied the lady, solemnly, begging the question, “you must write home for new ones.”

“But the bothering things—”

“Batchelor,” said Miss Henniker, turning to me, “this is the boot-room, where you will have to put on and take off your boots whenever you go out or come in. This boy is going out, and will take you into the playground with him,” and away she went, leaving me in the hands of the volatile Flanagan.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

It was a horribly dark place, this boot-room, and I could scarcely see who it was who was questioning me. He seemed to be a big boy, a year or two older than myself, with a face which, as far as I could make it out, was not altogether unpleasant. He continued stamping with his refractory boots all the time he was talking to me, letting out occasionally behind, in spite of Miss Henniker.

“Who are you? What’s your name?” he said.

“Fred Batchelor,” I replied, deferentially.

“Batchelor, eh? Are you a backward or a troublesome, eh?”

This was a poser. I had never put the question to myself, and was wholly at a loss how to answer. I told Flanagan so.

“Oh, but you’re bound to know!” he exclaimed. “What did they send you here for, eh?”

Whereupon I was drawn out to narrate, greatly to Flanagan’s satisfaction, the affair of Cad Prog and his baby sister.

“Hurrah!” said he, when I had done. “Hurrah, you’re a troublesome! That makes seven troublesomes, and only two backwards!” and in his jubilation he gave a specially vigorous kick out behind, and finally drove the obstinate boot home.

“Yes,” said he, “there was no end of discussion about it. I was afraid you were a backward, that I was! If the other new fellow’s only a troublesome too, we shall have it all to ourselves. Philpot, you know,” added he confidentially, “is a backward by rights, but he calls himself one of us because of the Tuesday night jams.”

“Is there another new boy too?” I inquired, plucking up heart with this friendly comrade.

“Oh! he’s coming to-morrow. Never mind! Even if he’s a ‘back’ it don’t matter, except for the glory of the thing! The ‘troubs’ were always ahead all Ladislaw’s time, and he’s no chicken. I say, come in the playground, can’t you?”

I followed rather nervously. A new boy never takes all at once to his first walk in the playground; but with Flanagan as my protector—who was “Hail fellow, well met,” with every one, even the backwards—I got through the ordeal pretty easily.

There were eight boys altogether at Stonebridge House, and I was introduced—or rather exhibited—to most of them that afternoon. Some received me roughly and others indifferently. The verdict, on the whole, seemed to be that there was plenty of time to see what sort of a fellow I was, and for the present the less I was made to think of myself the better. So they all talked rather loud in my presence, and showed off, as boys will do; and each expected—or, at any rate, attempted—to impress me with a sense of his particular importance.

This treatment gave me time to make observations as well as them, and before the afternoon ended I had a pretty good idea whom I liked and whom I did not like at Stonebridge House.

Presently we were summoned in to a bread-and-cheese supper, with cold water, and shortly afterwards ordered off to bed. I said my prayers before I went to sleep, as I had promised good Mrs Hudson, and, except for being shouted at to mind I did not snore or talk in my sleep—the punishment for which crimes was something terrific—I was allowed to go to sleep in peace, very lonely at heart, and with a good deal of secret trepidation as I looked forward and wondered what would be my lot at Stonebridge House.

Chapter Three.

How a Mysterious New Boy came to Stonebridge House.

When I rose next morning, and proceeded to take my turn at the washstand, and array my person in the travel-stained garments of the previous day, it seemed ages since I had parted with Brownstroke and entered the gloomy precincts of Stonebridge House.

Everything and everybody around me was gloomy. Even Flanagan seemed not yet to have got up the steam; and as for the other boys—they skulked morosely through the process of dressing, and hardly uttered a word. It was a beautiful day outside; the sun was lighting up the fields, and the birds were singing merrily in the trees; but somehow or other the good cheer didn’t seem to penetrate inside the walls of Stonebridge House.

I tried to get up a conversation with Flanagan, but he looked half-frightened and half guilty as I did so.

“I say,” said I, “couldn’t we open the window and let some fresh air in?”

(Mrs Hudson had always been strong on fresh air.)

“Look-out, I say,” said Flanagan, in a frightened whisper; “you’ll get us all in a row!”

“In a row?” I replied. “Who with?”

“Why, old Hen; but shut up, do you hear?” and here he dipped his face in the basin, and so effectually ended the talk.

This was quite a revelation to me. Get in a row with Miss Henniker for speaking to one of my schoolfellows in the dormitory! A lively prospect and no mistake.

Presently a bell rang, and we all wended our way down stairs into the parlour where I had yesterday enjoyed my tête-à-tête with Miss Henniker. Here we found that lady standing majestically in the middle of the room, like a general about to review a regiment.

“Show nails!” she ejaculated, as soon as all were assembled.

This mysterious mandate was the signal for each boy passing before her, exhibiting, as he did so, his hands.

As I was last in the procession I had time to watch the effect of this proceeding. “Showing nails,” as I afterwards found out, was a very old-established rule at Stonebridge House, and one under which every generation of “backward and troublesome boys” who resided there had groaned. If any boy’s hands or nails were, in the opinion of Miss Henniker, unclean or untidy, he received a bad mark, and was at once dismissed to the dormitory to remedy the defect.

One or two in front of me suffered thus, and a glance down at my own extremities made me a little doubtful as to my fate. I did what I could with them privately, but their appearance was not much improved.

At last I stood for inspection before the dreadful Henniker.

“Your hands are dirty, Batchelor. A bad mark. Go and wash them.”

The bad mark, whatever it might mean, appeared to me very unjust. Had I known the rule, it would have been different, but how was I to know, when no one had told me?

“Please, ma’am, I didn’t—”

“Two bad marks for talking!” was my only reply, and off I slunk, feeling rather crushed, to the dormitory.

I found Flanagan scrubbing at our basin.

“Ah,” said he, “I thought you’d get potted.”

“I think it’s a shame,” said I.

“Look-out, I say,” exclaimed Flanagan, skipping away as if he’d been shot, and resuming his wash at the other basin.

Presently he came back on tip-toe, and whispered, “Why can’t you talk lower, you young muff?”

“Surely she can’t hear, here up stairs?”

“Can’t she? That’s all you know! She hears every word you say all over the place, I tell you.”

I went on “hard all” at the nail-brush for a minute or so in much perplexity.

“Keep what you’ve got to say till you get outside. Thank goodness, she’s rheumatic or something, and we can open our mouths there. I say,” added he, looking critically at my hands, “you’d better give those nails of yours a cut, or you’ll get potted again.”

I was grateful for this hint, and felt in my pocket for my knife. In doing so I encountered the box of sweets Mrs Hudson had left in my hand yesterday, and which, amid other distractions, I had positively forgotten. “Oh, look here,” said I, producing the box, delighted to be able to do a good turn to my friendly schoolfellow. “Have some of these, will you?”

Flanagan’s face, instead of breaking out into grateful smiles, as I anticipated, assumed a sudden scowl, and at the same moment Miss Henniker entered the dormitory!

Quick as thought I plunged the box back into my pocket, and looked as unconcerned as it was possible to do under the trying circumstances.

“Flanagan and Batchelor, a bad mark each for talking,” said the now painfully familiar voice. “What have you there, Batchelor?” added she, holding out her hand. “Something Mrs Hudson gave me,” I replied.

“I wish to see it.”

I was prepared to resist. I could stand a good deal, but sheer robbery was a thing I never fancied. However, a knowing look on Flanagan’s face warned me to submit, and I produced the box.

The lady took it and opened it. Then closing it, she put it in her own pocket, saying—

“This is confiscated till the end of the term. Flanagan and Batchelor, ‘Show nails.’”

We did show nails. Mine still needed some trimming before they were satisfactory, and then I was bidden descend to the parlour for prayers.

Prayers at Stonebridge House consisted of a few sentences somewhat quickly uttered by Mr Ladislaw, who put in an appearance for the occasion, followed by a loud “Amen” from Miss Henniker, and in almost the same breath, on this occasion, the award of a bad mark to Philpot for having opened his eyes twice during the ceremony.

After this we partook of a silent breakfast, and adjourned for study. Miss Henniker dogged us wherever we went and whatever we did. She sat and glared at us all breakfast time; she sat and glared at us while Mr Ladislaw, or Mr Hashford, the usher, were drilling Latin grammar and arithmetic into us. She sat and glared while we ate our dinner, and she stood and glared when after school we assembled in the boot-room and prepared to escape to the playground. Even there, if we ventured to lift our voices too near the house, a bad mark was shot at us from a window, and if an unlucky ball should come within range of her claws it was almost certainly “confiscated.”

I don’t suppose Stonebridge House, except for Miss Henniker, was much worse than most schools for “backward and troublesome boys.” We were fairly well fed, and fairly well taught, and fairly well quartered. I even think we might have enjoyed ourselves now and then, had we been left to ourselves. But we never were left to ourselves. From morning to night, and, for all we could tell, from night till morning, we were looked after by the lady housekeeper, and that one fact made Stonebridge House almost intolerable.

We were lounging about in the so-called “playground” that afternoon, and I was beginning to discover a little more about some of my new schoolfellows, when there appeared walking towards us down the gravel path a boy about my own age.

He was slender and delicate-looking, I remember, and his pale face contrasted strangely with his almost black clustering hair and his dark big eyes. He wasn’t a handsome boy, I remember thinking; but there was something striking about him, for all that. It may have been his solemn expression, or his square jaw, or his eyes, or his brow, or his hair, or the whole of them put together. All I know is, that the sight of him as he appeared that afternoon walking towards us in the playground, has lived in my memory ever since, and will probably live there till I die.

“Here comes the new boy,” said Philpot. Of course we all knew it must be he.

“And a queer fish, too, by all appearances,” responded Flanagan.

“Very queer indeed,” said Hawkesbury. Hawkesbury was one of the two “backwards,”—but for all that he was the cleverest boy, so the others told me, in the whole school.

“He doesn’t seem very bashful,” said another.

Nor indeed did he. He sauntered slowly down the path, looking solemnly now on one side, now on the other, and now at us all, until presently he stood in our midst, and gazed half inquiringly, half doubtfully, from one to the other.

I know I felt a good deal more uncomfortable than he did himself, and was quite glad when Flanagan broke the solemn silence.

“Hullo, youngster, who are you, eh?”

“Smith,” laconically replied the new boy, looking his questioner in the face.

There was nothing impudent in the way he spoke or looked; but somehow or other his tone didn’t seem quite as humble and abject as old boys are wont to expect from new. Flanagan’s next inquiry therefore was a little more roughly uttered.

“What’s your Christian name, you young donkey? You don’t suppose you’re the only Smith in the world, do you?”

We laughed at this. It wasn’t half bad for Flanagan.

The new boy, however, remained quite solemn as he replied, briefly, “John Smith.”

“And where do you come from?” said Philpot, taking up the questioning, and determining to get more out of the new-comer than Flanagan had; “and who’s your father, do you hear? and how many sisters have you got? and why are you sent here? and are you a backward or a troublesome, eh?”

The new boy gazed in grave bewilderment at the questioner during this speech. When it was ended, he quietly proceeded to move off to another part of the playground without vouchsafing any reply.

But Philpot, who was on his mettle, prevented this manoeuvre by a sudden and dexterous grip of the arm, and drew him back into the circle.

“Do you hear what I say to you?” said he, roughly, emphasising his question with a shake. “What on earth do you mean by going off without answering?”

“It’s no business of yours, is it?” said the new boy, mildly.

“Yes,” exclaimed Philpot, “it is. You don’t suppose we fellows are going to be humbugged by a young sneak like you, do you?”

“I sha’n’t tell you, then!” quietly replied Smith.

This astounding reply, quietly as it was uttered, quite took away Philpot’s breath, and the breath of all of us. We were so astonished, indeed, that for some time no one could utter a word or make up his mind what to do next.

Then gradually it dawned on the company generally that this defiant, stuck-up youngster must immediately be put down.

“Come here!” said Philpot, as majestically as he could.

Smith remained where he was, as solemn as ever. But I, who stood near, could detect a queer light in his black eyes that looked rather ominous.

When one fellow, in the presence of an admiring audience, grandly orders a junior to “Come here!” and when that junior coolly declines to move, it is a very critical situation both for the boy who orders and the boy who disobeys. For the one, unless he follows up his brag, will pretty certainly be laughed at; and the other, unless he shows the white feather and runs away, will generally come in for a little rough usage. This seemed likely to happen now. As Smith would not come to Philpot for a thrashing, Philpot must go to Smith and thrash him where he stood. And so doubtless he would have done, had not Mr Hashford appeared at that very moment on the gravel walk and summoned us in to preparation.

This interruption was most unsatisfactory. Those who wanted to see what the new boy was made of were disappointed, and those whose dignity wanted putting to-rights were still more disappointed.

But there was no helping it. We trailed slowly indoors, Philpot vowing he would be quits with the young cub some day, and Hawkesbury, in his usual smiling way, suggesting that “the new boy didn’t seem a very nice boy.”

“I know what I should do,” said Flanagan, “if I—”

“A bad mark to Flanagan for not coming in quietly,” said the voice of Miss Henniker; and at the sound the spirit went out from us, and we remembered we were once more in Stonebridge House.

“Preparation” was a dreadful time. I knew perfectly well, though I could not see her, that Miss Henniker’s eyes were upon me all the time. I could feel them on the back of my head and the small of my back. You never saw such an abject spectacle as we nine spiritless youths appeared bending over our books, hardly daring to turn over a leaf or dip a pen, for fear of hearing that hateful voice. I could not help, however, turning my eyes to where the new boy sat, to see how he was faring. He, too, seemed infected with the depressing air of the place, and was furtively looking round among his new schoolfellows. I felt half fascinated by his black eyes, and when presently they turned and met mine, I almost thought I liked the new boy. My face must somehow have expressed what was passing through my mind, for as our eyes met there was a very faint smile on his lips, which I could not help returning.

“Batchelor and Smith, a bad mark each for inattention. That makes four bad marks to Batchelor in one day. No playground for half a week!”

Cheerful! I was getting used to the lady by this time, and remember sitting for the rest of the time calculating that if I got four bad marks every day of the week, that would be twenty-eight a week, or a hundred and twelve a month; and that if four bad marks deprived me of half a week’s playground, one month’s bad marks would involve an absence of precisely fourteen weeks from that peaceful retreat; whereat I bit my pen, and marvelled inwardly.

The dreary day seemed as if it would never come to an end. My spirits sank when, after “preparation,” we were ordered up stairs to tea. How could one enjoy tea poured out by Miss Henniker? Some people call it the “cup that cheers.” Let them take tea one afternoon at Stonebridge House, and they will soon be cured of that notion! I got another bad mark during the meal for scooping up the sugar at the bottom of my cup with my spoon.

“Surely,” thought I, “they’ll let us read or play, or do as we like, after tea for a bit?”

Vain hope! The meal ended, we again went down to our desks, where sheets of paper were distributed to each, and we were ordered to “write home”! Write home under Miss Henniker’s eye! That was worse than anything!

I began, however, as best I could. Of course, my letter was to Mrs Hudson. Where she was, was the only home I knew. I was pretty certain, of course, the letter would be looked over, but for all that I tried not to let the fact make any difference, and, as I warmed up to my task, I found my whole soul going out into my letter. I forgot all about its contents being perused, and was actually betrayed into shedding a few tears at the thought of my dear absent protectress.

“I wish I was back with you,” I wrote. “It’s miserable here. The sweets you gave me have been stolen by that horrid old—”

At this interesting juncture I was conscious of somebody standing behind me and looking over my shoulder. It was Miss Henniker!

“Give me that,” she said.

I snatched the letter up and tore it into pieces. I could stand a good deal, as I have said, but even a boy of twelve must draw the line somewhere.

Miss Henniker stood motionless as I destroyed my letter, and then said, in icy tones—

“Follow me, Batchelor.”

I rose meekly, and followed her—I cared not if it was to the gallows! She led me to her parlour, and ordered me to stand in the corner. Then she rang her bell.

“Tell Mr Ladislaw I should like to see him,” said she to the servant.

In due time Mr Ladislaw appeared, and the case for the prosecution forthwith opened. My misdemeanours for the entire day were narrated, culminating with this last heinous offence.

“Batchelor,” said Miss Henniker, “repeat to Mr Ladislaw word for word what you were writing when I came to you.”

I know not what spirit of meekness came over me. I did as I was told, and repeated the sentence verbatim down to the words, “The sweets you gave me have been stolen by that horrid old—”

“Old what?” said Mr Ladislaw.

“Old what?” said Miss Henniker, I hesitated.

“Come, now, say what you were going to write,” demanded Mr Ladislaw.

“Old what, Batchelor?” reiterated the Henniker, keeping her eyes on me.

I must be honest!

“Old beast,” I said in a low tone.

“I thought so,” said the lady. “Batchelor has called me a beast twice since he came here, Mr Ladislaw.”

“Batchelor must be punished,” said Mr Ladislaw, who, I could not help privately thinking, was a little afraid of Miss Henniker himself. “Come to my study, sir.”

I came, followed of course by the Henniker; and in Mr Ladislaw’s study I was caned on both hands. Miss Henniker would, I fancy, have laid it on a little harder than the master did. Still, it was enough to make me smart.

But the smart within was far worse than that without.

“Return to the class-room now, and write at once to your uncle, Mr Jakeman,” said Miss Henniker, “and to no one else.”

I returned to the room, where I found an eager whispered discussion going on. When a boy was taken off for punishment by the Henniker, those who were left always had a brief opportunity for conversation.

The subject of discussion, I found, was Smith, who sat apart, with no paper before him, apparently exempt from the general task. As usual, he was looking solemnly round him, but in no way to explain the mystery. At last Hawkesbury, the “pet” of the school—in other words, the only boy who seemed to get on with Miss Henniker and Mr Ladislaw—had walked up to Mr Hashford’s desk, where the usher sat in temporary authority, and had said, “Oh, Smith, the new boy, hasn’t any paper, Mr Hashford.”

“No, I was told not to give him any,” said the usher, terrified lest the Henniker should return.

“I wonder why?” said Hawkesbury.

“Yes, it is strange,” replied Mr Hashford; “but please go to your place, Hawkesbury; Miss Henniker will return.”

Hawkesbury had reported this brief conversation to his fellows, and this was what had given rise to the discussion I found going on when I returned from my caning. It was soon cut short by the Henniker’s reappearance; but the mystery became all the greater when it was seen that no notice was taken of the new boy’s idleness, and that at the close of the exercise, when we were all called upon to bring up our letters, his name was distinctly omitted.

My effusion to my uncle was brief and to the point.

Dear Uncle Jakeman,—Miss Henniker wishes me to say that I have had five bad marks to-day. I have also been caned hard on both hands for writing to dear Mrs Hudson, and for calling Miss Henniker bad names. I hope you are very well. Believe me, dear uncle, your affectionate nephew,—

Fred. Batchelor.

With the exception of striking out the “dear” before Mrs Hudson this letter was allowed to pass.

In due time and to my great relief the bell rang for bed, and glad of any chance of forgetting the hateful place, I went up stairs to the dormitory.

The new boy, I found, was to occupy the bed next mine, at which I was rather pleased than otherwise. I could not make out why I should take a fancy to Smith, but somehow I did; and when once during the night I happened to wake, and heard what sounded very much like a smothered sob in the bed next mine, I at least had the consolation of being sure I was not the only miserable boy at Stonebridge House.

Chapter Four.

How Smith and I took a breath of Fresh Air and Paid for it.

As “circumstances over which I had no control” prevented my joining my fellow troublesome and backward boys in their daily retreat to the playground for the next few days, I had only a limited opportunity of seeing how the new boy settled down to his new surroundings.

Inside Stonebridge House we were all alike, all equally subdued and “Henpecked.” The playground was really the only place where any display of character could be made; and as for three days I was a prisoner, Smith remained as much a mystery to me at the end of the week as he had been on the day of his arrival.

I could, however, guess from his looks and the looks of the others that he was having rather a bad time of it out there. Hawkesbury used to come in with such a gracious smile every afternoon that I was certain something was wrong; and Philpot’s flushed face, and Rathbone’s scowl, and Flanagan’s unusual gravity, all went to corroborate the suspicion. But Smith’s face and manner were the most tell-tale. The first day he had seemed a little doubtful, but gradually the lines of his mouth pulled tighter at the corners, and his eyes flashed oftener, and I could guess easily enough that he at least had not found his heart’s content at Stonebridge House.

My term of penal servitude expired on Sunday; and in some respects I came out of it better than I had gone in. For Mr Hashford had the charge of all detained boys, and he, good-hearted, Henniker-dreading usher that he was, had spent the three days in drilling me hard in decimal fractions; and so well too, that I actually came to enjoy the exercise, and looked upon the “repeating dot” as a positive pastime. Even Miss Henniker could not rob me of that pleasure.

“Batchelor,” whispered Flanagan to me, as we walked two and two to church behind the Henniker that Sunday, “that new fellow’s an awfully queer cove. I can’t make him out.”

“Nor can I. But how’s he been getting on the last day or two?”

“Getting on! You never knew such scenes as we’ve had. He’s afraid of nobody. He licked Philpot to fits on Thursday—smashed him, I tell you. You never saw such a demon as he is when his dander’s up. Then he walked into Rathbone; and if Rathbone hadn’t been a foot taller than him, with arms as long as windmills, he’d have smashed Rathbone.”

“Did he try it on you?” I inquired.

“No—why should he?” said the sturdy Flanagan; “time enough for that when I make a brute of myself to him. But I dare say he’d smash me too. It’s as good as a play, I tell you. That time he did for Philpot he was as quick with his right, and walked in under his man’s guard, and drove up at him, and took him on the flank just like—”

“A bad mark to Flanagan for talking, and to Batchelor for listening,” rose the voice of Miss Henniker in the street.

This public award made us both jump, and colour up too, for there were a lot of ladies and gentlemen and young ladies close at hand, all of whom must have distinctly heard the Henniker’s genial observation. However, I was most curious to hear more of Smith. Flanagan and I both had colds the rest of the way and finished our conversation behind our handkerchiefs.

“Have you heard any more about him?” asked I. “Not a word. He’s as close as an owl. Hawkesbury says Hashford told him he came here straight from another school. By the way—keep your handkerchief up, man!—by the way, when I said he’s afraid of no one, he is afraid of Hawkesbury, I fancy. I don’t know why—”

“I don’t think I like Hawkesbury, either. He’s got such an everlasting grin.”

“So will you have if you don’t talk lower, you young idiot,” said Flanagan. “Yes, it’s the grin that fetches Smith, I fancy. I grinned at him one day, meaning to be friendly, but he didn’t half like it.”

I laughed at this, greatly to Flanagan’s wrath. Luckily, however, no evil consequences happened, and we reached church without any more bad marks.

Of all days, Sunday at Stonebridge House was the most miserable and desperate. We had not even the occupation of lessons, still less the escape to the playground. After church, we were marched back to the school, and there set to read some dry task book till dinner.

And after dinner we were set to copy out a chapter of Jeremiah or some other equally suitable passage from beginning to end on ruled paper, getting bad marks as on week days for all faults. After this came tea, and after tea another dreary march forth to church. But the culminating horror of the day was yet to come. After evening church—and there really was a sense of escape and peace in the old church, even though we could not make out the sermon—after evening church, we were all taken up to Miss Henniker’s parlour, and there doomed to sit perfectly still for a whole hour, while she read aloud something by one of the very old masters. Oh, the agony of those Sunday evenings!

I have sat fascinated by that awful voice, with a cramp in my leg that I dared not stir to relieve, or a tickling in the small of my back from which there was no escape, or a cobweb on my face I had not the courage to brush away. I have felt sleep taking possession of me, yet daring neither to yawn, nor nod my head, nor wink my eyes. I have stared fixedly at the gas, or the old china ornament on the mantelpiece, till my eyes became watery with the effort and I have suffered all the tortures of a cold in the head without the possibility either of sniffing or clearing my throat!

It made no difference to Miss Henniker that she was reading aloud. She had her eye on every one of us the whole time, nay, more than ever; and many a bad mark was sprinkled up with her readings.

“Once more, dearly beloved—Batchelor, a bad mark,” became to me quite a familiar sound before I had been many Sundays at Stonebridge House.

This particular Sunday evening I thought I should go mad, at least, during the first part of the performance. I couldn’t sit still, and the more I tried the more restless I became. At last, however, some chance directed my eyes to where the new boy was sitting in a distant corner of the room, and from that moment, I can’t tell why, I became a model of quiet sitting. I found myself forgetting all about the cobwebs, and Mrs Hudson, and the china ornament, and the small of my back, and thinking of nothing but this solemn, queer boy, with his big eyes, and black hair, and troubled face. The more I looked at him the more sorry I felt for him, and the more I wished to be his friend. I would—

“Batchelor, repeat the last words I read,” broke in Miss Henniker.

She thought she had me, but no! Far away as my thoughts had been, my ears had mechanically retained those last melodious strains, and I answered, promptly, “Latitudinarianism of an unintelligent emotionalism!”

One to me! And I returned to my brown study triumphant, and pretty secure against further molestation.

I made up my mind, come what would, I would speak to the new boy and let him see I was not against him.

Some one will smile, of course, and say, sarcastically, “What a treat for the new boy!” But if he only knew with what fear and trembling I made that resolution, he would acquit Fred Batchelor of any very great self-importance in the matter.

Bedtime came at last, and, thankful to have the day over, we crawled away to our roosts. The new boy’s bed, as I have said, was next mine, and I conceived the determination, if I could only keep awake, of speaking to him after every one was asleep.

It was hard work that keeping awake; but I managed it. Gradually, one after another dropped off, and the padding footsteps overhead and the voices below died away till nothing was heard but the angry tick of the clock outside and the regular breathing of the sleepers on every hand.

Then I softly slid out of bed and crawled on my hands and knees to Smith’s bed. It was an anxious moment for me. He might be asleep, and wake up in a fright to find some one near him; or he might be awake and resent my intrusion. Still I determined I would go to him, and I was rewarded.

“Is that Batchelor?” I heard him whisper as I approached his bed.

“Yes,” I answered, joyfully, and feeling half the battle over.

“Come in,” said he, moving to make room for me.

“Oh no!” I said, in terror at the very idea. “Suppose I fell asleep. I’ll kneel here, and then if any one comes I can crawl back.”

“What is it?” Smith said, presently, after a long and awkward pause.

I was thankful that he broke the ice.

“Oh,” I whispered, “aren’t you jolly miserable here, I say?”

“Pretty!” said he. “Aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes! But the fellows are all so unkind to you.”

Smith gave a little bitter laugh. “That doesn’t matter,” he said.

“Doesn’t it? I wish I was bigger, I’d back you up—and so will Flanagan, if you let him.”

“Thanks, old man!” said the new boy, putting his hand on my arm. “It’s not the fellows I mind, it’s—” and here he pulled up.

“Old Henniker,” I put in, in accents of smothered rage.

“Ugh!” said Smith; “she’s awful!”

But somehow it occurred to me the Henniker was not what Smith was going to say when he pulled up so suddenly just before. I felt certain there was something mysterious about him, and of course, being a boy, I burned to know.

However, he showed no signs of getting back to that subject, and we talked about a lot of things, thankful to have scope for once for our pent-up feelings. It was one of the happiest times I had known for years, as I knelt there on the hard carpetless floor and found my heart going out to the heart of a friend. What we talked about was of little moment; it was probably merely about boys’ trifles, such as any boy might tell another. What was of moment was that there, in dreary, cheerless Stonebridge House, we had found some interest in common, and some object for our spiritless lives.

I told him all about home and my uncle, in hopes that he would be equally communicative, but here he disappointed me.

“Are your father and mother dead too?” I said.

“Not both,” he replied.

It was spoken in a tone half nervous, half vexed, so I did not try to pursue the subject.

Presently he changed the subject and said, “How do you like that fellow Hawkesbury?”

“Not much; though I don’t know why.”

Smith put out his hand and pulled my face close to his as he whispered, “I hate him!”

“Has he been bullying you?” I inquired.

“No,” said Smith. “But he’s—ugh—I don’t know any more than you do why I hate him. I say, shall you be out in the playground to-morrow?”

“Yes, unless I get four bad marks before. I’ve two against me already.”

“Oh, don’t get any more. I want to go for a walk.”

“A walk!” I exclaimed. “You’ll never be allowed!”

“But we might slip out just for a few minutes; it’s awful never to get out.”

It was awful; but the risk. However, I had promised to back him up, and so I said where he went I would go.

“If it was only to climb one tree, or see just one bird on the bushes,” he said, almost pathetically. “But I say, ain’t you getting cold?”

I was not, I protested, and for a long time more we continued talking. Then at last the creaking of a board, or the noise of a mouse, startled us in earnest, and in a moment I had darted back to my bed. All was quiet again.

“Good-night, old boy,” I whispered.

“Good-night, old man. Awfully good of you,” he replied. “I’ll come to you to-morrow.”

And not long after we were both sound asleep.

I managed to keep down my bad marks below four next day, so that I was able once more to take my walks abroad in the playground.

It was with a little feeling of misgiving that I sallied forth, for Smith was at my side, reminding me of our resolution to escape, if only for a few minutes, to the free country outside. I would greatly have preferred not trying it, but Smith was set on it, and I had not the face to leave him in the lurch.

The far end of the playground, beyond the swings, broke into a patch of tangled thicket, beyond which again a little ditch separated the grounds of Stonebridge House from the country outside.

To this thicket, therefore, we wandered, after “showing ourselves” on the swings for a few minutes, for the sake of allaying suspicions. The other fellows were most of them loafing about on the far side of the gravel yard, where the marble holes were; so we managed to make our escape pretty easily, and found ourselves at length standing on the breezy heath. Once there, Smith’s whole manner changed to one of wild delight. The sense of freedom seemed to intoxicate him, and the infection seized me too. We scampered about in a perfectly ridiculous manner; up hills and down hollows, leaping over bushes, chasing one another, and, in fact, behaving exactly like two kids (as we were), suddenly let loose from confinement.

“I say,” said I, all out of breath, “suppose we run clean away, Smith?”

Smith pulled up in the middle of a scamper, and looked up and down on every side. Then the old solemn look came as he replied, “Where to, that’s it?”

“Oh, Brownstroke, if you like; or your home. Let’s turn up, you know, and give them a jolly surprise.”

Smith’s face clouded over as he said, hurriedly, “I say, it’s time to be going back, or we shall get caught.”

This was an effectual damper to any idea of flight, and we quickly turned back once more to Stonebridge House.

We found our gap all right, and strolled back past the swings and up the gravel walk as unconcernedly as possible, fully believing no one had been witness of our escapade. We were wrong.

Hawkesbury came up to us as we neared the house, with the usual smile on his face.

“Didn’t you hear me calling?” he said. “You know it’s against rules to go out of bounds, and I thought—”

“What! who’s been out of bounds?” said the voice of the Henniker at that moment.

Hawkesbury looked dejected.

“Who did you say, Hawkesbury, had been out of bounds?”

“I’d rather not tell tales,” said Hawkesbury, sweetly.

“I’ve been out of bounds,” blurted out Smith, “and so has Batchelor. I asked him to come, and Hawkesbury has been spying and—”

“Silence,” cried Miss Henniker. “Smith and Batchelor, follow me.”

We followed duly to Mr Ladislaw’s study, where we were arraigned. Hawkesbury was sent for as evidence. He came smiling, and declared he may have been mistaken, perhaps it was two other boys; he hoped we should not be punished, etcetera. Smith was nearly breaking out once or twice during this, and it was all I could do to keep him in. Hawkesbury was thanked and dismissed, and then, with the assistance of Miss Henniker, Mr Hashford, and Mr Ladislaw, Smith and I were birched, and forbidden the playground for a fortnight, during which period we were required to observe absolute silence.

So ended our little adventure out for a puff of free air! Among our fellows we gained little enough sympathy for our misfortunes. Flanagan was the only fellow who seemed really sorry. The rest of the ill-conditioned lot saw in the affair only a good opportunity of crowing over their ill-starred adversary, and telling me it served me right for chumming up to such a one.

One day, greatly to my surprise, when the Henniker was away superintending the flogging of Flanagan for some offence or other, Hawkesbury came over and sat beside me.

“Oh,” said he, softly, “Batchelor, I’ve been wanting to tell you how sorry I am I helped get you into your scrape. I didn’t mean—I was only anxious for you to know the rule. I hope you’ll forgive me?” and he held out his hand.

What could I do? Perhaps he was telling the truth after all, and we had thought too badly of him. And when a big boy comes and asks pardon of a small one, it is always embarrassing for the latter. So I gave him my hand, and told him I was sure he did not mean it, and that it did not matter at all.

“Thanks, Batchelor,” he said, smiling quite gratefully. “It’s a relief to me.”

Then I watched him go on what I knew was a similar errand to Smith, but, as I expected, his reception in that quarter was not quite so flattering as it had been in my case. I could see my chum’s eyes fire up as he saw the elder boy approach, and a flush come over his pale cheeks. I watched Hawkesbury blandly repeating his apology, and then suddenly, to my astonishment and consternation, I saw Smith rise in his seat and throw himself furiously upon his enemy. Hawkesbury was standing near a low form, and in the sudden surprise caused by this attack he tripped over it and fell prone on the floor, just as Miss Henniker re-entered.

There was a brief pause of universal astonishment, then the Henniker demanded, “What is this? Tell me. What is all this, Hawkesbury?”

Hawkesbury had risen to his feet, smiling as ever, and brushing the dust from his coat, replied softly, “Nothing, really nothing, ma’am. I fell down, that’s all.”

“I knocked you down!” shouted Smith, panting like a steam-engine, and trembling with excitement.

“Oh,” said Hawkesbury, kindly, though not quite liking the downright way in which the adventure had been summed up. “It was only play, Miss Henniker. My fault as much as Smith’s. He never meant to be so rough. Really.”

“Silence, both!” said Miss Henniker. “Smith, follow me!”

“Oh, Miss Henniker, please don’t punish him,” said Hawkesbury.

“Silence,” replied the Henniker, icily. “Come, Smith.”

Miss Henniker had the wonderful art of knowing by instinct who was the culprit in cases like this. She was never troubled with a doubt as to her verdict being a right one; and really it saved her a great deal of trouble.

Smith was haled away to justice, where, in addition to a flogging and further term of imprisonment, he was reduced for a given period to a bread-and-water diet, and required publicly to beg Hawkesbury’s pardon.

That there might be no delay about the execution of the last part of the sentence, the culprit was conducted back forthwith to the schoolroom, accompanied by Miss Henniker and Mr Ladislaw.

“Hawkesbury,” said the latter, addressing the injured boy, “I have desired Smith to beg your pardon here and now for his conduct to you. Smith, do as you have been told.”

Smith remained silent, and I who watched him could see that his mind was made up.

“Do you hear Mr Ladislaw, Smith?” demanded the Henniker; “do as you are bid, at once.”

“Please, sir,” began Hawkesbury, with his pleasant smile.

“Silence, Hawkesbury,” said the Henniker. “Now, Smith.”

But she might have been addressing a log of wood.

“Do you hear what I say to you?” once more she exclaimed.

Smith only glared at her with his big eyes, and resolutely held his tongue.

“Then,” said Mr Ladislaw, “Smith must be publicly punished.”

Smith was punished publicly; and a more repulsive spectacle I never wish to witness. A public punishment at Stonebridge House meant a flogging administered to one helpless boy by the whole body of his schoolfellows, two of whom firmly held the victim, while each of the others in turn flogged him. In the case of an unpopular boy like Smith, this punishment was specially severe, and I turned actually sick as each of the cowardly louts stepped up and vented their baffled wrath upon him. Hawkesbury, of course, only made the slightest pretence of touching him; but this of all his punishment seemed to be the part Smith could bear least. At last, when it was all over, the bruised boy slunk back to his desk, and class proceeded.

That night, as I knelt beside my poor chum’s bed, he said, “We’ve paid pretty dear for our run on the heath, Fred.”

“You have, old man,” I replied.

Smith lay still for some time musing, then he said, “Whatever do they mean by forgiving enemies, Fred?”

Smith didn’t often get on these topics, and I was a little nervous as I replied, “What it says, I suppose.”

“Does it mean fellows like Hawkesbury?”

“I should say so,” said I, almost doubtful, from the way in which he spoke, whether after all I might not be mistaken.

“Queer,” was all he replied, musingly.

I tried hard to change the subject.

“Are you awfully sore, Jack?” I said. “Have one of my pillows.”

“Oh no, thanks. But I say, Fred, don’t you think it’s queer?”

“What, about forgiving your enemies? Well, yes it is, rather. But, I say, it’s time I cut back. Good-night, old man.”

And I crept back to bed, and lay awake half the night listening to him as he turned from side to side in his sleep, and feeling that everything and everybody was queer, especially my friend Smith.

Chapter Five.

How a Chapter of Misfortunes befel My Friend Smith and Me.

The summer wore on, and with it the gloom of Stonebridge House sunk deeper and deeper into our spirits. After a week or two even the sense of novelty wore off, and we settled down to our drudges’ doom as if we were destined all our lives never to see any place outside the Henniker’s domain.

If it hadn’t been for Smith I don’t know how I should have endured it. Not that we ever had much chance of enjoying one another’s society. In school it was wholly impossible. In the playground (particularly after our recent escapade), we had very little opportunity given us; and at night, when secretly we did contrive to talk, it was with the constant dread of detection hanging over us.

What concerned me most of all, though, was the bad way in which Smith seemed to get on with every one of his schoolfellows except me, and—perhaps Flanagan. With the bullies, like Philpot and Rathbone, he was at daggers drawn; towards the others he never took the trouble to conceal his dislike, while with Hawkesbury an explosion seemed always, imminent.

I could not understand why he got on so badly, especially with Hawkesbury, who certainly never made himself disagreeable, but, on the contrary, always appeared desirous to be friendly. I sometimes thought Smith was unreasonable to foster his instinctive dislike as he did.

“Jack,” said I one night as he was “paying a call” to my bedside—“Jack, I’m half beginning to think Hawkesbury isn’t so bad a fellow after all.”

“Why?” demanded Smith.

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s done me one or two good turns lately.”

“What sort?”

“Well, he helped me in the Latin the other day, of his own accord, and—”

“Go on,” said Smith, impatiently.

“And he gave me a knife to-day. You know I lost mine, and he said he’d got two.”

Smith grunted.

“I’d like to catch him doing a good turn to me, that’s all,” said he. “I’d cure him of that!”

I didn’t like to hear Smith talk like this. For one thing, it sounded as if he must be a great deal less foolish than I was, which nobody likes to admit; and for another thing, it seemed wrong and unreasonable, unless for a very good cause, to persist in believing nothing good about anybody else.

So I changed the subject.

“I say,” said I, “what are you going to do these holidays?”

“Stay here,” said he. “Are you going home?”

“What!” I exclaimed. “Stay here for four weeks with the old Hen? Why ever, Jack?”

“Don’t know—but that’s what I’ve got to do. Are you going home?”

“I suppose so,” said I, with an inward groan. “But, Jack, what will you do with yourself?”

“Much as usual, I expect. Sha’n’t get much practice in talking till you come back!” added he, with a low laugh.

“Jack, why don’t you go home?” I exclaimed. “Are you in a row there, or what? You never tell me a word about it.”

“Look-out, I hear some one moving!” cried Smith, and next moment he was back in his bed.

I was vexed. For I half guessed this alarm had been only an excuse for not talking about home, and I didn’t like being silenced in that way. Altogether that night I was a good deal put out with Smith, and when presently he whispered across “Good-night,” I pretended to be asleep, and did not answer.

But I was not asleep, and could not sleep. I worked myself first into a rage, then into an injured state, and finally into a miserable condition over my friend Smith.

Why should he keep secrets from me, when I kept none from him? No, when I came to think over it, I did not keep a single secret from him! Did he think I was not to be trusted, or was too selfish to care? He might have known me better by this time. It was true I had told him my secrets without his asking for them; in fact, all along he had not seemed nearly as anxious as I had been for this friendship of ours. My conscience stung me at this last reflection; and there came upon me all of a sudden a sense of the utter desolation of this awful place without a single friend! No, I determined it should take more than a little pique to make me cast away my only friend. And with the thought, though it must have been far on in the night, I slipped from my bed and crawled to his.

He was fast asleep, but at the first touch of my hand he started up and said, “What’s the row?”

“I’m sorry, Jack; but I was in a temper to-night, and couldn’t go to sleep till I made it up.”

“A temper! what about?” said he. “I didn’t know you were.”

“I fancied you wouldn’t—that is, that you thought—you didn’t trust me, Jack.”

“You’re the only fellow I do trust, Fred, there,” said he, taking my arm. Then, with a sigh, he added, “Why shouldn’t I?”

“What a beast I was, Jack!” cried I, quite repentant. “I don’t—”

“Hush!” said Jack. Then, whispering very close to my ear, he added, “There are some things, you know, I can’t tell even you—about home—”

There was a sound in the room, as of a boy, suddenly aroused, starting up in his bed. Our blood turned cold, and we remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe, straining our ears in the darkness.

Suddenly the boy, whoever he was, sprang from his bed, and seizing the lucifers, struck a light.

It was Hawkesbury! I had almost guessed it. I felt Jack’s hand tighten on my arm as the sudden glare fell full upon us, and Hawkesbury’s voice cried, “Oh, you fellows, what a start you gave me! I couldn’t make out what the talking was. I thought it must be thieves!”

At the same moment the dormitory door opened, and a new glare lit up the scene. It was Miss Henniker in her dressing-gown, with a candle.

“What, talking? Who was talking?” she said, overhearing Hawkesbury’s last exclamation.

It was a queer picture that moment, and I can recall it even now. Hawkesbury standing in his night-shirt in the middle of the room. I, as lightly clad, crouching transfixed beside my friend’s bed, who was sitting up with his hand on my arm. And the Henniker there at the door, in her yellow-and-black dressing-gown and curl-papers, holding her candle above her head, and looking from one to the other.

“Who was talking?” she demanded again, turning to Hawkesbury.

Hawkesbury, smiling, returned to his bed, as he replied, “Oh, nothing. I think I must have been dreaming, and woke in a fright.”

But as he spoke his eyes turned to us two, and Miss Henniker’s followed naturally. Then the whole truth dawned upon her.

I rose from my knees and walked sheepishly back to my bed.

“What are you doing out of your bed, sir?” demanded she.

It was little use delaying matters by a parley, so I replied, bluntly, “Talking to Smith.”

“And I,” added the loyal Smith, “was talking to Batchelor!”

“Silence!” cried the Griffin. “Batchelor, dress immediately, and follow me!”

I did as I was bid, mechanically—that is, I slipped on my knickerbockers and slippers—and found myself in a couple of minutes, thus airily attired, following Miss Henniker, like a ghost, down the long passage. She led the way, not, as I expected, to the parlour, or to Mr Ladislaw’s room, but conducted me upstairs and ushered me into a small and perfectly empty garret.

“Remain here, Batchelor!” said she, sternly.

The next moment she was gone, locking the door behind her, and I was left shivering, and in total darkness, to spend the remainder of the night in these unexpected quarters.

My first sensation was one of utter and uncontrollable rage. I was tempted to fling myself against the door, to shout, to roar until some one should come to release me. Then as suddenly came over me the miserable certainty that I was helpless, and that anything I did would be but labour lost, and injure no one but myself. And, Smith, too! It was all up with our precious secret parleys; perhaps we should not even be allowed to see one another any more. In my misery I sat down on the floor in a corner of my dungeon and felt as if I would not much care if the house were to fall about my ears and bury me in the ruins. Cheerful reflection this for a youth of my tender years!

As I sat, shivering and brooding over my hard fate, I heard footsteps ascending the stairs. When you are sitting alone in an empty room, at the dead of night, this is never a very fascinating sound, and I did not much enjoy it.

And as I listened I could make out that the footsteps belonged to two people. Perhaps I was going to be murdered, I reflected, like Prince Arthur, or the two boys in the Tower! At the same moment a streak of light glimmered through the crack of the door, and I heard a voice say, “Come this way, Smith.”

So Smith, too, was going to be locked up for the night. My heart bounded as for an instant it occurred to me it would be in my dungeon! No such good fortune! They passed my door. At any rate, my chum should know where I was, so I proceeded to make a demonstration against my door and beseech, in the most piteous way, to be released. Of course, it was no use, but that did not matter; I never expected it would.

I listened hard to the retreating footsteps, which stopped at the end of the passage. Then a door opened and shut again, a key turned, one pair of steps again returned past my door, and as I peeped through the keyhole I had a vague idea of a yellow-and-black gown, and knew that the Henniker had gone back to her place.

If only Smith had been shut up next door to me I might have been able to shout to him so that he could hear, but what chance was there when three or four rooms at least divided us? After all, except that he was near me, and knew where I was, things were not much better than they had been before. So I sat down again in my corner and sulkily watched the first glimmers of dawn peep in at the little window. It must be about 3 a.m., I thought. And that meant four good hours before any chance of a release came. And as it was, my feet were pretty nearly dead with cold, and a thin nightgown is not much covering for a fellow’s body and arms. It rather pleased me to think the adventure might end fatally, and that at my inquest Miss Henniker might be brought in guilty of manslaughter.

It must be breezy, for those leaves have been tapping away at my window the last minute or so pretty hard. Bother the leaves! And yet, when you come to think of it, you do not often hear leaves tap as hard as that! My window will be smashed in if they keep it up at that rate. So I get up lazily and approach the scene of action.

I nearly screamed as I did so, for there, close up against the window, was a face! I was so taken aback that it took me a good minute to recover my wits and perceive that the apparition was none other than my faithful friend Jack Smith, and that the tapping I had been giving the leaves such credit for had been his eager attempts to attract my attention.

I sprang to the window, jubilant, and opened it.

“Oh, Jack! hurrah! However did you get here?”

“Oh, you have spotted me at last, have you?” said he, with a grim smile. “I’ve been here five or ten minutes.”

“You have!” exclaimed I.

“Yes. My window opened on to this ledge, too; so I didn’t see why I shouldn’t come.”

“You might have fallen and killed yourself. But I say, Jack, won’t you come in? Even if we do get caught things can’t be much worse than they are.”

“I know that—so I think you’d better come out.”

“What for?” exclaimed I, in astonishment.

“To get away—anywhere,” said he.

In a moment I was up on the window-sill, scrambling out on to the ledge beside him. The fresh morning breeze blew on my face as I did so, and a glorious sense of freedom took hold of both our drooping spirits. We needed no words. Only let us get free!

“Come along,” said Jack, crawling along the narrow ledge which ran round the top of the house.

“How shall we get down?” I asked.

“That’s what I want to find out,” said Jack. “Isn’t there a water-pipe or something in front?”

Carefully we made our perilous journey round the side of the house towards the front. Smith leaned over and peered down.

“Yes,” said he, “there’s a water-pipe we could easily slide down, if we could only get at it. Look!”

I looked over too. The ground seemed a long way below, and I felt a trifle nervous at the prospect of trying to reach it by such unorthodox means as a water-pipe, even could we get at that pipe. But the ledge on which

we were overhung the side of the house, and the pipe began under it, just below where we stood.

“We must try, anyhow,” said Jack, desperately. “I’ll go first; catch hold of my hands, Fred.”

And he was actually going to attempt to scramble over and round under the ledge, when he suddenly paused, and cried, “Hold hard. I do believe this bit of ledge is loose!”

So it was. It shook as we stood upon it.

“We might be able to move it,” said Jack.

So we knelt down and with all our might tugged away at the stone that divided us from our water-pipe. It was obstinate at first, but by dint of perseverance it yielded to pressure at last, and we were able triumphantly to lift it from its place.

It was easy enough now reaching the pipe. But here a new peril arose. Sliding down water-pipes is an acquired art, and not nearly as easy as it seems. Jack, who volunteered to make the first descent, looked a little blue as he found the pipe was so close to the wall that he couldn’t get his hands round, much less his feet.

“You’ll have to grip it hard with your ankles and elbows,” he said, beginning to slide down an inch or two; “and go slow, whatever you do.”

It was nervous work watching him, and still more nervous work when at length I braced myself up to the effort and proceeded to embrace the slender pipe. How I ever managed to get to the bottom I can’t say. I remember reflecting about half way down that this would be good daily exercise for the Henniker, and the mere thought of her almost sent me headlong to the bottom.

At last, however, I stood safe beside my chum on the gravel walk.

“Now!” said he.

“Now,” I replied, “where shall we go?”

“London, I think,” said he, solemnly as ever, “All right—how many miles?”

“Eighty or ninety, I fancy—but where’s your coat?”

“In the dormitory. I was too much flurried to put it on.”

“Never mind, we can use mine turn about. But I wish we’d got boots instead of slippers.”

“So do I,” replied I, who even as I stood felt the sharp gravel cutting my feet; “ninety miles in slippers will be rather rough.”

“Never mind,” said Jack, “come on.”

“Come on,” said I.

At that moment, to our dismay and misery, we heard a window above us stealthily opened, close to the water-pipe, and looking up beheld the Henniker’s head and yellow-and-black body suddenly thrust out.

“Batchelor and Smith—Mr Ladislaw,” (here her voice rose to pretty nearly a shriek)—“Mr Ladislaw! come at once, please—Batchelor and Smith, running away. Mr Ladislaw, quick! Batchelor and Smith!”

We stood motionless, with no spirit left to fly, until the door was opened, and Mr Ladislaw, Miss Henniker, and Mr Hashford, all three, sallied out to capture us.

Among them we were dragged back, faint and exhausted, into Stonebridge House, all thoughts of freedom, and London, effectually banished from our heads, and still worse, with the bitter sense of disappointment added to our other miseries.

Mr Hashford was set to watch us for the rest of the night in the empty schoolroom. And he had an easy task. For even though he fell asleep over it, we had no notion of returning to our old scheme. Indeed, I was shivering so, I had no notion of anything but the cold. Jack made me put on his coat, but it made very little difference. The form I was on actually shook with my shivering. Mr Hashford, good soul that he was, lent me his own waistcoat, and suggested that if we all three sat close together—I in the middle—I might get warmer. We tried it, and when at six o’clock that same eventful morning the servant came to sweep the room she found us all three huddled together—two of us asleep and one in a fever.

I have only a dim recollection of what happened during the next week or so. I was during that time the most comfortable boy in all Stonebridge House. For the doctor came every day, ordered me all sorts of good things, and insisted on a fire being kept in my room, and no lessons. And if I wished to see any of my friends I might do so, and on no account was I to be allowed to fret or be disturbed in mind. I couldn’t help feeling half sorry for Miss Henniker being charged with all these uncongenial tasks; but Stonebridge House depended a great deal on what the doctor said of it, and so she had to obey his orders.

I took advantage of the permission to see my friends by requesting the presence of Smith very frequently. But as the Henniker generally thought fit to sit in my room at the same time, I didn’t get as much good out of my chum as I might have done. I heard he had had a very smart flogging for his share of that eventful night’s proceedings, and that another was being saved up for me when I got well.

It was quite a melancholy day for me when the doctor pronounced me convalescent, and said I might resume my ordinary duties. It was announced to me at my first appearance in school, that on account of my delinquencies I was on the “strict silence” rule for the rest of the term, that my bed was removed to the other dormitory, and that I was absolutely forbidden to hold any further communication, either by word or gesture, with my friend Smith.

Thus cheerfully ended my first term at Stonebridge House.

Chapter Six.

How things came to a Crisis at Stonebridge House.

A year passed, and found us at the end of it the same wretched, spiritless boys as ever. Stonebridge House had become no more tolerable, the Henniker had grown no less terrible, and our fellow “backward and troublesome boys” were just as unpleasant as they had been. No new boys had come to give us a variety, and no old boys had left. Except for the one fact that we were all of us a year older, everything was precisely the same as it had been at the time of the adventure related in my last chapter. But that one year makes a good deal of difference. When Smith and I slid down the water-pipe a year ago we were comparatively new friends, now we had grown to love one another like brothers. When the Henniker, on the same occasion, put an end to our scheme of escape, we had endured her persecutions but three months, now we had endured them for fifteen. A great deal of secret working may go on in a fellow’s mind during a year, and in that way the interval had wrought a change, for we were a good deal more to one another, Smith and I, and a good deal more desperate at our hard lot, both of us, than we had been a year ago.

It had been a miserable time. My holidays alone with my uncle had been almost as cheerless as my schooldays at Stonebridge House with Miss Henniker. If it hadn’t been for Smith I do believe I should have lost every vestige of spirit. But happily he gave me no chance of falling into that condition. He seemed always on the verge of some explosion. Now it was against Hawkesbury, now against the Henniker, now against Mr Ladislaw, and now against the whole world generally, myself included. I had a busy time of it holding him in.

He still showed aversion to Hawkesbury, although I differed from him on this point, and insisted that Hawkesbury was not such a bad fellow. Luckily, however, no outbreak happened. How could it, when Hawkesbury was always so amiable and forgiving and friendly? It was a wonder to me how Jack would persist in disliking this fellow. Sometimes I used to be quite ashamed to see the scornful way in which he repulsed his favours and offers of friendship. On the whole I rather liked Hawkesbury.

The summer term was again drawing to a close, and for fear, I suppose, lest the fact should convey any idea of pleasure to our minds, the Henniker was down on us more than ever. The cane was in constant requisition, and Mr Ladislaw was always being summoned up to administer chastisement.

Even Hawkesbury, who generally managed to escape reproach, came in for her persecution now and then.

One day, I remember, we were all in class, and she for some reason quitted the room, leaving Mr Hashford in charge.

Now, no one minded Mr Hashford very much. He was a good-natured fellow, who did his best to please both us and his mistress; but he was “Henpecked,” we could see, like all the rest of us, and we looked upon him more as a big schoolfellow than as a master, and minded him accordingly. We therefore accepted the Henniker’s departure as a signal for leaving off work and seizing the opportunity to loosen our tongues and look about us. Hawkesbury happened to be sitting next to me. He put down his pen, and, leaning back against the desk behind him, yawned and said, “I say, Batchelor, I hope you and Smith haven’t been quarrelling?”

“Quarrelling!” exclaimed I, astounded at the bare notion. “Why, whatever puts that into your head?”

“Oh,” said he, with his usual smile, “only fancy. But I’m glad it isn’t the case.”

“Of course it isn’t,” said I, warmly.

“I haven’t seen you talking to him so often lately; that’s why,” said Hawkesbury; “and it always seems a pity when good friends fall out.”

I smiled and said, “How can I talk to him, except on the sly, in this place? Never fear, Jack Smith and I know one another too well to fall out.”

“Ah, he is a mysterious fellow, and he lets so few people into his secrets.”

“Yes,” said I, colouring a little. “He doesn’t even let me into them.”

Hawkesbury looked surprised. “Of course you know where he came from first of all, and all that?”

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“What, not know about— But I’d better not talk about it. It’s not honourable to talk about another boy’s affairs.”

“Hawkesbury,” said Mr Hashford at this moment, “don’t talk.”

This was quite a remarkable utterance for the meek and mild Mr Hashford to make in the Henniker’s absence, and we all started and looked up in a concerned way, as if he must be unwell.

But no, he seemed all right, and having said what he had to say, went on with his work.

Hawkesbury took no notice of the interruption, and went on. “And, on the whole, I think it would be kinder not to say anything about it, as he has kept it a secret himself. You see—”

“Hawkesbury,” again said Mr Hashford, “you must not talk.”

Hawkesbury smiled in a pitiful sort of way at Mr Hashford, and again turned towards me to resume the conversation. “You see—” began he.

“Hawkesbury,” again said Mr Hashford, “this is the third time I have told you not to talk.”

“Who was talking?” cried the Henniker, entering at that moment.

“Hawkesbury, I’m sorry to say, Miss Henniker.”

“Hawkesbury—a bad mark for—”

“Oh!” said I, starting up, “I was talking—”

“A bad mark to you, Batchelor, for interrupting me, and another for talking. Hawkesbury, a bad mark for talking in class.”

We were all astonished. We had hitherto looked upon Hawkesbury as a privileged person who might do as he liked, and upon Mr Hashford as a person who had not a soul of his own. Here was the phenomenon not only of our schoolfellow getting publicly censured, but of Mr Hashford backing up Miss Henniker, and Miss Henniker backing up Mr Hashford.

Flanagan afterwards confided to me his theory of this unwonted event. “I expect,” said he, “Hashford’s just got his screw raised, and wants to show off a bit before the Hen, and she wants to encourage him to be rather more down on us, you know. She’s got the toothache, too, I know, and that accounts for her not being particular who she drops on, though I am surprised she pitched on Hawkesbury. How pleased your chum Smith will be!”

But my friend Smith, when I had a chance of speaking to him, seemed indifferent about the whole affair, being taken up with troubles of his own. A letter had come for him that day, he told me, in tones of fierce anger. It had been opened and read as usual, before being handed to him. He did not complain of that; that was an indignity we had to submit to every time we received a letter. But what he did complain of, and what had roused his temper, was that the last half-sheet of the letter had been deliberately torn off and not given to him.

Directly after class he had marched boldly to the Henniker’s parlour and knocked at the door.

“Come in!” snapped she.

Smith did come in, and proceeded to business at once.

“You haven’t given me all my letter, ma’am,” he said.

Miss Henniker looked at him with some of the same astonishment with which she had regarded me when I once told her she was to see my socks were regularly darned.

Then she pulled herself up, in her usual chilly manner, and replied, “I am aware of that, Smith.”

“I want it, please, ma’am,” said Smith.

Again the Henniker glared at this audacious youth, and again she replied, “You will not have it, Smith!”

“Why not?”

“Leave the room instantly, sir, for daring to speak like that to me, and write out one hundred lines of Caesar before you get your dinner!” cried the Henniker, indignantly. “You’ve no right to keep—”

“Smith, follow me!” interrupted Miss Henniker, in her most irresistible voice, as she led the way to Mr Ladislaw’s study.

Smith did follow her, and was flogged, of course.

I was as indignant as he was at this tale of injustice; it reminded me of my box of sweets last year, which I had never seen back.

Smith’s rage was beyond all bounds. “I won’t stand it!” said he; “that’s all about it, Fred!”

“What can we do?” asked I.

That was the question. And there was no answering it. So we slunk back to our places, nursing our wrath in our bosoms, and vowing all sorts of vengeance on the Henniker.

Nor were we the only boys in this condition of mind. Whether it was the Henniker was thoroughly upset by her toothache, or by Hawkesbury’s bad conduct and Smith’s impertinence, I cannot say, but for the next day or two she even excelled herself in the way she went on.

There was nothing we could do, or think, or devise, that she did not pounce upon and punish us for. Some were detained, some were set to impositions, some were flogged, some were reduced to bread and water, some had most if not all of their worldly goods confiscated. Even Hawkesbury shared the general fate, and for a whole week all Stonebridge House groaned as it had never groaned before.

Then we could stand it no longer. We all felt that; and we all found out that everybody else felt it. But as usual the question was, what to do?

It was almost impossible to speak to one another, so closely were we watched, and even when we did, we discovered that we were all at sixes and sevens, and agreed only on one thing, which was that we could not stand it.

At length one day, to our infinite jubilation, as we were dismally walking from the schoolroom to the parlour, we saw the front door open. A fly was standing at it, and as we passed, the Henniker in her Sunday get-up was stepping into it!

What had we done to deserve such a mercy? She was going to pay a state call somewhere, and for one blessed hour at any rate we should be at peace!

A council of war was immediately held. For once in a way Stonebridge House was unanimous. We sunk all minor differences for a time in the grand question, what should we do?

A great many wild suggestions were immediately made.

Rathbone undertook, with the aid of any two other fellows, to inflict personal chastisement on the public enemy.

This was rejected peremptorily. It would be no use, we should catch it all the worse afterwards; besides, bad as she was, the Henniker was a woman, and it would be cowardly to thrash her.

“Tie up her hands and feet and gag her,” suggested Philpot.

Wouldn’t do again. She’d get Ladislaw to help her out.

“Tie up Ladislaw and Hashford too.”

We weren’t numerous or strong enough to do it.

“Let’s all bolt,” suggested Flanagan.

They’d send the police after us. Or if they didn’t, how were we to get on, without money or shelter or anywhere to go?

“Suppose,” said I, “we shut them out of the schoolroom and barricade the door, and don’t let them in till they accept our terms.”

“That’s more like it,” said some one; “but then what about food? We can’t store enough, even if we emptied the larder, to stand a long siege.”

“Well, then,” said Smith, “suppose we screw them up, and don’t let them out till they give in.”

“That’s it,” said every one, “the very thing.”

“What do you say, Hawkesbury?” inquired I.

“Well,” said he, smiling pleasantly, “it’s not a nice thing to turn against one’s master and mistress; but really Miss Henniker has been very vexing lately.”

“Hurrah! then you agree?” And the question was put all round, every one assenting. At least so I thought. But Smith as usual was doubtful of Hawkesbury.

“You agree, Hawkesbury?” said he.

“Really,” said the other, with a smile, “it isn’t nice to be suspected, Smith. Isn’t it enough to say a thing once?”

“Oh yes, yes,” cried out every one, impatiently, and most anxious to keep the meeting harmonious. “He said he did, Smith; what more do you want? Do let’s pull all together.”

“Just what I want,” said Smith.

“Well,” said Philpot, “I propose we lock them up in the big schoolroom.”

“Wouldn’t it be better,” said Flanagan, “to lock the Henniker up in her own room, and let Ladislaw and Hashford have the parlour? It will be more comfortable for them. There’s a sofa there and a carpet. Besides, the window’s a worse one to get out of.”

“How about feeding them?” some one asked.

“That’ll be easy enough,” said Smith. “There’s a ventilator over all the doors, you know. We can hand the things in there.”

“I vote the old Hen gets precious little,” interposed Rathbone. “I wouldn’t give her any.”

This idea was scouted, and it was resolved that all the prisoners should have a sufficient, though, at the same time, a limited amount of provisions. That being arranged, the next question was, when should we begin? We had to take a good many things into account in fixing the important date. To-day was Friday. The butcher, some one said, always brought the meat for the week on Monday; but the baker never came till the Wednesday. So if we began operations on Monday we should have a good supply of meat but very little bread to start with; and it was possible, of course, the baker might smell a rat, and get up a rescue. It would be better, on that account, to defer action till after the baker’s visit on Wednesday. But then the washerwoman generally came on the Thursday. We all voted the washerwoman a nuisance. We must either take her a prisoner and keep her in the house, or run the risk of her finding out that something was wrong and going back to the village and telling of us.

“If we could only keep it up a week,” said Smith, “I think we could bring them to terms.”

“Suppose we drop a line to the washerwoman the day before not to call,” suggested I.

The motion met with universal applause, and I was deputed to carry it out at the proper time. The good lady’s address I knew was on a slate in Miss Henniker’s pantry.

“And I tell you what,” said Smith, starting up with the brilliancy of the suggestion; “let’s hide away all the bread we can find, except just what will last over to-morrow. Then most likely she’ll tell the baker to call on Monday, and we can begin then!”

It was a brilliant suggestion. Two of the company departed forthwith to the larder, and unobserved hid away a few loaves in one of the empty trunks in the box-room.

Our plans were ripening wonderfully. But the most difficult business was yet to come. What terms should we require of our prisoners as the price of their release? And on this point, after long discussion, we found we could not agree. Some were for the immediate dismissal of the Henniker; others demanded that she should not be allowed to speak without special permission; and others that she should remain in her parlour all day long, and come out only for prayers and to give orders to the tradesmen.

These proposals were too absurd to take seriously; and as presently the company began to grow a little quarrelsome over the matter, it was decided for peace’ sake that the question should be deferred, and terms arranged when the prisoners themselves offered to give in.

“If I may make a suggestion,” said Hawkesbury, who had taken no part in the previous discussion, “it is that you should appoint one fellow captain, and agree to obey his orders. You’ll never manage it if you don’t.”

“Not at all a bad idea,” said one or two. “You be the captain, Hawkesbury.”

“No, thank you,” said he, smiling gratefully. “I really am not used to this sort of thing; but I think Smith, now, would be just the fellow.”

I considered this beautiful of Hawkesbury, coming so soon after Smith’s rather uncomplimentary behaviour to him.

The proposition was generally approved. Smith was not a favourite, but he had made the only suggestions of any real use in the present case, and appeared to have entered into the scheme so warmly that it was evident no one would make a better captain.

He received his new dignity with great complacency.

“I’ll do my best,” said he, “if you fellows will back me up and stick to the engagement.”

Our time was now getting brief, so after a few more hurried suggestions and discussions we separated and returned to our ordinary duties.

That evening the Henniker was no better than she had been during the day. Her brief sojourn in society that afternoon had not improved her a bit, Flanagan, as usual, suggested a plausible reason.

“I expect,” whispered he, “she went after a new pupil and didn’t hook him; that’s why she’s in such a precious tantrum.”

“Flanagan!” cried the well-known voice—“Flanagan, come here!”

Flanagan obeyed, and stood meekly before the tyrant.

“This is the eighth time to-day, Flanagan, I have rebuked you for talking. You are detained for the rest of the term. Hold out your hand, Flanagan!”

It was not often the Henniker inflicted corporal punishment herself; when she did it was pretty smart, as Flanagan found. In the absence of a cane she had used the ruler, and as Flanagan—who unsuspectingly supposed she was merely seized with a desire to inspect his nails—held out his hand knuckles upwards, the ruler descended on his knuckles with such force that the luckless youth howled for astonishment, and performed a dance solo in the middle of the floor.

We were sorry for him, yet we inwardly smiled to think how soon the tables would be turned.

That night, just before we went to bed, as I was in the shoe-room looking for my slippers, I had the satisfaction of hearing the Henniker say to the kitchen-maid, “Matilda, we’re getting short of bread. Let the baker know to call on Monday next week.”

Things could not have promised better for our desperate scheme!

Chapter Seven.

How there arose a Notable Rebellion at Stonebridge House.

Of course we were wrong; of course we were foolish.

But then, reader, please remember we were only boys goaded up to the last pitch, and quite unable, as I have narrated, to stand the Henniker any longer.

It was no game we were embarked on. If you had seen the seriousness of our faces as we inspected the parlour and reconnoitred the Henniker’s future prison, that Saturday; if you had heard the seriousness of our voices as we solemnly deliberated whether nails or screws would be best to use in fastening up the doors—you would have found out that, “backward and troublesome” boys as we were, we could be in earnest sometimes.

“Screwing’s quieter,” said Rathbone.

“Nailing’s quicker,” said Philpot.

“Isn’t that a thing the captain had better decide?” softly suggested Hawkesbury, turning to Smith.

I always got fidgety when the senior boy and my chum got near each other. Smith had such a way of firing up instinctively at whatever the other might say, even when it meant no harm.

He flared up now with his eyes, and then turning to the two boys, said, shortly, “Screws of course; that’s been settled long ago.”

Hawkesbury smiled gratefully, and said he was sure a matter like that would not be overlooked.

Well, the Henniker went on having her fling that Saturday and Sunday. We caught it right and left, and took it all meekly. Nay, some of us took it so meekly that I was once or twice afraid our secret would be suspected.

The regulation-reading in the parlour on Sunday evening was a shocking time for me. I had no intention of being bad, but somehow, what with the excitement of our scheme, and the dreariness of the reader’s voice, and the closeness of the room, I fell asleep and nearly rolled off my form.

The Henniker put down her book.

“Batchelor,” said she, “you shall be punished. Stand on the form and read aloud.”

And so saying, she handed me the book and pointed to the place.

This was the very refinement of torture, and I draw a veil over the sad spectacle which followed. Nor was I the only victim standing there struggling and perspiring through the long sentences, turned back whenever I made a mistake, to begin the page over again, till the end of the chapter seemed to get farther and farther away; the other boys, too, came in for part of the tragedy, for the Henniker, being now free of her book, had no occupation for her eyes but to glare at them, and no occupation for her tongue but to level bad marks and rebukes and punishments at the head of every offender.

“Reading” lasted that evening until ten o’clock, and to this day I cannot imagine how it ever came to an end even then. I know I never got to the end. This sad experience gave a considerable additional zest to our hopes of freedom on the following day.

Smith was not the sort of fellow to undertake what he did not mean to carry through, and I was astonished to see how carefully his plans were laid, and how precisely he had allotted to every one of us our respective duties.

Monday dawned at length, and we rose from our beds like patriots on the morning of a battle which is to decide their freedom or slavery.

I had two minutes’ whisper with Smith as we went down to breakfast.

“Tell the fellows,” said he, “that the signal to begin will be just when morning school is over. The Hen goes to get ready for dinner, and Shankley and Philpot are to follow and screw her up. The holes are already bored, so it won’t take long.”

“Suppose she yells,” suggested I.

“Not likely, but if she does—her room’s far enough away. Oh! by the way, I’ve screwed her window already. I thought we can one of us easily smash a pane for her if she wants more ventilation.”

“And how about Ladislaw and Hashford?”

“I’m going down, when the Henniker’s safe, to ask them both to step up into the parlour. They’ll probably think something’s wrong, and hurry up. (I’ve screwed that window, too, by the way.) Then you and Rathbone are to screw their door when they are safe in—I’ve put the key outside, too—and I’ve told the other fellows to be ready to bring a lot of desks and things out of the schoolroom and pile them up, in case they kick too hard.”

“Upon my word, Jack, you’re a regular general. But I say, we’ve forgotten the two servants.”

“No, we haven’t. I’ve told them what’s up, and they won’t interfere; but—shut up now.”

During the morning we continued to pass round word what the arrangements were, and waited feverishly for the close of morning school. As we sat in the class-room we had the satisfaction of seeing first the butcher’s pony and then the baker’s cart drive up the front garden and drive back again. We were all right for the “sinews of war” for a day or two, anyhow!

The Henniker kept it up till the last, and distributed her favours lavishly and impartially all round. But we heeded it not; we even enjoyed it, for were not we to have our innings next?

It seemed as if morning school would never end. At last a fluttering at our hearts, more convincing even than the clock, told us the hour was come. We rose from our seats. The rebellion at Stonebridge House had begun.

The Henniker marched with stately tread from the room, and up the stairs to her own apartment. It seemed a long journey to us, who sat listening in breathless silence, and at last the closing of her door seemed to resound all over the house.

“Now then,” said Smith to Shankley and Philpot, who, with their shoes off and their tools in their hands, stood ready, like two trained assassins, for the word of command. “Now then, and keep quiet, whatever you do!”

They went. There was nothing stately about their march. They darted up the stairs two steps at a time, and the last we saw of them was as they turned the corner into the passage, at the end of which was situate the enemy’s fortress.

It seemed a year before they returned!

At last Shankley, with beaming face, burst into our midst.

“It’s all right!” said he, in an excited whisper. “She sounded a little like kicking, so Philpot’s keeping guard. We had one screw half in before she even heard us.”

“What did she say then?” asked three or four eager questioners.

“She wanted to know who was there, and if we wanted to speak to her we must wait till she came down, and a bad mark to whoever it was for coming and disturbing her.”

There was a general laugh at this, which Smith hurriedly checked.

“The thing’s only half done yet,” he said. “Time enough to laugh when the other two are safe.”

This was a wise rebuke, and we became serious in an instant.

“Now,” said Smith, “have you got the screwdriver and screws all right, Batchelor? The rest of you be ready if I call;” and off he went to summon the two masters to the parlour.

It was a critical moment, for every thing depended on our getting both into the room together.

Smith, so he told us afterwards, found both Mr Ladislaw and Mr Hashford talking together in the study of the former. He entered the room suddenly, and crying, in an agitated voice, “Oh, will you both please step up to Miss Henniker’s parlour at once? Please be quick!” as suddenly vanished.

Of course both the masters, making sure Miss Henniker must be in a fit, or else that the house must be on fire, rushed upstairs, gallantly side by side, to the rescue. Rathbone and I, who were in hiding behind the door next to that of the parlour, could hear them scuttling towards us along the passage, and making straight for their trap. They rushed wildly into the room. In a moment we were out after them, the door was slammed to, the key was turned, and the first screw was well on its way home before they even found out that the beloved Henniker was not there!

Then, after a moment’s pause (during which screw number two had started on its way), the handle of the door was shaken, and Mr Hashford’s voice cried out, “Who is there? What are you doing there, you boys?”

His only answer was a mighty cheer from the assembled pupils of Stonebridge House, which must have been quite as explicit as the longest explanation.

“Now then,” cried Smith, as once more the handle of the door was violently agitated; “look sharp, you fellows, with the desks—”

“Smith,” cried the voice of Mr Ladislaw, from within; “you shall answer for this, Smith. Undo the door at once, sir.”

But it had been agreed no parley should be held with the besieged, and Smith’s only answer was to help to drag up the first desk and plant it firmly against the door. The blockade was soon made, but until it was, the fellows kept steadily and seriously to work.

Then ensued a scene I shall never forget, and which told significantly as the most thrilling story what had been our privations and persecutions and unhappiness at Stonebridge House.

The fellows yelled and rushed through the school as if they were mad. They shouted, and sung, and halloed, and laughed. They flung books and rulers and ink-pots to the four winds of heaven. They put the cane in the fire, and one of the Henniker’s reading books, which was lying in the study, they tore into a thousand pieces. They burst into every forbidden nook and cranny of the house. They rushed down to the kitchen and up to the attics. They bawled down the speaking-tube, and danced on the dining-room table. Nothing was omitted which could testify to their glee at the new emancipation, or their hatred of the old régime. They held a mock school outside the Henniker’s door, and gave one another bad marks and canings with infinite laughter, by way of cheering up their prisoner.

Finally the calls of hunger put an end to this strange demonstration, and with a mighty stampede we made for the kitchen. To our surprise, it was empty.

“Why, where’s the cook and housemaid?” cried one and another to Smith.

“Oh,” said Smith, who with the cares of generalship upon him had taken only a small part in the jubilation which had just been celebrated, “the servants have gone home. They both live at Felwick, so I said they might take a week’s holiday.”

The coolness of this announcement was received with much laughter, in the midst of which, however, Hawkesbury was heard to say, “I hope Smith is a good cook, for really I can’t eat my food raw.”

This was certainly a matter we had not reckoned on, and the idea of raw meat did cast a temporary shadow on our happiness. But Smith replied, “Oh, of course we do the cooking by turns. By the way, Hawkesbury, you and Flanagan have to see to that to-day.”

Hawkesbury’s smile left him for an instant.

“Nonsense; I’m not going to do anything of the sort.”

“Then you’d better be the captain,” said Smith glumly, “if you aren’t going to obey orders.”

Hawkesbury’s smile returned.

“Oh, if it’s the captain’s orders, of course. Come along, Flanagan.”

“Come along,” said the jovial Flanagan; “I think we’ll make a hash of it with a vengeance!”

Whereat this little breeze blew over. As a matter of fact, we all assisted at the cooking of this celebrated meal, and made a terrific hash of it, which, nevertheless, we relished greatly, and declared we had never tasted such a dinner since we came to Stonebridge House. No more we had!

But amid our own feasting it would never do to forget our prisoners. Three parcels were made, containing each a liberal helping of bread and meat, with little parcels of salt and butter thoughtfully added.

“Write on them ‘For two days,’” said Smith, “and bring them up.”

“How about water?” asked some one.

“There’s enough in each room for a day or two,” said Smith, who seemed to have taken note of everything.

“I don’t see the fun of feeding them up this way,” said Rathbone. “You’ll never get them to give in as long as you make them so jolly comfortable.”

“I’d like to see how you liked it for two days,” said Smith. “I don’t suppose you’d think yourself overfed or jolly comfortable either. But come on; have you got the string?”

Each parcel was attached to a long piece of string, and conveyed in state by the entire school to its respective destination. The Henniker was first fed. Amid shouts of “Cheer, boys, cheer,” and “Rule Britannia,” we marched up to her door and halted, while Smith, with the aid of a rake, lifted the parcel on to the small ventilator above the door, and gave it a little shove over the other side.

“Now lower away,” said he to the boy who held the string.

“Smith, I hear your voice,” cried the Henniker. “Smith, open my door, please.”

Except for the last extraordinary expression the Henniker’s voice sounded much as usual. No answer, of course, was given, and we waited until the parcel should be detached from the string.

For about five minutes it remained untouched, during which period the holder tried to attract the attention of the prisoner by sundry spasmodic jerkings of the string. At length the fish did bite. Without a word the parcel was detached from the string. We turned to go.

“Plate, knife, and fork in the cupboard,” cried out Smith, as we did so.

“You don’t mean to say,” said Rathbone, as we went along, “that you’ve put a knife and fork for her?”

“Yes, I have,” said Smith, in a manner which did not encourage the truculent Rathbone to pursue the subject.

The feeding of the two masters was a longer process. For to reach their door it was necessary to climb over a perfect jungle of desks and chairs piled up against it; and when reached it was discovered that the glass ventilator, which usually stood open, had been shut and fastened inside. But Smith was not to be baulked by a trifle. He coolly broke the glass with his rake, till he had made a hole big enough to admit the parcels, which, one after the other, were lifted over the opening, and lowered within reach of their respective owners. In the present case the string to which they were attached was double, so, when it was found that neither was taken, Smith gave the order to “run” the string, and let them drop the parcels off on to the floor. This was done, and we were turning to go, when Mr Ladislaw’s voice rose in angry tones.

“Listen to me, boys,” he cried, authoritatively.

A general yell was the only answer to this, mingled with loud laughter, as Mr Hashford’s head suddenly appeared at the broken ventilator. The apparition was the signal for a general fusillade of paper balls, in the midst of which the usher modestly retired from observation.

The evening was spent in the same rollicking manner as the afternoon. We held mock school in Mr Ladislaw’s study, and got Flanagan to dress up in an old gown of the Henniker’s, which was found in the boot-room, and enact that favourite character’s part, which he did to the life. We also made out our own “reports” for home, and played a most spirited game of croquet in the hall, with potatoes for balls and brooms for mallets, besides treating our prisoners to a ravishing concert by an orchestra of one dinner-bell, two dish-covers, two combs and paper, and one iron tray.

We kept it up till rather late, and, indeed, it was not till Smith summoned us to a council of war that the problem of how and where to spend the night occurred to us.

“Some of us ought to stay up as sentinels,” said our captain.

“Well, I can’t, for one,” said Philpot, “for I was never so sleepy in my life.”

“I should think,” said Hawkesbury, sweetly, “if the captain stayed up we should be quite safe.”

Why should Smith glare so whenever Hawkesbury spoke? I wondered. I’m sure there did not seem to be anything offensive in this.

“I’ll stay up, Jack,” said I, more with a desire to avert a row than because I felt particularly “spry.”

“So will I,” said Shankley, “if you’ll dig me in the ribs when I get sleepy.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Smith, after having recovered himself. “Suppose we bring all the beds down and camp out on the landing.”

This was carried with acclamation, and every one forthwith proceeded to his dormitory, and reappeared staggering under the weight of his bedclothes. One monstrous bed was made in which we all “camped out” in turn, one fellow only remaining awake as sentinel for an hour at a time.

“We shall have to settle to-morrow,” said Smith, when he had returned to “camp,” after having gone the round and seen that all lights were out, and all doors and bolts fastened—“we shall have to settle to-morrow what to say to them about coming out, you fellows.”

“I thought that was left to the captain,” said Hawkesbury.

“I vote we stick out against the Henniker having anything to do with us,” said Philpot, “in or out of school.”

“Yes, and do away with afternoon school and preparation too,” said Rathbone; “they are both nuisances.”

“And get a holiday to go out of bounds once a week,” said Flanagan in the act of dropping asleep.

These sweeping schemes of reform, however, agreeable as they sounded, seemed none of them likely to receive the assent of our prisoners.

Smith’s idea was a good deal more moderate. “I don’t see that we can stick out for more than leave to talk when we are not in class, and do away with ‘detentions.’”

“That really seems hardly worth all the trouble,” said Hawkesbury, “does it?”

“It’s left to the captain,” said Smith, shortly, “and that’s my idea, if you agree.”

“We ought to bargain they don’t take any more notice of this affair, or write home about it,” suggested Shankley.

“Who cares what they write home?” scornfully inquired Smith.

“Ah, it may not matter to you,” said Hawkesbury, smiling very sweetly, “but to all the rest of us it does.”

Smith glared at the speaker, and looked as if he was about to fly at his throat; but he controlled himself, and merely replied, “Very well, then, they are to promise not to say anything about it at home, as well as give in on the other things. Is that settled?”

Everybody said “yes,” and shortly afterwards most of the mutineers were peacefully asleep.

“Fred,” said Smith to me that night, as we kept watch together, “unless that fellow Hawkesbury lets me alone I shall give the thing up.”

“Don’t do that,” said I. “Really, I don’t think that Hawkesbury means it. I’ll speak to him if you like.” It cost me a great effort to say this.

Smith fired up unwontedly at the suggestion.

“If you do, you and I will never be friends again,” he said, passionately. Then recovering himself, he added, repentantly, “Fred, I’m awfully sorry I lost my temper. I know I’m a brute; but please don’t think of speaking to any one about it.”

“All right, old man,” said I.

And so the night wore on, and when presently it came to be our turn to lie down and sleep in the big bed, I, at any rate, did so a good deal disturbed in my spirit, and not altogether sure whether in our present escapade we Stonebridge House boys were not making rather fools of ourselves.

Chapter Eight.

How the Rebellion collapsed, and we left Stonebridge House.

I was roused next morning early by the sound of voices, and found that a fresh council of war was being held in the big bed on the question of the ultimatum. Smith was away at the time.

“I mean to say,” said Rathbone, “Smith’s far too mild to suit me.”

I felt called upon to stick up for my chum.

“Why did you make him captain?” I said. I had long got past the stage of being afraid either of Rathbone or Philpot at Stonebridge House.

“Well,” retorted the malcontent, “why doesn’t he go the whole hog?”

“Depends on what you call the whole hog,” I replied.

“Why, instead of feeding them up like fighting-cocks I’d starve them—I would. And I’d have locked them all together in an empty garret, and not in rooms with sofas and beds and all that nonsense. And I wouldn’t let them out till they came out on their knees and promised to do whatever they were ordered. That’s what I’d do, and I’ll tell—”

“Now then, Rathbone,” cried Smith, entering at that moment, “it’s your turn to look after the grub, remember. Look alive, or we shall have no breakfast.”

It was a curious indication of the power that was in my friend Smith, that Rathbone—though the words of mutiny were even then on his lips—quietly got up and went off to his allotted duties without saying a word.

“Look here,” said Smith, presently, pulling two papers from his pocket, “I’ve written out the terms we agreed to. How will this do?

“‘To Mr Ladislaw, Miss Henniker, and Mr Hashford,—We, the undersigned boys of Stonebridge House, are willing to release you on the following conditions:

“‘1. That leave be given to the boys to talk to one another when not in class.

“‘2. That detention for bad marks given by Miss Henniker be abolished.

“‘3. That you say nothing to any one about all this.

“‘As long as you stick to these conditions, and Miss Henniker doesn’t plague us, we agree to be steady and not mutiny any more.’ That’s about all we need say, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see,” said Philpot, “the use of the last clause. We don’t want to bind ourselves down.”

“There’s no harm, though, in saying we won’t kick up a row if they treat us properly.”

“I don’t know,” said Philpot, doubtfully. “I don’t want to sign away my right to kick up a row.”

We laughed at this ingenuous admission, and Smith said, “Well, I think we’ve a better chance of bringing them to book if we keep it in. What do you say, Flanagan?”

“Oh yes, keep it in. You know I like rows as well as anybody, but what’s the use of them when there’s nothing to make them about?”

“I think it had better stay in,” said I. “What do you say, Hawkesbury?”

Hawkesbury smiled in an amused way, as if it was a joke.

This appeared to incense Smith greatly, as usual.

“Why ever don’t you say what you think instead of grinning?” he blurted out.

“Why, you know, my dear fellow, we leave it all to you. I agree to anything!”

I verily believe if Smith had had a boot in his hand it would have found its way in the direction of his enemy’s smile. Happily he hadn’t; so he turned his back on the speaker, and proceeded, “Very well, then we’d better sign these at once. I’ve got a pen and ink here. Look sharp, you fellows.”

“Don’t you think,” said Hawkesbury, blandly, once more, “as it’s all been left to the captain, he had better sign the paper in the name of the school? You don’t mind, Smith, I’m sure?”

Smith snatched up the pen hastily, and signed his name at the foot of each document.

“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you mean.”

I could watch the working of his face as he hurriedly folded each paper up into the form of a note, and knew the storm that was going on in his own breast. Certainly Hawkesbury, however good his intentions, was a little aggravating.

“Perhaps you’ll throw that in over the Henniker’s door?” said Smith, handing one of the notes to Hawkesbury.

Again Hawkesbury smiled as he replied, “Really, I’m such a bad shot; I’d much rather you did it.”

“Give it me,” I cried, interposing before my friend could retort. “I’ll throw it in.”

Saying which I took the missive, and after one or two bad shots, succeeded in getting it through the ventilator and hearing it drop in the middle of the Henniker’s floor.

“A letter for you,” I cried by way of explanation. “You’ve an hour to give an answer.”

“Batchelor,” replied Miss Henniker from within, in what seemed rather a subdued voice, “you are doing very wrong. Let me out immediately, Batchelor.”

“Not till you promise what’s written in the note,” replied I, quitting the place.

A similar ceremony was enacted by Smith in delivering the “ultimatum” to the two masters, and we then adjourned for breakfast.

“What shall we do to-day?” asked Flanagan, who was quite fresh again after yesterday’s hard work.

“Oh, any mortal thing you like,” said Shankley. “I mean to go and have a rare walk over the roof.”

“I vote we make up a party and go down to the village,” said another.

“No, no,” said Smith, looking up, “we must stay indoors, or the thing will soon get known. You can do anything you like indoors.”

There was a little growling at this, although we knew there was reason in the prohibition.

“I don’t see any harm in going out on the heath,” said Rathbone; “you did that yourself once.”

“Yes, and some one saw me do it,” replied Smith. “I say, stay in doors.”

His tone was peremptory, and as usual it had its due effect. The fellows ate their breakfast quietly and said no more about it.

The meal was rather a protracted one, owing to Rathbone having forgotten to put the bag in the coffee-pot before he inserted the coffee, and thus spoiling the beverage altogether. He was sent back to make it over again—a circumstance which by no means had the effect of soothing his spirits.

By the time breakfast was done the hour had nearly arrived when our prisoners were to give their answers to our manifesto.

As we were preparing to march up stairs, with a view to ascertain their decision, Hawkesbury met us, coming down with his hat on.

“Where are you going?” demanded Smith.

Hawkesbury looked very pleasant indeed as he replied, “Oh, please don’t mind me. I’m going out for a walk. I’ve got a headache, and really I don’t see much use playing about indoors.”

Smith’s face darkened. “Didn’t you hear me say there was no going out?” he said.

Hawkesbury smiled and seemed much amused. Smith’s wrath was rising apace. “What I said I’ll stick to!” cried he, standing across the step. “You sha’n’t go out!”

“Hawkesbury,” I interposed, anxious to avert a row, “we’ve all promised to obey the captain, you know.”

“Really,” replied Hawkesbury, “I didn’t. Please let me pass, Smith.”

“Then you were speaking false,” exclaimed the irate Smith, “when you said you did promise?”

“Really, Smith, I didn’t say I did promise—”

“Wretched liar!” replied Smith.

“That’s not a nice name to call a fellow,” mildly replied Hawkesbury. “I hope I’m a gentleman, and don’t deserve it.”

“Bah,” said Smith, in tones of utter disgust, standing aside and letting his enemy pass. “Go where you like, we want no sneaks here!”

Hawkesbury walked on, smiling pleasantly.

“Good-bye for the present,” said he. “Mind you obey your captain, you fellows. We all know he’s a gentleman, don’t we?”

And he went out, leaving us all in a state of utter astonishment.

A babel of voices at once arose. Some declared Hawkesbury was quite right not to stand being ordered about; others said he ought to have been stopped going out, and others said, “Who cared if he did go?”

In the midst of this my eyes turned to Jack Smith. His face, which had been flushed and excited, was now pale and solemn. He either did not hear or did not heed the discussion that was going on; and I must confess I felt half-frightened as my eyes suddenly met his. Not that he looked dangerous. He had a strange look—half of baffled rage and half of shame—which was quite new to me, and I waited anxiously to discover what he meant.

As his eye met mine, however, he seemed to recover himself and to make up his mind.

“Batchelor,” said he, “get the screwdriver.”

“What are you going to do?” asked some one. “Are you going to lock Hawkesbury out?”

“No,” said Smith, quietly; “but I’m going to let out the others.”

“What!” cried the fellows at this astounding announcement: “without waiting for their answer? We shall all get expelled!”

“No, you won’t!” said Smith, doggedly, and rather scornfully.

“You don’t mean to say you’re going to show the white feather?” said Rathbone.

“I mean to say I’m going to let them out.”

“Yes, and get all the credit of it, and leave us to get into the row,” said Philpot.

Smith turned round short on the speaker and held out the screwdriver. “Here,” said he, “if you want the credit, go and do it yourself!”

Of course, Philpot declined the tempting offer, and, without another word, Smith walked up to the passage and began pulling away the desks from the parlour door.

Flanagan and one or two of us, sorely perplexed, helped him; the others stood aloof and grumbled or sneered.

The two masters within heard the noise, but neither of them spoke.

At last all was clear, and Smith said, “Now then, you’d better go, you fellows!”

We obeyed him, though reluctantly. Our curiosity as well as our anxiety prompted us to stay. We retired to the end of the passage, where from a distant door we nervously watched Smith turn the key and draw out first one screw then the other from the door that divided him and us from our masters.

At last we saw it open. Smith walked into the room and shut the door behind him. What happened inside we never exactly knew. After half an hour, which seemed to us as long as a day, the three emerged, and walked straight down the passage and up the stairs that led to Miss Henniker’s room. Smith, with the screwdriver, walked in the middle, very solemn and very pale.

Stealthily we crawled up after them, and hid where we could observe what was to follow.

Mr Ladislaw knocked at the Henniker’s door.

“Well?” said a voice within.

The word was mildly spoken, and very unlike the snap to which we had been accustomed in former days.

“It is I,” said Mr Ladislaw, “and Mr Hashford.”

“I shall be glad if you will immediately have my door opened,” was the reply.

“Smith, unscrew the door at once,” said Mr Ladislaw.

Smith solemnly proceeded to do as he was bid, and presently the screws were both dislodged.

“Is it done?” said the Henniker when the sound ceased.

“Yes, Miss Henniker; the door is quite free.”

“Then,” said the Henniker—and there positively seemed to be a tremor in the voice—“please go; I will be down presently.”

So the little procession turned and once more walked down the stairs, Smith, with his screwdriver, still walking solemnly in the middle. We who were in hiding were torn by conflicting desires. Our first impulse was to remain and enjoy the spectacle of the crestfallen Henniker marching forth from her late prison. But somehow, rough boys as we were, and not much given to chivalric scruples, the sound of that tremble in the Henniker’s voice, and with it the recollection of the part we had taken in her punishment, made us feel as if, after all, the best thing we could do was not to remain, but to follow the others down stairs.

As we were doing so the ten o’clock bell rang for morning classes, and we naturally sought the schoolroom, where, with Mr Hashford in the desk, school was assembled just as if nothing had happened. Hawkesbury was the only absentee.

I certainly admired Mr Hashford on this occasion. He appeared to be the only person in the room who was not thoroughly uncomfortable. Indeed, as we went on with our work, and he, almost pleasantly, entered into it with us, we felt ourselves getting comfortable too, and could hardly believe that the usher now instructing us had, an hour ago, been our prisoner, and that we so recently had been shouting words of mutiny and defiance all over the school. It was like a dream—and, after all, not a very nice dream.

But we were recalled to ourselves when presently, along the passage outside our door, there resounded a footstep which instinct told us belonged to the Henniker. Not much chance of feeling comfortable with that sound in one’s ears!

But to our surprise and comfort it passed on and descended the stairs. It was like a reprieve to convicted felons.

Class went on, and the clock was getting on to twelve—the usual hour for a break—when the door opened, and Mr Ladislaw put in his head and said, “Smith, will you step down to my study? Mr Hashford, the mid-day bell will not ring till one to-day.”

Smith solemnly followed the master from the room, and for another hour we worked in class—one of us, at any rate—feeling very anxious and not a little uneasy.

When the bell did ring, and we went down stairs, not knowing exactly what was to become of us, my first thought was, what had become of Smith? He was not in the playground, where we wandered about listlessly for a quarter of an hour before dinner, nor was he to be seen when presently we assembled in the memorable parlour for our mid-day repast.

It was not a very grand meal, that dinner. We partook of the cold remains of a joint which one of ourselves had made a woeful attempt to cook the day before, and which now tasted anything but delicious. Miss Henniker was in her usual place, and as we sat with our eyes rigidly fixed on the plates before us, we were conscious of her glancing once or twice towards one and another of us, and then turning away to speak to Mr Ladislaw, who was also present. Except for the whispered conversation of these two not a word was uttered during the meal. Even Flanagan, when, in reaching the salt, he knocked over his water, did not receive the expected bad mark, but was left silently to mop up the spill as best he could.

It was a terrible meal, and my anxiety about my friend Smith made it all the worse.

Dinner was over, and we were descending to afternoon class in Mr Ladislaw’s study, when the front door opened and Hawkesbury entered.

We could see he was taken aback and utterly astonished to see Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker at liberty and us once more at our old tasks. For a moment his face looked concerned and doubtful, then, suddenly changing, it broke out into smiles as he ran up to Mr Ladislaw.

“Oh, Mr Ladislaw,” cried he, “and Miss Henniker, I am so glad! I really couldn’t bear to be in the school while they were treating you so shamefully!”

“Where have you been, Hawkesbury?” said Mr Ladislaw.

“Oh! I went out in hopes of being able to—”

“You have told no one of what has occurred?” said Mr Ladislaw, sternly.

“Oh, no!” said the smiling Hawkesbury; “I really went out because I couldn’t bear to be in the school and be unable to do anything for you and Miss Henniker. I am so glad you have got out!”

None of us had the spirit to protest. We could see that Hawkesbury’s statement, and his expressed joy at their liberation, had gone down both with Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker—and at our expense, too; and yet we dared not expostulate or do ourselves justice.

Afternoon school went on, and still no Smith appeared. Was he locked up in the coal-hole or in one of the attics up stairs? I wondered; or had he been given into custody, or what? No solution came to the mystery all that afternoon or evening. We worked silently on, conscious that the Henniker’s eyes were upon us, but aware that she neither spoke nor interfered with us.

Bedtime came at last, and, in strange trouble and anxiety, I went up. I almost made up my mind to ask Mr Hashford or Mr Ladislaw what had become of Smith, but I could not screw my courage up to the pitch.

As I was undressing, Hawkesbury came near me and whispered, “Where is Smith?”

I vouchsafed no reply. I had been used to give Hawkesbury credit for good intentions, but I had had my confidence shaken by that day’s events.

“Don’t be cross with me, Batchelor,” said he; “I really don’t deserve it.”

“Why did you desert and leave us all in the lurch?” growled I.

“I did not mean to do it,” said he, very meekly; “but really, when I woke this morning I felt I was doing wrong, Batchelor, and could not bear to stay in and stand by while Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker were kept shut up. That’s really the reason, and I thought it would be kinder of me to keep out of the way and not spoil your fun. Smith quite misunderstood me, he did really.”

“Why didn’t you say you wouldn’t join before we began?” I asked.

“Why, because you know, Batchelor, I was in a bad frame of mind then, and was angry. But I tried hard to forgive, and I blame myself very much that I even seemed to agree. You mustn’t think too hardly of me, Batchelor.”

I said nothing, but went on undressing, more perplexed than ever to know what to think. Hawkesbury, after a warm “Good-night,” left me, and I was thankful, at any rate, for the prospect of a few hours’ sleep and forgetfulness.

I was just getting into bed, and had turned back the clothes to do so, when I suddenly caught sight of a scrap of paper appearing from under my pillow.

I first supposed it must be some remnant of last night’s sports, but, on taking it out, found that it was a note carefully rolled up and addressed to me in Smith’s well-known hand.

With eager haste I unfolded it and read, “I’m expelled. Good-bye. Write ‘J.,’ Post-Office, Packworth.”

Expelled! sent off at an hour’s notice, without even a word of good-bye! My first sensations were selfish, and as I curled myself up in bed, with his note fast in my hand, I felt utterly wretched, to know that my only friend, the only comfort I had at Stonebridge House, had been taken away. What should I do without him?

Expelled! Where had he gone to, then? Packworth, I knew, was a large town about ten miles from Brownstroke, where my uncle now and then went on business. Did Jack live there, then? And if he did, why had he never told me? At any rate, I could get over and see him in the holidays. “Write to me.” How was that possible here? unless, indeed—unless I could smuggle the letter into the post. Poor Jack expelled! Why should he be expelled more than any of us, except Hawkesbury? What a fury he had been in with Hawkesbury that very morning! Certainly Hawkesbury was aggravating. Strange that my friend Smith and Hawkesbury—that my friend Jack—that Jack and Hawk—

And here, in a piteous muddle of mind and spirit, I fell asleep.

I remained another year at Stonebridge House after Jack Smith had been expelled. We did not get a single holiday during that period, so that my scheme of walking over from Brownstroke, and finding him out at Packworth, never came off. And I only contrived to write to him once. That was the first time, the Sunday after he had left, when the Henniker saw me dropping my letter into the post. After that I was closely watched, and I need hardly say, if Jack ever wrote to me, I never got his letter. Still I cherished the memory of my friend, and even when Stonebridge House was most desolate, found some consolation in feeling pretty sure I had a friend somewhere, which is more than every one can say.

I made steady progress with my arithmetic and other studies during the year, thanks to Mr Hashford, who, good fellow that he was, took special pains with me, so that at the end of the year I was pronounced competent to take a situation as an office-boy or junior clerk, or any like post to which my amiable uncle might destine me.

I was not sorry to leave Stonebridge House, as you may guess. During the last year, certainly, things were better than they had been. No reference was made on any occasion, either in public or in private, to the great rebellion of that summer. The Henniker never quite got over the shake she had had when we rose in arms against her, and Mr Ladislaw appeared proportionately subdued, so on the whole things were rather more tolerable. And for lack of my lost friend, I managed to improve the acquaintance of the good-natured Flanagan, besides retaining the favour of the smiling Hawkesbury.

So passed another year, at the end of which I found myself a wiser and a sadder boy, with my back turned at length on Stonebridge House, and my face towards the wide, wide world.

Chapter Nine.

How I replied to an Advertisement and waited for the Answer.

The day that witnessed my departure from Stonebridge House found me, I am bound to confess, very little improved by my year or two’s residence under that dull roof. I do not blame it all on the school, or even on Miss Henniker, depressing as both were.

There is no reason why, even at a school for backward and troublesome boys, a fellow shouldn’t improve, if he gave his mind to it. But that is just where I failed. I didn’t give my mind to it. In fact, I made up my mind it was no use trying to improve, and therefore didn’t try. The consequence was, that after Jack Smith left, I cast in my lot with the rest of the backward and troublesome boys, and lost all ambition to be much better than the rest of them.

Flanagan, the fellow I liked best, was always good-humoured and lively, but I’m not sure that he would have been called a boy of good principles. At any rate, he never professed to be particularly ambitious in any such way, and in that respect was very different from Hawkesbury, who, by the time he left Stonebridge House, six months before me, to go to a big public school, had quite impressed me with the worth of his character.

But this is a digression. As I was saying, I left Stonebridge House a good deal wilder, and more rackety, and more sophisticated, than I had entered it two years before. However, I left it also with considerably more knowledge of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division; and that in my uncle’s eye appeared to be of far more moment than my moral condition.

“Fred,” he said to me the day after I had got home, and after I had returned from a triumphant march through Brownstroke, to show myself off to my old comrades generally, and Cad Prog in particular—“Fred,” said my uncle, “I am going to send you to London.”

“To London!” cried I, not knowing exactly whether to be delighted, or astonished, or alarmed, or all three—“to London.”

“Yes. You must get a situation, and do something to earn your living.”

I ruminated over this announcement, and my uncle continued, “You are old enough to provide for yourself, and I expect you to do so.”

There was a pause, at the end of which, for lack of any better remark, I said, “Yes.”

“The sooner you start the better,” continued my uncle. “I have marked a few advertisements in that pile of newspapers,” added he, pointing to a dozen or so of papers on his table. “You had better take them and look through them, and tell me if you see anything that would suit you.”

Whereat my uncle resumed his writing, and I, with the papers in my arms, walked off in rather a muddled state of mind to my bedroom.

Half way up stairs a sudden thought occurred to me, which caused me to drop my burden and hurry back to my uncle’s room.

“Uncle, do you know the Smiths of Packworth?”

My uncle looked up crossly.

“Haven’t you learned more sense at school, sir, than that? Don’t you know there are hundreds of Smiths at Packworth?”

This was a crusher. I meekly departed, and picking up my papers where I had dropped them, completed the journey to my room.

It had been a cherished idea of mine, the first day I got home to make inquiries about my friend Smith. It had never occurred to me before that Smith was such a very common name; but it now dawned slowly on me that to find a Smith in Packworth would be about as simple as to find a needle in a bottle of hay.

Anyhow, I could write to him now without fear—that was a comfort. So I turned to my newspapers and began to read through a few of the advertisements my uncle had considerately marked.

The result was not absolutely exhilarating. My uncle evidently was not ambitious on my account.

“Sharp lad wanted to look after a shop.” That was the first I caught sight of. And the next was equally promising.

“Page wanted by a professional gentleman. Must be clean, well-behaved, and make himself useful in house. Attend to boots, coals, windows, etcetera. Good character indispensable.”

I was almost grateful to feel that no one could give me a good character by any stretch of imagination, so that at any rate I was safe from this fastidious professional gentleman. Then came another:

“News-boy wanted. Must have good voice. Apply Clerk, Great Central Railway Station.”

Even this did not tempt me. It might be a noble sphere of life to strive to make my voice heard above a dozen shrieking engines all day long, but I didn’t quite fancy the idea.

In fact, as I read on and on, I became more and more convinced that my splendid talents would be simply wasted in London. Nothing my uncle had marked tempted me. A “muffin boy’s” work might be pleasant for a week, till the noise of the bell had lost its novelty; a “boy to learn the art of making button-holes in braces” might perhaps be a promising opening; and a printer’s boy might be all very well, but they none of them accorded with my own ideas, still less with my opinion of my own value.

I was getting rather hopeless, and wondering what on earth I should say to my uncle, when the brilliant idea occurred to me of looking at some of the other advertisements which my uncle hadn’t marked. Some of these were most tempting.

“A junior partner wanted in an old-established firm whose profits are £10,000 a year. Must bring £15,000 capital into the concern.”

There! If I only had £15,000, my fortune would be made at once!

“Wanted a companion for a nobleman’s son about to travel abroad.”

There again, why shouldn’t I try for that? What could a nobleman’s son require more in a companion than was to be found in me?

And so I travelled on, beginning at the top of the ladder and sliding gently down, gradually losing not only the hope of finding a situation to suit me, but also relinquishing my previous strong faith in my own wonderful merits. I was ready to give it up as a bad job, and go and tell my uncle I must decline all his kind suggestions, when, in an obscure corner of one paper, my eye caught the following:

“Junior clerkship. An intelligent lad, respectable, and quick at figures, wanted in a merchant’s office. Wages 8 shillings a week to commence. Apply by letter to Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, Hawk Street, London.”

I jumped up as if I had been shot, and rushed headlong with the paper to my uncle’s study.

“Look at this, uncle! This will do, I say! Read it, please.”

My uncle read it gravely, and then pushed the paper from him.

“Absurd. You would not do at all. That is not one of those I marked, is it?”

“No. But they were all awful. I say, uncle, let’s try for this.”

My uncle stared at me, and I looked anxiously at my uncle.

“Fred,” said he sternly, “I’m sorry to see you making a fool of yourself. However, it’s your affair, not mine.”

“But, uncle, I’m pretty quick at figures,” said I.

“And intelligent and respectable too, I suppose?” added my uncle, looking at me over his glasses. “Well, do as you choose.”

“Will you be angry?” I inquired.

“Tut, tut!” said my uncle, rising, “that will do. You had better write by the next post, if you are bent on doing it. You can write at my desk.”

So saying he departed, leaving me very perplexed and a good deal out of humour with my wonderful advertisement.

However, I sat down and answered it. Six of my uncle’s sheets of paper were torn up before I got the first sentence to my satisfaction, and six more before the letter was done. I never wrote a letter that cost me such an agony of labour. How feverishly I read and re-read what I had written! What panics I got into about the spelling of “situation,” and the number of l’s in “ability”! How carefully I rubbed out the pencil-lines I had ruled, and how many times I repented I had not put a “most” before the “obediently”! Many letters like that, thought I, would shorten my life perceptibly. At last it was done, and when my uncle came in I showed it to him with fear and trembling, and watched his face anxiously as he read it.

“Humph!” said he, looking at me, “and suppose you do get the place, you won’t stick to it.”

“Oh yes, I will,” said I; “I’ll work hard and get on.”

“You’d better,” said my uncle, “for you’ll have only yourself to depend on.”

I posted my letter, and the next few days seemed interminable. Whenever I spoke about the subject to my uncle he took care not to encourage me over much. And yet I fancied, gruff as he was, he was not wholly displeased at my “cheek” in answering Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s advertisement.

“Successful!” growled he. “Why, there’ll be scores of other boys after the place. You don’t expect your letter’s the best of the lot, do you? Besides, they’d never have a boy up from the country when there are so many in London ready for the place, who are used to the work. Mark my word, you’ll hear no more about it.”

And so it seemed likely to be. Day after day went by and the post brought no letter; I was beginning to think I should have to settle down as a newspaper-boy or a page after all.

At the end of the week I was so disheartened that I could stay in the house no longer, but sallied out, I cared not whither, for a day in the fresh air.

As I was sauntering along the road, a cart overtook me, a covered baker’s cart with the name painted outside, “Walker, Baker, Packworth.”

A brilliant idea seized me as I read the legend. Making a sign to the youth in charge to stop, I ran up and asked, “I say, what would you give me a lift for to Packworth?”

“What for? S’pose we say a fifty-pun’ note,” was the facetious reply. “I could do with a fifty-pun’ note pretty comfortable.”

“Oh, but really, how much? I want to go to Packworth awfully, but it’s such a long way to walk.”

“What do you weigh, eh?”

“I don’t know; about seven stone, I think.”

“If you was eight stun I wouldn’t take you, there! But hop up!”

And next moment I found myself bowling merrily along in the baker’s cart all among the loaves and flour-bags to Packworth.

My jovial driver seemed glad of a companion, and we soon got on very good terms, and conversed on a great variety of topics.

Presently, as we seemed to be nearing the town, I ventured to inquire, “I say, do you know Jack Smith at Packworth?”

The Jehu laughed.

“Know him—old Jack Smith? Should think I do.”

“You do?” cried I, delighted, springing to my feet and knocking over a whole pyramid of loaves. “Oh, I am glad. It’s him I want to see.”

“Is it now?” said the fellow, “and what little game have you got on with him? Going a grave-diggin’, eh?”

“Grave-digging, no!” I cried. “Jack Smith and I were at school together—”

The driver interrupted me with a loud laugh.

“Oh, my eye, that’s a good ’un; you at school with old Jack Smith! Oh, that’ll do, that’ll do!” and he roared with laughter.

“But I really was,” repeated I, “at Stonebridge House.”

“You was? How long before you was born was it; oh my eye, eh?”

“It was only last year.”

“Last year, and old Jack lost the last tooth out of his head last year too.”

“What! has he had his teeth out?” cried I, greatly concerned.

“Yes, and all his hair off since you was at school with him,” cried my companion, nearly rolling off the box with laughter.

“What do you mean?” I cried, in utter bewilderment at this catalogue of my friend’s misfortunes.

“Oh, don’t ask me. Old Jack Smith!”

“He’s not old,” said I, “not very, only about sixteen.”

This was too much for my driver, who clapped me on the back, and as soon as he could recover his utterance cried, “My eyes, you will find him growed!”

“Has he?” said I, half envious, for I wasn’t growing very quickly.

“Ain’t he! He’s growed a lump since you was at school together,” roared my eccentric friend.

“What is he doing?” I asked, anxious to hear something more definite of poor Jack.

“Oh, the same old game, on’y he goes at it quieter nor he used. Last Sunday that there bell-ringing regular blowed him out, the old covey.”

A light suddenly dawned upon me.

“Bell-ringing; old covey. That’s not the Jack Smith I mean!”

“What!” roared my companion, “you don’t mean him?”

“No, who?” cried I, utterly bewildered.

“Why, old Jack Smith, the sexton, what was eighty-two last Christmas! You wasn’t at school with him! Oh, I say; here, take the reins: I can’t drive straight no longer!” and he fairly collapsed into the bottom of the cart.

This little diversion, amusing as it was, did not have the effect of allaying my anxiety to hear something about my old schoolfellow.

My driver, however, although he knew plenty of Smiths in the town, knew no one answering to Jack’s description; and, now that Packworth was in sight, I began to feel rather foolish to have come so far on such a wild-goose chase.

Packworth is a large town with about 40,000 inhabitants; and when, having bidden farewell to the good-natured baker, I found myself in its crowded bustling streets, any chance of running against my old chum seemed very remote indeed.

I went to the post-office where my two letters had been addressed, the one I wrote a year ago, just after Jack’s expulsion, and the other written last week from Brownstroke.

“Have you any letters addressed to ‘J’?” I asked.

The clerk fumbled over the contents of a pigeon-hole, from which he presently drew out my last letter and gave it to me.

“Wait a bit,” said he, as I was taking it up, and turning to leave the office. “Wait a bit.”

He went back to the pigeon-hole, and after another sorting produced, very dusty and dirty, my first letter. “That’s for ‘J’ too,” said he.

Then Jack had never been to Packworth, or got my letter, posted at such risk. He must have given me a false address. Surely, if he lived here, he would have called for the letter. Why did he tell me to write to Post-Office, Packworth, if he never meant to call for my letters?

A feeling of vexation crossed my mind, and mingled with the disappointment I felt at now being sure my journey here was a hopeless one.

I wandered about the town a bit, in the vague hope of something turning up. But nothing did. Nothing ever does when a fellow wants it. So I turned tail, and faced the prospect of a solitary ten-mile walk back to Brownstroke.

I felt decidedly down. This expedition to Packworth had been a favourite dream of mine for many months past, and somehow I had never anticipated there would be much difficulty, could I once get there, in discovering my friend Smith. But now he seemed more out of reach than ever. There were my two neglected letters, never called for, and not a word from him since the day I left Stonebridge House. I might as well give up the idea of ever seeing him again, and certainly spare myself the trouble of further search after him.

I was walking on, letters in hand, engaged in this sombre train of thought, when suddenly, on the road before me, I heard a clatter of hoofs accompanied by a child’s shriek. At the same moment round a corner appeared a small pony galloping straight towards where I was, with a little girl clinging wildly round its neck, and uttering the cries I had heard.

The animal had evidently taken fright and become quite beyond control, for the reins hung loose, and the little stirrup was flying about in all directions.

Fortunately, the part of the road where we were was walled on one side, while the other bank was sloping. I had not had much practice in stopping runaway horses, but it occurred to me that if I stood right in the pony’s way, and shouted at him as he came up, he might, what with me in front and the wall and slope on either side, possibly give himself a moment for reflection, and so enable me to make a grab at his bridle.

And so it turned out. I spread out my arms and yelled at him at the top of my voice, with a vehemence which quite took him aback. He pulled up dead just as he reached me, so suddenly, indeed, that the poor child slipped clean off his back, and then, before he could fling himself round and continue his bolt in another direction, I had him firmly by the snaffle.

The little girl, who may have been twelve or thirteen, was not hurt, I think, by her fall. But she was dreadfully frightened, and sat crying so piteously that I began to get quite alarmed. I tied the pony up to the nearest tree, and did what I could to relieve the young lady’s tribulation, a task in which I was succeeding very fairly when a female, the child’s nurse, arrived on the scene in a panic. Of course my little patient broke out afresh for the benefit of her protectress, and an affecting scene ensued, in the midst of which, finding I was not wanted, and feeling a little foolish to be standing by when so much crying and kissing was going on, I proceeded on my way, half wishing it had been my luck to secure that lively little pony for my journey home.

However, ten miles come to an end at last, and in due time I turned up at Brownstroke pretty tired, and generally feeling somewhat down in the mouth by my day’s adventures.

But those adventures, or rather events, were not yet over; for that same evening brought a letter with the London postmark and the initials M., B., and Company on the seal of the envelope!

You may fancy how eagerly I opened it. It ran as follows:

“Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company are in receipt of Frederick Batchelor’s application for junior clerkship, and in reply—”

“What?” I gasped to myself, as I turned over the leaf.

”—would like to see Batchelor at their office on Saturday next at 10:15.”

I could hardly believe my eyes. I rushed to my uncle and showed him the letter.

“Isn’t it splendid?” I cried.

“Not at all,” replied he. “Don’t be too fast, you have not got the place yet.”

“Ah, I know,” said I, “but I’ve a chance at least.”

“You have a chance against a dozen others,” said my uncle, “who most likely have got each of them a letter just like this.”

“Well, but, of course, I must go on Saturday?”

“You still mean to try?” said my uncle.

“Why yes,” said I resolutely. “I do.”

“Then you had better go to town on Saturday.”

“Won’t you go with me?” I inquired nervously.

“No,” said my uncle; “Merrett, Barnacle, and Company want to see you, not me.”

“But—” began I. But I didn’t say what I was going to say. Why should I tell my uncle I was afraid to go to London alone?

“Where am I to live if I do get the place? London’s such a big place to be in.”

“Oh, we’ll see to that,” said my uncle, “in due time. Time enough for that when you get your place.”

This was true; and half elated, half alarmed by the prospect before me, I took to my bed and went to sleep.

My dreams that night were a strange mixture of Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, the little girl who fell from the pony, Jack Smith, and the jovial baker; but among them all I slept very soundly, and woke like a giant refreshed the next day.

If only I had been easy in my mind about Jack Smith, I should have been positively cheerful. But the thought of him, and the fact of his never having called for my letters, sorely perplexed and troubled me. Had he forgotten all about me, then? How I had pictured his delight in getting that first letter of mine, when I wrote it surreptitiously in the playground at Stonebridge House a year ago! And I had meant it to be such a jolly comforting letter, too; and after all here it was in my pocket unopened. I must just read it over again myself. And I put my hand in my pocket to get it. To my surprise, however, only the last of the two letters was there, and high or low I could not find the other. It was very strange, for I distinctly remembered no having it in my hand after leaving Packworth. Then suddenly it occurred to me I must have had it in my hand when I met the runaway pony, and in the confusion of that adventure have dropped it. So I had not even the satisfaction of reading over my own touching effusion, which deprived me of a great intellectual treat.

However, I had other things to think of, for to-morrow was Saturday, the day on which I was to make my solitary excursion to London in quest of the junior clerkship at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s.