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Tom, Dick and Harry

by Talbot Baines Reed · English · Gutenberg #20992 · 517,010 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Tom, Dick and Harry

Author: Talbot Baines Reed


        
Release date: April 5, 2007 [eBook #20992]
                Most recently updated: February 6, 2019

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20992

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOM, DICK AND HARRY ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Tom, Dick and Harry

By Talbot Baines Reed
________________________________________________________________________
Another of this author's well-written and entertaining school books.  In
this case the hero is young Master Jones.  To prepare for entry to the
school he had been given some tuition by a lady who was a teacher at a
girls' school.  Of course the other boys at the boys' school soon found
out that he had come to them from a girls' school, and he became known,
albeit affectionately, by the nickname of "Sarah".

But he is well respected, and enjoys his various friendships with the
other boys, noticing even, at one point, that they seemed to be vieing
with one another for his friendship.

Towards the end of the story his mother visits the school, and is a
great hit with the other boys.

There some moments of drama, amusingly told, such as when our hero is
unwittingly involved in almost blowing the school up!  The boys
involved off are hauled off to the magistrate by the local village
policeman, who, comically, had imagined that a blazer, the top garment
worn by schoolboys of that era (and mine) was a kind of lucifer, which
in turn was a kind of match used before the invention of the
safety-match.  This is a particularly amusing episode, terminating in
the magistrate awarding the school-keeper, who had been slightly
injured, one guinea costs, to pay for his bandages, which he pays out of
his own pocket.

There are no mountain-side dramas as in several other books by this
author, and the rowing episodes on the river are quite tame.  There are
no wicked local beer-house owners.  But it is a good story, quietly and
evenly told.  Best listened to rather than read. NH.
________________________________________________________________________
TOM, DICK AND HARRY

BY TALBOT BAINES REED



CHAPTER ONE.

WHO SHOT THE DOG?

A shot! a yell! silence!

Such, as soon as I could collect myself sufficiently to form an idea at
all, were my midnight sensations as I sat up in my bed, with my chin on
my knees, my hair on end, my body bedewed with cold perspiration, and my
limbs trembling from the tips of my fingers to the points of my toes.

I had been peacefully dreaming--something about an automatic machine
into which you might drop a Latin exercise and get it back faultlessly
construed and written out.  I had, in fact, got to the point of
attempting nefariously to avail myself of its services.  I had folded up
the fiendish exercise on the passive subjunctive which Plummer had set
us overnight, and was in the very act of consigning it to the mechanical
crib, when the shot and the yell projected me, all of a heap, out of
dreamland into the waking world.

At first I was convinced it must have been the sound of my exercise
falling into the machine, and Plummer's howl of indignation at finding
himself circumvented.

No!  Machine and all had vanished, but the noises rang on in my waking
ears.

Was it thunder and storm?  No.  The pale moonlight poured in a gentle
flood through the window, and not a leaf stirred in the elms without.

Was it one of the fellows fallen out of bed?  No.  On every hand reigned
peaceful slumber.  There was Dicky Brown in the next bed, flat on his
back, open-mouthed, snoring monotonously, like a muffled police rattle.
There was Graham minor on the other side, serenely wheezing up and down
the scale, like a kettle simmering on the hob.  There opposite, among
the big boys, lay Faulkner, with the moonshine on his pale face, his
arms above his head, smirking even in his sleep.  And there was Parkin
just beyond, with the sheet half throttling him, as usual, sprawling
diagonally across his bed, and a bare foot sticking out at the end.  And
here lay--

Hullo!  My eyes opened and my teeth chattered faster.  Where _was_
Tempest?  His bed was next to Parkin's, but it was empty.  In the
moonlight and in the midst of my fright I could see his shirt and
waistcoat still dangling on the bed-post, while the coat and trousers
and slippers were gone.  The bed itself was tumbled, and had evidently
been lain in; but the sleeper had apparently risen hurriedly, partly
dressed himself, and gone out.

If only I could have got my tongue loose from the roof of the mouth to
which it was cleaving, I should have yelled aloud at this awful
discovery.  As it was I yelled silently.  For of all terrors upon earth,
sleep-walking was the one I dreaded the most.  Not that I had ever
walked myself, or, indeed, enjoyed the embarrassing friendship of any
one who did.  But I had read the books and knew all about it.  I would
sooner have faced a dozen ghosts than a somnambulist.

I had no doubt in my mind that the Dux's empty bed was to be accounted
for in this uncanny manner, and that the shot and yell were intimately
connected with his mysterious disappearance.  Now I thought of it, he
had not been himself for some time.  For a whole week he had not licked
me.  Ever since he had got his entrance scholarship at Low Heath he had
been queerer than ever.  He had not broken any rule of importance; he
had been on almost friendly terms with Faulkner; he had even ceased to
plot the assassination of Plummer.  He was evidently in a low state, and
suffering from unusual nervous excitement, thus violently to interrupt
the usual tenor of his way; and, as I knew, such a state lends itself
readily to the grisly practice of somnambulism.

What was to be done?  Yell?  I couldn't do it for the life of me.  Get
up and look for him?  Wild horses could not have dragged a toe of me out
of bed.  Stay where I was till the unearthly truant returned?  No, thank
you.  At the bare notion my rigid muscles relaxed, my erect hair lay
down, and I collapsed, a limp heap, on to the pillow, with every
available sheet and blanket drawn over my tightly closed eyes.

And yet, in my unimpassioned moments, I do not think I was a notorious
coward.  I had stood up to Faulkner's round-arms without pads, and
actually blocked one of them once, and that was more than some of the
fellows could say, I could take my header into the pool from the same
step as Parkin.  And once I had not run away from Hector when he broke
loose from his kennel.  Even now, but for the dim recollection of that
awful automatic machine, I might have pulled myself together
sufficiently to strike a light and jog my next-bed neighbour into
wakefulness.

But somehow my nerves had suffered a shock, and since there was no one
near to witness my poltroonery, and as, moreover, the night was chilly
enough to warrant reasonable precautions against cold, I preferred on
the whole to keep my head under the clothes, and drop for a season, so
to speak, below the surface of human affairs.

But existence below the sheets, when prolonged for several minutes, is
apt to pall upon a body, and in due time I had to face the problem
whether, after all, the vague terrors without were not preferable to the
certain asphyxia within.

I had put my nose cautiously outside for the purpose of considering the
point, when my eyes, thus uncovered, chanced to fasten on the door.

As they did so paralysis once more seized my frame; for, at that precise
moment, the door softly opened, and a figure, tall, pale, and familiar,
glided noiselessly into the dormitory.

It was Tempest.  He stood for a moment with the moonlight on him, and
glanced nervously round.  Then, apparently satisfied that slumber
reigned supreme, he stepped cautiously to his deserted couch.  My eyes
followed him as the eyes of the fascinated dove follow the serpent.  I
saw him divest himself of his semi-toilet, and then solemnly wind up his
watch, after which he slipped beneath the clothes, and all was silent.

I lay there, moving not a muscle, till the breathing of the truant grew
long and heavy, and finally settled down to the regular cadence of
sleep.  Then I breathed once more myself; my staring eyes gradually
drooped; my mind wandered over a large variety of topics, and finally
relapsed into the happy condition of thinking of nothing at all.

When I awoke next morning, in obedience to the summons of the bell, the
first thing I was aware of was that Tempest was complacently whistling a
popular air as he performed his toilet.

"Poor Dux!" thought I, "he little dreams what a terrible night he has
had.  Good morning, Dux," I said deferentially.

Tempest went on brushing his hair till he had finished his tune, and
then honoured me with a glance and a nod.

Something in my appearance must have attracted his attention, for he
looked at me again, and said, "What makes you look so jolly fishy, eh,
youngster?"

"Oh," said I, a little flattered to have my looks remarked upon, "I had
a nightmare or something."

"Comes of eating such a supper as you did," replied the Dux.

"Wouldn't he open his eyes," thought I, "if I told him what the
nightmare was!  But I won't do it."

I therefore relapsed into my toilet, and, as time was nearly up, left
the unconscious sleep-walker to finish his in silence.

Dr Plummer's "select young gentlemen" only numbered thirty, all told--
chiefly sons of the trading community, who received at the establishment
at Hampstead all the advantages of a good commercial education, combined
with some of the elegances of a high-class preparatory school.  Tipton's
father, who was an extensive draper in an adjoining suburb, was rather
fond, I believe, of telling his friends that he had a boy at Dangerfield
College.  It sounded well, especially when it was possible to add that
"my boy and his particular chum, young Tempest, son of the late Colonel
Tempest, you know, of the Guards, did this and that together, and might
perhaps spend their next holidays together at Tempest Hall, in
Lincolnshire, if he could spare the boy from home," and so on.

It was an awful fascination for some of us to speculate what the "Dux"
would have to say if he could hear this sort of talk.  We trembled for
Tipton's father, and his shop, and the whole neighbourhood in which he
flourished.

Tempest's presence at the "College" did, however, add quite a little
prestige to the place.  No one seemed to suppose that it had anything to
do with the fact that the terms were exceptionally moderate, and that
his gallant father had left very slender means behind him.  Even Dr
Plummer had a habit, so people said, of dragging his aristocratic head
pupil's name into his conversation with possible clients, while we boys
mingled a little awe with the esteem in which we held our broad-backed
and well-dressed comrade.

Within the last few weeks especially the school had had reason to be
proud of him.  He had taken an exhibition at Low Heath, one of the crack
public schools, and was going up there at Midsummer.  This was an event
in the annals of Plummer's which had never happened before and in all
probability would never happen again.

To do the Dux justice, he set no special store by himself.  He believed
in the Tempests as a race, but did not care a snap whether anybody else
believed in them or not.  Any boy who liked him he usually liked back,
and showed his affection, as he did in my case, by frequent lickings.
Boys he did not like he left severely alone, and there were a good many
such at Dangerfield.

As to the exhibition, that had been entirely his own idea.  He had not
said a word about it to Plummer or any of us, and it was not till after
he had got it, and Plummer in the fulness of his heart gave us a holiday
in celebration of the event, that we had any of us known that the Dux
had been in for it.

The second bell had already sounded before I had completed my toilet,
the finishing touches of which, consequently, I was left to add in
solitude.

When I descended to the refectory I was struck at once by an unusual air
of gloom and mystery about the place.  Something unpleasant must have
occurred, but what it was nobody appeared exactly to know, unless it was
the principal himself.  Dr Plummer was just about to make a
communication when I made my belated entry.

"Jones," said he, as much in sorrow as in anger, "this is not the first
time this term that you have been late."

It certainly was not.

"What is the reason?"

"Please, sir," said I, stammering out my stereotyped excuse, "I think I
can't have heard the first bell."

"Perhaps the first six sums of compound proportion written out ten times
will enable you to hear it more distinctly in future.  We will try it,
if you please, Jones."

Then turning sternly to the assembled school, he said, "I was about to
say something to you, boys, when this disturbance interrupted me.  A
shameful act has been done by some one in the night, in which I
sincerely hope no one here has had a hand.  The dog has been killed."

A whistle of consternation went round the room.  What?  Hector killed?--
Hector the collie--the beast--the brute--the sneak--the traitor--the
arch-enemy of every boy at Plummer's?  Hector, who was reported to be
worth thirty guineas?  Hector, the darling of Mrs P. and the young
P.'s?  Hector of the teeth, and the snarl, and the snap, the
incorruptible, the sleepless, the unforgiving?

What miscreant hero had dared perform this sacrilegious exploit?
"Perish Hector!" had been an immemorial war-cry at Plummer's; but Hector
had never yet perished.  No one had been found daring enough to bell the
cat--that is, to shoot the dog.  To what scoundrel was Dangerfield
College now indebted for this inestimable blessing?

Dead silence followed the doctor's announcement.  Boys' faces were
studies as they stood there rent in twain by delight at the news and
horror at the inevitable doom of the culprit.

"I repeat," said the head master, "Hector was found this morning shot in
his kennel.  Does any boy here know anything about it?"

Dead silence.  The master's eyes passed rapidly along the forms, but
returned evidently baffled.

"I trust I am to understand by your silence that none of you know
anything about it.  There is no doubt whatever that the guilty person
will be found.  I do not say that his name is known yet.  If he is in
this room,"--here he most unjustifiably fixed me with his eye--"he knows
as well as I do what will be the consequence to him.  Now go to
breakfast.  I shall have more to say about this matter presently."

If Dr Plummer had been anxious to save his tea and bread-and-butter
from too fierce an inroad he could hardly have selected a better method.
Dangerfield College was completely "off its feed" this morning.
Indeed, Ramsbottom, the usher, had almost to bully the victuals down the
boys' throats in order to get the meal over.  The only boy who made any
pretence to an appetite was the Dux, who ate steadily, much to my
amazement, in the intervals of the conversation.

"It's a bit of a go, ain't it?" observed Dicky Brown, who, despite his
educational advantages, could never quite master the politest form of
his native tongue.

"Rather," said I--"awkward for somebody."

Then, as my eyes fell once more on Tempest, complacently cutting another
slice off the loaf, an idea occurred to me.

"You know, Dicky," said I, feeling that I was walking on thin ice, "I
almost fancied I heard a sound of a gun in the night."

Dicky laughed.

"Trust you for knowing all about a thing after it's happened.  It would
have been a rum thing if you hadn't."

This was unfeeling of Dicky.  I am sure I have never pretended to know
as much about anything as he did.

"Oh, but I really did--a shot, and a yell too," said I.

"Go it, you're getting on," said Dicky.  "You can pile it up, Tom.  Why
don't you say you saw me do it while you are about it?"

"Because I didn't."

"All I can say," said the Dux, buttering his bread liberally, "I'm
precious glad the beast is off the hooks.  I always hated him.  Which of
you kids did it?"

We both promptly replied that he was quite under a wrong impression.  We
were pained by the very suggestion.

"All right," said he, laughing in his reckless way, and talking quite
loud enough for Plummer to hear him if he happened to come in, "you've
less to be proud of than I fancied.  If you didn't do it, who did, eh?"

That was the question which was puzzling every one, except perhaps
myself, who was undergoing a most uncomfortable mental argument as I
slowly recalled the events of last night.

"Give it up; ask another," said Faulkner.  "I'm precious glad I've not
got a pistol."  Here the Dux coloured a little, and relapsed into
silence.  He disliked Faulkner, and objected to his cutting into the
conversation.

"One comfort," said I, endeavouring to change the topic: "we may get off
that brutal Latin exercise if Plummer takes on hard about this affair."

"Poor old Hector!" said Dicky.  "If that's so, we shall owe him one good
turn at least--eh, old Compound Proportion?"

This pointed allusion to my misfortunes disinclined me to hold further
conversation with Richard Brown, and the meal ended in general silence.

As we trooped back to the schoolroom I overheard Faulkner say to another
of the seniors--

"I say, did you see the way Tempest flared up when I said that about the
pistol just now?  Rather awkward for him, I fancy, if he's got one."

"What's the odds if he didn't shoot the dog?" was the philosophical
reply.

For all that, I had observed the Dux's confusion, and the sight of it
made me very uncomfortable on his account.  Faulkner was right.  It
would be precious awkward for any one who might be discovered to possess
a pistol.  The fact that firearms were expressly forbidden at
Dangerfield College was itself, I am sorry to say, a strong presumption
in favour of Tempest having one.  Besides, I had myself once heard him
speak about shooting rooks at home with a pistol.

Oddly enough, chance was to put in my way a means of setting my mind at
rest almost immediately.

"I say, kid," said the Dux, as I entered the schoolroom just before the
time, "I've left my Latin grammar in my locker upstairs.  Look sharp, or
you'll be late again and catch it."

That was his style all over--insult and injury hand in hand.  He only
practised it on fellows he really liked, too.

"I say, I can't," pleaded I.  "Plummer will give it me hot if he catches
me again.  I've got it pretty bad as it is."

"I know you have; that's why I tell you to look sharp."  It was no good
arguing with Tempest.  I knew he would risk his neck for me any day.
That would be much less exertion to him than running upstairs.  So I
went.

The Dux's locker, I grieve to say, was a model of untidiness.  Cricket
flannels, eatables, letters, tooth-powders, books, and keepsakes were
all huddled together in admired disorder to the full extent of the
capacity of the box.  The books being well in the rear of the heap, and
time being precious, I availed myself of the rough-and-ready method of
emptying out the entire contents at one fell swoop and extracting the
particular object of my quest from the _debris_.

I had done so, and was proceeding to huddle up the other things into a
compact block of a size to fit once more into the receptacle, when
something fell from the pocket of one of the garments with a clatter to
the floor.  It was a pistol!

With a face as white and teeth as chattering as if I had seen a ghost, I
instinctively pounced upon the tell-tale weapon, and whisked it, with a
shudder, into my own pocket.  Then, with decidedly impaired energy, I
punched the bundle back into its place, slammed down the lid, and
returned to the schoolroom just in time to regain my place before Dr
Plummer made his entry.

"You'll give yourself heart-disease if you rush up and down stairs like
that," said Tempest as I handed him the book.  "You look fishier than
ever."

"Latin grammar, juniors," announced the doctor.  "Close books.  Jones,
stand up and decline _gradus_."

I declined, and fell.  The excitements of the past six hours had
demoralised me altogether.  I could not remember who or what _gradus_
was--whether it was an active noun or a feminine verb or a plural
conjunction, or what.  In vain the faithful Dicky prompted me from
behind and Graham minor from the side.  As they both prompted at the
same time, and each suggested different things, I only floundered
deeper.  I felt myself smiling vacantly first at one, then at the other,
then at the doctor.  I moved one hand feebly behind me in token of my
despairing gratitude to Dicky, and the other I laid convulsively on the
collar of Graham's coat.  It was all of no avail, and finally, when I
had almost reached the stage of laughing aloud, my mother wit came to my
rescue and I sat down.

This was the beginning of a tragedy of errors.  With the ghost of Hector
haunting us, none of us, except the Dux, who always kept his head, could
do anything.  The doctor's favours were lavishly and impartially
distributed.  Watkins, the "baby" of the class, made an ingenious
calculation that if all the "lines" which were doled out as the result
of that morning's work were to be extended in one unbroken length, they
would reach exactly from Plummer's desk to the late Hector's kennel.
Hector again!  Every one's thoughts veered round to the unlucky
quadruped and the storm that was brewing over his mangled remains.

Morning school passed, however, without any further official
announcement on the subject.  When class was dismissed half an hour
earlier than usual, it was tacitly understood that this was in
consequence of the obsequies of the late lamented, which were attended
by the Plummer family and the errand boy, not indeed in crape, but amid
every sign of mourning.

We young gentlemen were not invited.  Had we been, it is doubtful
whether the alacrity with which some of us would have obeyed the summons
would have been altogether complimentary to the memory of the deceased.

As it was, we loafed about dismally, discussing the topic of the hour in
corners, and wished the storm would break and be done with.

We had not long to wait!



CHAPTER TWO.

A CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE.

As for me, I was very poor company for any one that afternoon of
Hector's funeral.  Something was burning a hole in my pocket, and I felt
myself in a most uncomfortable fix.

"It's all up with old Dux," said I to myself, "if it's found out.  But
suppose it's found on me?  Still more precious awkward.  I'd either have
to lump it or let out.  Don't see much fun in either myself.  Seems to
me the sooner I get rid of the beastly thing the better.  Fancy his
letting it lie about in his locker!  He'd give me a hiding for
interfering, I know, if he only knew.  But I wouldn't for anything he
got lagged.  Old Dux is one of those chaps that has to be backed up
against himself.  Sha'n't be my fault if he isn't."

The reader will have judged by this time that I belonged to the species
prig in my youthful days.  Let that pass; I was not a unique specimen.

Full of my noble resolve of saving the Dux from himself, I went out to
take the air, and strolled aimlessly in the direction of the pond.  A
professional burglar could not have ordered his footsteps more
circumspectly.  I perambulated the pool, whistling a cheerful tune, and
looking attentively at the rooks overhead.  Not a soul was in sight.  I
began to throw stones into the water, small to begin with, then larger,
then bits of stick about six inches long.  Then I smuggled the unlucky
pistol out of my pocket in my handkerchief, and whistled still more
cheerfully.  Although no one was looking, it seemed prudent to adopt an
air of general boredom, as if I was tired of throwing sticks into the
pond.  I would only throw one more.  Even that was a fag, but I would do
it.

What a plump, noisy splash it made, sending out circles far and near,
and gurgling in a sickening way as it sank in a very unsticklike fashion
to the bottom.

My whistling ceased, my air of dejection increased.  I must be
unsociable no longer.  Let me rejoin my dear schoolfellows, making a
little _detour_ in order to appear to reach them from the direction not
of the pond but of the orchard.

I was sheering off by the lower end of the pond, when, to my horror, I
perceived a boy groping on the grass on all fours, apparently digging up
the ground with a trowel.

On closer inspection I found that it was Dicky.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" said he, as I came upon him.  "Have you done
chucking things into the pond?"

"Why," said I, taken aback; "why, Dicky, what on earth are you up to?"

"Never mind--an experiment, that's all.  I'm glad it's only you.  I was
afraid it was some one else.  You must be jolly hard up for a bit of fun
to come and chuck things into the pond."

"Oh!" said I, with tell-tale embarrassment, "I just strolled down for
the walk.  I didn't know you'd taken to gardening."

"There goes the bell," said Dicky.  "Cut up.  I'll be there as soon as
you."

I obeyed, mystified and uncomfortable.  Suppose Dicky had seen the
pistol!  I found the fellows hanging about the school door waiting to go
in.

"Been to the funeral, kid?" said the Dux, as I approached.  I wished he
would speak more quietly on such dangerous topics when Plummer was
within earshot.

"No, I've been a stroll," said I.  "It's rather hot walking."

"I guess it will be hotter before long," said some one.  "Plummer looks
as if he means to have it out this afternoon."

"I hope he won't go asking any awkward questions," said Dicky, who had
by this time joined us.

"What's the odds, if you didn't do it?" demanded the Dux.

"Look out," said Faulkner; "here he comes.  He's beckoning us in."

"Now we're in for it!" thought we all.

Plummer evidently meant business this time.  The melancholy ceremony at
which he had just assisted had kindled the fires within him, and he sat
at his desk glowering as each boy dropped into his place, with the air
of a wolf selecting his victim.

As I encountered that awful eye, I found myself secretly wondering
whether by any chance I might have shot the dog in a fit of absence of
mind.  Brown, I think, was troubled by a similar misgiving.  Some of the
seniors evidently resented the way in which the head master glared at
them, and tried to glare back.  Faulkner assumed an air of real
affliction, presumably for the departed.  Tempest, on the other hand,
drummed his fingers indifferently on the desk, and looked more than
usually bored by the whole business.

"Now, boys," began Plummer, in the short sharp tones he used to affect
when he was wont to administer justice; "about Hector."

Ah! that fatal name again!  It administered a nervous shock all round,
and the dead silence which ensued showed that every boy present was
alive to the critical nature of the situation.

"I have already told you what has occurred, and have asked if any one
here knows anything about the matter," said the doctor.  "I repeat the
question.  If any of you know anything, let there be no hesitation in
speaking up."

No reply.  Boys looked straight in front of them and held their breaths.

"Very well," said the doctor, his voice becoming harder and sterner, "I
am to understand no boy here is able to throw any light on the mystery.
Is that so?"

If silence gives consent, no question was ever more emphatically
answered in the affirmative.

"I hoped it would be unnecessary to ask the question twice," said Dr
Plummer.  "I decline to accept silence as an answer.  Let the head boy
come forward."

Tempest left his place and advanced to the desk.

"Tempest, do you know anything of this matter?"

"No, sir," said Tempest.

I felt the skin on the top of my head grow tight, and my breath catch in
my throat.  Never had I known the Dux to tell a lie to any one.  What was
I to do when my turn came?

"Go to your seat.  The next boy come forward."

Parkin obeyed, and answered the question with a clear negative.

"The next boy."

The next boy was Faulkner, who I suspected would fain have been able to
say he knew anything.  But for once he was at fault, and had to reply
with an apologetic "No."

In due time it was Dicky's turn.

"Do you know anything of the matter, Brown?"

"No, sir," said Brown, almost noisily.

The doctor looked at him keenly, and then ordered him to his place.

"Jones, come forward."

I felt the blood fly out of my cheeks and my heart jump to my mouth as I
obeyed.  As I passed up the room I glanced nervously at the Dux where he
sat listlessly regarding the scene.  But he took no notice of me.

"Jones," said the doctor, "do you known anything of this matter?"

The words would not come; and I glanced around again for succour.

"Turn your face to me, sir," thundered the doctor, "and answer my
question."

What could I say?  Where could I look?  The question was repeated once
more.

"I only know I fancy I heard a shot in the night."  I stammered at last.

A flutter of interest went round the room.  Failing all other clues it
evidently seemed to be something to most of those present to elicit even
this.

"Why did you not say so when you were asked this morning?"

No answer.

"Do you hear me, sir?"

"Please, sir, I couldn't be sure I had not been dreaming."

"When did you hear this sound?"

"I don't know what time, sir; I had been asleep."

"Was it light or dark?"

"Dark."

"Is that all you heard?"

"I thought I heard a yell, too."

"Did you get up or wake any of the others?"

"No, sir."

"Did you do nothing at all?"

"I was frightened, sir, and hid under the clothes."

"Is that all?"

Wasn't it about enough?  I thought.

"Yes, sir."

I staggered back to my seat like a wounded man after a fray.  I knew I
had lost caste with the fellows; I had seriously compromised myself with
the head master.  At least, I told myself, I had escaped the desperate
fate of saying anything against the Dux.  For the sake of that, I could
afford to put up with the other two consequences.

The grand inquest came to an end.  One candid youth admitted that all he
knew of the matter was that he was very glad Hector was dead, and for
this impious irrelevance he was ordered to write an appalling imposition
and forfeit several half-holidays.  But that, for the time being, was
the worst thunderbolt that fell from the doctor's armoury.

The Dux was kindly waiting for me outside.  If he was grateful to me he
concealed his feelings wonderfully; for he seized me by the coat collar
and invited me to step with him to a quiet retreat where he administered
the soundest thrashing I had had that term without interruption.

Explanation, I knew, would be of no avail.  Tempest made a point of
always postponing an explanation till after the deed was done.

When at length I gathered myself together, and inquired as pleasantly as
I could to what special circumstances I was indebted for this painful
incident, he replied--

"For being an idiot and a sneak.  Get away, or I'll kick you."

Brown, whom I presently encountered, put the matter rather more
precisely.

"Well," said he, "you told about as much as you could.  How sorry you
must have been not to tell more!"

"Don't, Dicky;" said I; "I--I--"

"You're almost as big an ass as you look," said Dicky, "and that's
saying something.  Come and see my experiment."

I was not in a scientific mood, but anything was welcome to change the
subject.  So I took Dicky's arm and went.

Dicky was a queer boy.  He was of an inventive turn of mind, and given
up to science.  His experiments rarely succeeded, and when they did they
almost invariably landed him in disgrace.  Still he persevered and hoped
some day to make a hit.

He explained to me, as we walked down the garden, that he had lately
been taking an interest in the pond.

It was all I could do to appear only moderately interested in this
announcement.  Had not I an interest in the pond too?  What followed was
even more uncomfortable.

"You know Lesseps and all those chaps?" said he.

"He left before I came, I think," said I.

Dicky laughed unfeelingly.

"I mean the chap who cut the Suez Canal," said he.

"Oh!  I beg your pardon," said I.  "No, I don't know him."

"Well, I've been having a go in at the same kind of job," continued
Dicky.  "You know what a drop there is at the end of the pond, where you
saw me yesterday, in the shrubbery?  Well, it struck me it wouldn't take
much engineering to empty it."

"What!"  I exclaimed, "empty the pond!  You'll get in an awful row,
Dicky.  Don't think of it."

"Think--it's done, I tell you," said the man of science.  "That was what
I was at when you saw me."

"I thought you were digging up primroses."

"Digging up grandmothers!  I was letting in a pipe to drain it.  It was
a rare job to shove it in from the bottom corner of the pond through the
bank into the shrubbery.  But I managed it.  It was coming through like
one o'clock when I left.  I expect the pond will be empty by this time."

I quailed with horror.  If so, I should be discovered.  I was tempted to
turn tail: but that would be even worse.  The only thing was to stay and
see it through.

I confronted myself with the reflection that Dicky's experiments so
rarely succeeded, that in all probability the pistol still lay safe
under four feet of water.  If not--

"Hooray!" exclaimed Dicky, as we came in sight of the place; "it's done
the trick this time.  See, Tom!"

I did see.  In place of the water I left there in the morning was a
large empty basin of mud, with a few large puddles of water lying at the
bottom, and a few hillocks of mud denoting the places which had once
been shallows.

My quick eye hurriedly took in the dismal landscape.  For a moment my
spirits rose, for I could nowhere discern the compromising object I
dreaded to see.  It was no doubt buried in the mud, and as safe as if
the pond were full to the brim.

"Isn't it ripping?" said Dicky.  "It wasn't easy to do, but it only
wanted a little management.  I mean to go in for engineer-- Hullo,
what's that rummy stone out there? or is it a stone, or a fish, or-- I
say, Tom," he added, clutching my arm, "I'm bothered if that's not a
pistol!"

My white face and chattering teeth made reply unnecessary.  There,
snugly perched on a little heap of stones, as if set up for inspection,
lay the unlucky pistol, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Dicky looked first at the pistol, then at me; and began slowly to take
in the state of affairs.

He took a cautious step out in the mud in the direction of the weapon,
but came back.

"I thought you could hardly be chucking in all those things for fun,"
said he presently.

I stood gaping in an imbecile way, and said nothing.

"I know whose it is.  He had it up here once before."

"I say," gulped I, "can't you let the water in again?"  Dick had not
considered this.  His triumph had been letting the water out.  However,
he would see what could be done.

We went down into the shrubbery.  About a foot of water lay on the
ground, promising great fertility some day, but decidedly muddy-looking
to-day.

"The thing will be to bung up the hole first," said Dicky.

So we set to work to hammer up the end of the zinc pipe and stuff the
aperture round with sods and stones.  I even sacrificed my cap to the
good cause.

The bell began to ring before we had well completed the task.  "That
ought to keep any more from running out," said Dicky.  "If we're lucky,
the water will come in on its own hook at the other end."

The theory was not exactly scientific, for scientific men do not believe
in luck.  Still, it was the best we could think of as we turned to go.

"Stop a bit," said I, as we were leaving.  "May as well tidy up a bit in
there before we go, eh?"

"In there" was the bed of the pond.

"It might look better," said Dick, turning up his trousers.  We decently
interred the pistol in the mud, and raised a small heap of stones to
keep it down; and then cautiously obliterating our footsteps in the mud,
we made for _terra firma_, and scuttled back to school as fast as our
legs would carry us.

Fortunately we entered unobserved, and disencumbered ourselves of our
muddy boots without attracting attention to their condition.  Ten
minutes later we were deep in our work in the big schoolroom.

Preparation that night was a solemn and gloomy ceremony.  Dicky and I
kept catching one another's eyes, and then glancing on to where the Dux,
cool as a cucumber, sat turning over the leaves of his lexicon.

"He's got a cheek of his own, has Dux," said I to myself.

"If I didn't know it was him," signalled the ungrammatical Dicky across
the room, "I should never have believed it."

"You may make as many faces as you like at young Brown," glared Tempest
at me, "but if I catch you making any more at me, your mother will need
some extra pocket-handkerchiefs."

"Jones," observed Dr Plummer aloud, "a double _poena_ for aggravated
inattention."

All right.  I was getting pretty full up with engagements for one day,
and began to think bed-time would be rather a relief.

It came at last.  In the dormitory Ramsbottom successfully interfered
with conversation by patrolling the chamber until the boys were asleep.
No one doubted that he had been set to the task by the head master, and
it augured rather badly for the resumption of the inquest next day.

However, even patrols go to sleep sometimes, and when I woke early next
morning the usher had vanished to his own chamber.  My first thought was
not Hector, or the doctor, or my _poenas_, or the Dux, but the pond.

How, I wondered, was it getting on?

I routed up Dicky, and very quietly we dressed and slipped out.  I knew
that my early rising, if it were discovered, would probably be set down
to my zeal for discharging impositions.  But even they must wait now
till we were sure about the pond.

For Dicky and I stood liable to as big a row as the assassin of Hector
himself if anything went wrong with our experiment in engineering.
Luckily very few fellows haunted this particularly muddy corner of the
grounds, and now that Hector was above a daily bath, there was little
chance of Plummer himself discovering the remarkably low tide on his
premises--still less of his poking about among the stones in the bed of
the pool.

To our great relief we found that our dam at the foot was holding out
bravely, and that comparatively little water was trickling through the
bank into the shrubbery.  The flow at the upper end, however, was
distressingly small, and though a whole night had passed we could still
see the heap of stones under which the pistol was buried rising up from
the shallow puddles around it, inviting investigation.

With astounding industry we worked away that morning, widening and
deepening the little channel along which the rivulet made its way to the
pond.  And before we had done we had the satisfaction of seeing a fairly
brisk inflow.  We would fain have waited to see the fatal little island
disappear below the surface.  But the first bell was already an sounding
when the water completed the circle, leaving it standing up more
prominent than ever.

To our horror, at this precise moment Tempest strolled down.

"Hullo! what are you two after?  Fishing?  One way to catch them,
letting all the water out."

"It was an experiment," said Dicky, who, like myself, was very pale as
he looked first at the Dux, then at the guilty hillock in the pond.

"So it seems.  In other words, you're making a jolly mess, and are
enjoying yourselves.  I hope you'll enjoy it equally, both of you, when
Plummer sees what you've done."

"Shall you tell him?"  I asked, somewhat breathlessly.  The Dux laughed
scornfully.

"You deserve a hiding for asking such a thing.  Come here!  Jump out on
to that little island there, and stay there till I tell you."

"Oh, Dux, please not," said I, in a tone of terror, which was quite out
of proportion to the penalty.  The pistol was only two inches below the
surface!

"Do you hear?  Look sharp, or I'll chuck you there."

That might be worse.  It might hurt me and cut up the soil.  So I jumped
gingerly out, and stood poised with a foot in the water on either side,
dreading at any moment to see the stones slip and the tell-tale gleam of
the buried weapon.

"If you don't stand properly," said the Dux, "I'll make you sit down.
Come along, young Brown, it's time we went up to school."

"How long am I to stay, please?"  I inquired.

"Till you're in water up to the knees," said the Dux, as he turned away,
with the faithless Dicky beside him.

Up to the knees!  I stood loyally for five minutes, during which the
water gained about an eighth of an inch up my ankles.  Then the second
bell rang, and things became desperate.

Accordingly I knelt in the water until I could confidently assert that I
was wet, very wet indeed, up to the knees; which done, I posted as fast
as my ill-used legs would carry me to morning school.



CHAPTER THREE.

"WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN?"

Once more Dr Plummer reserved himself for the afternoon.  Perhaps it
was the haunting tyranny of the defunct Hector; perhaps it was pique at
being baffled, so far, in finding the culprit; whatever may have been
the reason, he was in an ominously uncompromising mood when at last he
returned to the fateful question.

"Come up, the first boy," said he abruptly.

The Dux was evidently getting tired of all this business (and no wonder,
it seemed to me), and obeyed the summons not in the best of humours.

"Tempest," said the doctor, "I repeat my question of yesterday.  Do you
know anything whatever of this matter?"

"No, sir--I said so," replied the Dux, in a clear voice.

Dr Plummer scowled somewhat at this tart reply.  He rather liked his
head boy, and was not prepared to find him, of all others, recalcitrant.

"I do not ask what you said, sir; I ask what you say," said he.

"I said No.  I'm not a liar," replied the Dux rather fiercely.

The doctor received this rather more meekly than most of us expected,
and proceeded with his next question.

"Have you the slightest reason to suspect any one of having done it, or
of knowing anything about it?"

Tempest remained silent, with flushed and angry face.

"Do you hear me, sir?" asked the doctor, now thoroughly roused.

"Yes, sir."

"Then why don't you answer at once?"

"I would not answer the question if I could," said the Dux defiantly.

Dr Plummer stared at the boy as if he had been a wild beast.

"How dare you say such a thing to me?" he demanded.  "You heard my
question.  Have you the slightest grounds for suspecting any one?"

The Dux bit his lips and remained silent.

"Do you hear, Tempest?"

No reply.

"Go to your seat, sir.  I will speak to you presently."

Tempest obeyed, with head erect and a red spot on either cheek.

We gazed at him in amazement.  We had always given him credit for
hardihood, but we had never believed him capable of mutiny of this kind;
especially--

"Seems to me," whispered Dicky, "he might as well tell right away.
He'll get expelled either way.  Anyhow--"

"Brown, come forward."

Dicky started as if he had been detected in the act of holding a pistol
to Hector's head.  He was not in the least prepared to be summoned thus
out of his turn; and morally he went to pieces as he rose to obey.

"Mum's the word!" whispered I, encouragingly, as he started for the
front.

The doctor was on the alert with a vengeance to-day!

"Jones, come forward too," said he.

It was my turn to jump now.

"Now, sir, what was that you said to Brown just now?"

My back went up instinctively at his tone.

"I said, 'Mum's the word,'" I replied as doggedly as I could.

The doctor changed colour.  This was getting serious.  He had no
precedents for such a case at Dangerfield, and for a moment was
evidently at a loss how to proceed.

Perhaps he regretted for once in a way the policy of believing a boy
guilty till he can prove himself innocent.  Whether he did or no, it was
too late to surrender it now.

"Go to your seat, Jones; I shall deal with you presently."

I marched off, with all the blood of the Joneses tingling in my veins.
The ingenuous Dicky was left to his ordeal single-handed.

"Now, Brown," said the doctor, "you have heard the question, to which I
mean to have an answer--and I caution you before I repeat it, to be
careful--I shall know what interpretation to put on any attempt to
prevaricate.  Tell me, Brown, do you know anything at all of this
matter, or have you grounds for suspecting any one of being concerned in
it?"

Dicky shut his mouth with a snap, and looked as if he wished devoutly
some one could turn a key on it and keep it so.

"Speak, sir," said the doctor, coming down from his desk.

By one of those strange freaks of perversity which are so hard to
account for, Dicky's spirits went up higher every moment, and when the
doctor stood over him and repeated the question a third time, he almost,
I believe, enjoyed himself.  He had never imagined courage was so easy.

To his surprise Dr Plummer did not strike, but returned quietly to his
desk.

"Brown," said he, "you may go.  Tell the housekeeper to pack your box in
time for the early train to-morrow."

"What!" exclaimed poor old Dick, fairly electrified into speech; "am I
expelled, sir?"

"You will be unless you speak at once.  I give you a last chance."

Dicky looked up at the doctor, then down at the floor.  I knew the
struggle in his mind: the thought of his people at home, of the disgrace
of being expelled, of the suspicions he would leave behind.  Then I
could see him steal a doubtful glance at the Dux and at me, and then
pass his eye along the rows of faces eagerly waiting for his decision.

Then he held up his head, and I knew dear old Dicky was as sound as a
bell.  No one had the right to make him turn sneak--and no one should do
it!  "I'll go and pack," said he quietly, and turned to the door.

Neither the Dux nor I saw the last of poor Dicky Brown at Dangerfield.
We were otherwise engaged when he departed home in a four-wheeled cab in
charge of Mr Ramsbottom that evening.  We were, in point of fact, in
durance vile ourselves, with every prospect of speedily requiring the
services of two more four-wheeled cabmen on our own accounts.

The Dux's fury at Dicky's summary expulsion had been quite a surprise
even to me.

"It's a shame," he had shouted as the door closed; "a caddish shame!"

"Who said that?" asked Dr Plummer.

"I did.  I say it's a caddish shame!"

"So do I!" yelled I at the top of my voice, and quite carried away by
the occasion.

This was getting very embarrassing for Plummer.  Perhaps he behaved in
the best way open to him under the circumstances.  He ignored us both,
and proceeded to call up Faulkner to answer his precious questions.

Much depended on Faulkner then.  If he had refused to answer, as the Dux
had done, and Brown had done, and others were prepared to do, Plummer
might have seen that his case was hopeless, and have given it up.
Faulkner was nothing like such a favourite with the head master as
Tempest, nor had he such a following among the boys.  Still, he led his
party, and if he chose now to leave us in the lurch Plummer was saved
and we were lost.

"I know nothing of the matter, sir," said Faulkner, "and I have no
reason at all to suspect any one."

It sounded a simple answer, but it was rank treason.  For it was as good
as saying Plummer had a right to ask these questions, and that he,
Faulkner, would inform if he only knew who the culprit was.

After that it was evident the game, the Dux's game and mine, was up.
Boy after boy was called up and interrogated, and one by one they
followed Faulkner in his submission.  A few--like Graham junior--
attempted to hold out, but broke down under pressure.  A few feebly
compromised by explaining that had they known the culprit they would not
have answered; but as they did not they saw no reason for not saying so.

"It comes to this, then," said the doctor: "that out of the entire
school, three boys, and three only, are silent.  The only conclusion I
can draw from their conduct is that they dare not deny that they know
something of this shameful outrage.  Tempest, you are the head boy.  I
have always looked on you as a credit to the school, and a good example
to your youngers.  You see your present behaviour involves trouble to
others than yourself.  I do not wish to be hasty in this matter, and am
willing to give you one more opportunity of answering my question.  Do
you know anything of this affair, or have you any grounds for suspecting
any one of being connected with it?"

The Dux flushed with indignation, glared straight at the head master by
way of reply, and closed his lips.

"Very well, sir.  Jones, I now repeat the question to you.  You are a
little boy, and there is more excuse for you, as you were led astray by
the bad example of a senior.  I caution you now to do as the others have
done, and give me a plain answer to a plain question.  Otherwise you
must take the consequences."

I am afraid I blushed and looked far less determined than I would have
liked.  But I did my best to glare back and tighten my lips like the
Dux.

"Very well.  Tempest and Jones, go to my study and remain there till I
come."

We had not long to wait for our doom.  The doctor was in the study
almost as soon as we.

We stood there while he wrote some letters and put away some books on
the shelves.  Then he rang the bell, and handed the letters to the
servant to post.  After that he sat in his chair for a quarter of an
hour in silence, evidently ruminating.

At last he deigned to notice our presence.

"Tempest," he said, "I am very grieved at this.  I had hoped better
things of you.  You know what the consequence must be to you?"

"I'm to be expelled, I know," said the Dux.  "The sooner the better."

The doctor raised his eyebrows.  There was no dealing with a reprobate
like this.

"I have written to your grandfather to say you will return home to-
morrow."

"I'm sorry it's not to-night," said the Dux.

"And you, Jones," said the doctor to me, not heeding the last
speech,--"I am more sorry for you.  You are a foolish, misguided boy.
Even now, if you atone for your fault by replying to my questions, I am
willing to spare your mother the misery you seem bent on bringing upon
her."

This was a cruel thrust.  The thought of my mother had crossed my mind
once or twice already, and almost brought the tears to my eyes.  It
would be hard to explain all to her--and yet, and yet, anything was
better than turning sneak.

"I won't answer," said I.  "I'd sooner be expelled."

"Your desire shall be gratified," said the doctor drily; "to-morrow you
will go too."

"Thank you, sir."

"Tempest, you will remain here for the rest of the day--Jones, you will
go to the dormitory and remain there.  I forbid you, either of you, to
hold any communication with your late schoolfellows while you remain
here."

Next morning after breakfast we were finally brought up before the whole
school and harangued publicly by the head master.  Our punishment, he
told us, we had deliberately brought on our own heads.  Aggravated
insubordination like ours was not to be tolerated in any school.  He was
sure we should soon regret and be ashamed of our conduct, if we were not
so already.  For his own part he would try to forget the unfortunate
affair, and to think kindly of us both.  Mr Ramsbottom would see
Tempest to the station, and the matron would escort me.

"Good-bye, Tempest," said he, holding out his hand.

"Good-bye," said the Dux, not heeding the hand, and walking to the door.

"Good-bye, Jones."

I shook hands.  After all, Plummer, I thought, meant to be kind, though
he took an odd way of showing it.  I was thankful when the ceremony was
over, and the Dux and I found ourselves with our luggage in the hall
waiting for our cabs.

All at once the old school we were leaving seemed to become dearer than
I had thought.

The hall where we stood was full of the memory of jolly comings and
goings.  The field out there seemed to echo with the whizzing of balls
and the war-whoops of combatants.  The very schoolroom we had just left,
from which even now came the hum of work in which we were no more to
join, had its pleasant associations of battles fought, friends gained,
difficulties mastered.  How I would have liked to run down to get a last
look at the pond, or upstairs for a farewell glance round the dormitory!
But now we were out of it--Dux and I.  The place belonged to us no
more.  We were outsiders, visitors whose time was up, and whose cabs
were due at the front door at any moment.

And what was it all for?

"If it hadn't been for that beast Hector," said the Dux rather dismally,
"we shouldn't have been out here, Tommy."

He rarely called me by my Christian name.  It was always a sign he was
out of sorts.

"I do wish you'd missed him," said I.

"Missed him!  What on earth do you mean?"

"Not made such a good shot--that's what I mean."

"Shot!  Young Brown, are you crazy?"

"Most likely," said I, beginning to get hot and cold at the same time.
"Why, do you mean to say you didn't, then?"

"Didn't what?"

"Shoot him."

"Shoot him?  Me shoot?  I no more shot the beast than you did."

The perspiration started to my forehead.

"But the pistol.  Dux?"

"What pistol?"

"The one I found in your locker, when I went to get your book, you
know."

"That thing?  It's been there all the term.  It hasn't even got a
trigger!"

"It's not there now.  It's at the bottom of the pond."

The Dux looked at me as if he were about to eat me up, I looked back as
if I were ready for it.

"You didn't shoot Hector, then?"  I faltered.

"What do you take me for, you young ass?  Of course not."

"Then Brown and I have both--"

"Brown?  What about him?  He didn't think I'd done it?"

"He wouldn't have been expelled if he hadn't."

The Dux gave a whistle of mingled dismay and fury.

"You know," said I, "I saw you come in that night, just after I'd heard
the shot, and made sure--"

"Oh, you--you beauty!" cried the Dux, with a bitter laugh.  "Why, I'd
just gone down for my watch, which I'd left in my blazer, so as to wind
it up--and you--you actually go and set me down as a murderer!"

"Oh, Dux, I'm so awfully sorry!  Let me go and tell Plummer."

"If you do, I'll wring your neck.  I wouldn't stay in this hole another
day if he came on his knees and asked me.  What right has he to want to
make sneaks of us?  Do you mean to say you and young Brown thought all
along I had done it, and that I was telling lies when I said I didn't?"

"I thought perhaps you'd done it in your sleep, and didn't know."

He laughed scornfully.

"That's why you two were mum?" asked he.  "Didn't want to let out on
me?"

"Well, yes, partly.  I'm awfully sorry, Dux.  Will you ever forgive me?"

"Forgive you, kid!  If I'd time I'd thrash you within an inch of your
life for being such a fool, and then I'd thank you for being such a
trump--you and Brown too."

"Is it too late to do anything now?" asked I again.

"Not for me--nothing would keep me here.  But I don't see why you should
be expelled.  I'll tell Plummer it was a mistake."

"No, you won't," said I, catching his arm.  "I wouldn't stay here now
for worlds."

"It's rough all round," said Tempest, looking profoundly miserable, as
the rumble of a cab came up to the hall door.

"What will your mater say, kid?"

"She'll understand.  I hope she won't send me back though."

"Get her to send you to Low Heath."

"She couldn't afford it.  You'll write to me, Dux?"

"Most likely.  Tell Brown how sorry I am."

"Now, Tempest, ready?" said Mr Ramsbottom.

"Good-bye, kid.  I sha'n't forget you."

Next minute he was off, and I was left alone.

I do not deny that for a moment or two I found it convenient to rub my
eyes.  It was a hot day, and the light through the window was dazzling,
I think.

Then to my relief up came my cab, and under the stalwart escort of Mrs
Potts, the matron, I quitted Dangerfield for good.

My journey home was, as may be imagined, not a festive one.  What would
my mother say, or my guardian?  What version of the story had Plummer
given them?  It consoled me to work myself up into a fury as I sat in
the corner of the railway carriage, and prepare an indictment of his
conduct which should make my conduct appear not only justifiable, but
heroic.

Alas! heroism can rarely endure the rattle of a long railway journey.
Long before we reached Fallowfield my heart was in my boots, and my
fierceness had all evaporated.

But a year ago my father had died, leaving me, his only child, to be the
comfort and support of my mother.  What message of comfort or support
was I carrying home to-day?  What would my guardian, who had given me
such yards of stern advice about honouring my betters, say when he
heard?  Should I be sent to an office to run errands, or passed on to a
school for troublesome boys, or left to knock about with no one to care
what became of me?

With such pleasant misgivings in my mind I reached Fallowfield, and
braced myself up for the interview before me.



CHAPTER FOUR.

BRUSHING-UP THE CLASSICS.

My guardian, I am bound to say, disappointed me.  I had rather hoped, as
I travelled home, that I would be able to put my conduct before him in
such a way that he would think me rather a fine young fellow, and
consider himself honoured in being my guardian.  That my mother would
take on, I felt sure.

"Women," said I to myself--I was thirteen, and therefore was supposed to
know what women thought about things--"women can't see below the surface
of things.  But old Girdler was a boy himself once, and knows what it is
for a fellow to get into a row for being a brick."

My sage prognostications were falsified doubly.  My mother, though she
wept to see me come home in this style, did me justice at once.  To
think I could ever have doubted her!

"Of course, sonny dear," said she, kissing me, "it was very hard.
Still, I am sure it would have been a shabby thing to tell tales."

"I wasn't going to do it, at any rate," said I, growing a little cocky,
and deciding that some women, at any rate, can see more than meets the
eye.

But Mr Girdler, when he called in during the evening, was most
disappointing.

"So this is what you call being a comfort to your mother?" began he,
without so much as giving me a chance to say a word.

"Oh, but you don't understand, sir," began I.

"Don't understand!" said he.  "I understand you are a naughty little
boy"--to think that I should live to be called a little boy!--"and that
the mischief about your schooling is that you've not been smacked as
often as you ought.  Understand, indeed!  What do you suppose your
mother's to do with a boy like you, that's wasted his time, and then
tells people they don't understand?"

"I don't think Tommy meant--" began my mother; but my guardian was too
quick for her.

"No, that's just it.  They never do, and yet you pay fifty pounds a year
to teach him.  It doesn't matter to some children who else is troubled
as long as they enjoy themselves."

Children!  And I had once caught Parkin at cover-point!  "Go up to bed
now," said my guardian.  "Your mother and I must see what's to be done
with you.  Don't I understand, indeed?"

The conceit was fairly taken out of me now.  To be called a little boy
was bad enough; to be referred to as a child was even worse; but to be
sent to bed at a quarter to eight on a summer evening was the crowning
stroke.  Certainly, Plummer's itself was better than this.

What my mother and guardian said to one another I do not know.  My
mother, I think, had great faith in Mr Girdler's wisdom; and although
she tried not to think ill of me, would probably feel that he knew
better than she did.

I knew my fate next morning--it was worse than my most hideous
forebodings.

I was to work at my guardian's office every morning, and in the
afternoon I was to go up and learn Latin and arithmetic at--oh, how
shall I say it?--a girls' school!

For an hour after this discovery I candidly admit that I was sorry,
unfeignedly sorry, I had not turned sneak and informed against Harry
Tempest.  I think even he would have wished me to do it rather than
suffer this awful humiliation.

I had serious thoughts of running away, of going to sea, or sweeping a
London crossing.  But there were difficulties in the way; the chief of
them being my mother.

"You mustn't worry about it, Tommy," said she.  "Mr Girdler says it
will be the best thing for you.  It will be good for you to learn some
business, you know, and then in the afternoon you will find Miss
Bousfield very nice and clever."

"It's not the work I mind, mother," said I; "it's--it's going to a
girls' school."

"There's nothing very dreadful about it, I'm sure," said my mother, with
a smile.  "I was at one myself once."

"But," argued I, "you are only a--"

No--that wouldn't quite do to one's own mother.  So I stopped short.

"Besides," said she, "Mr Girdler thinks it the best thing, and he is
your guardian."

This was unanswerable, and I gave it up.

But I was not at all consoled.  The bare idea of Tempest, or Brown, or
any of the other fellows getting to know that I, Thomas Jones, aged
thirteen, who had held my own at Plummer's, and played in my day in the
third Eleven, was going to attend a girls' school, and be taught Latin
and sums by a--a female, was enough to make my hair stand on end.  How
they would laugh and wax merry at my expense!  How they would draw
pictures of me in the book covers with long curls and petticoats!  How
they would address me as "Jemima," and talk to one another about me in a
high falsetto voice!  How they would fall into hysterics when they met
me, and weep copiously, and ask me to lend them hairpins and parasols!
I knew what it would be like only too well, and I quaked as I imagined
it.

My one hope was that at Fallowfield nobody knew me; at least, nobody who
mattered.

"At least," said I to myself, "if I am to go and herd with a parcel of
girls, I'll let them see I'm something better than a girl myself."

When I presented myself at my guardian's office on the appointed morning
in order to start on my commercial career, I met with a reception even
less flattering than I had pictured to myself.

Mr Girdler was out, and had left no instructions about me.  So for two
hours I sat in the waiting-room, balancing my cap on my knee, and trying
to work up the spots on the dingy wall-paper into geometrical figures.

When at last he came, so far from commending my patience, he had the
face to reproach me for sitting there idle instead of getting some one
to set me to work.

"You are not at school here, remember," said he, by way of being
sarcastic; "you come here to work."

"I worked at school," said I meekly.

"So I hear," said he.  "Now go to Mr Evans, and tell him you want a
job."

Whereupon my genial guardian quitted me.  But he came back a moment
after.

"Remember you are to be at the girls' school at 2:30.  Tell Miss
Bousfield you are the little boy I spoke to her about, and mind you
behave yourself up there."

Was ever a young man in such a shameful disgrace?

Three days ago I had imagined myself everybody; two days ago I had at
least imagined myself somebody; yesterday I had discovered with pain
that I was nobody; and to-day I was destined to wonder if I was even
that.

Mr Evans raised his eyebrows when I delivered my message to him.

"Are you the governor's little ward," he inquired, "who's just finished
his education?  All right, my little man, we'll find a job for you.  Run
up High Street and bring me the time by the market clock, and here's a
halfpenny to buy yourself sweets on the way."

It occurred to me as odd that Mr Evans should want to know the time by
a clock which was quite ten minutes' walk from the office.  Still,
perhaps he had to set the office clocks by it, so I set off, wondering
whether I ought to take the halfpenny, but taking it all the same.

I decided that the dignified course would be to buy the sweets, but to
take them all back to him, so as to impress him with the fact that I was
not as devoted to juvenile creature comforts as he evidently thought me.

"Is that all you have left?" said he, when, after accomplishing my
errand, I presented them to him.  "My eye! you've made good use of your
time, and no mistake."

"I've not eaten a single one," said I.

"It would have been better for your digestion if you had only eaten a
single one, instead of swallowing half the lot.  I know the ways of you
boys.  Well, what's the time?"

"It was twenty-five past ten."

"I didn't ask you what it was--I want to know what it is."

It then occurred to me for the first time that Mr Evans was a
humourist.  It seemed to me a feeble joke, but he evidently thought it a
good one, as did also the other clerks to whom he communicated it.

The worst of it was that the more I tried to explain that, not having a
watch of my own, I could not answer for the time by the market clock at
any moment but that at which I saw it, the more they seemed to be
amused.  Some suggested I should go back with a bag and bring the time
in it.  Others, that I should put it on ten minutes, and then come back,
so as to arrive at the exact moment it was when I left it.  Others were
of opinion that the best way would be for me to go and fetch the market
clock with me.

Mr Evans, however, decided that my talents were not equal to the task
of bringing the time in any shape or form, and that the best thing I
could do was to sit down and lick up envelopes.  Which I accordingly
did, feeling rather small.  I cut my tongue and spoiled my appetite over
the operation, and was heartily glad when, after a couple of hours, Mr
Evans said--

"Master Tommy, we're going to lunch.  You've had yours, so you can stop
here, and keep shop till we return."

"I have to go to Miss Bousfield's at 2:30," said I.

"To go where?" they all inquired.  And as I blushed very red, and tried
to explain myself away, they made a great deal out of my unlucky
admission.

"You're young for that sort of thing," said one.  "I didn't go courting
myself before I was fifteen."

"I'd made up my mind Sarah Bousfield was going to be an old maid," said
another.  "Heigho! it's never too late to mend."

"I hear she keeps sugar-plums for good little girls," said another.

"And the bad little ones get whipped and put in the corner."

"He mustn't go like that, anyhow," said Mr Evans, who, for a
responsible head clerk of a big business, was the most flippant person I
had ever met; "look at his hair--all out of curl!  Come here, little
girl, and be made tidy."

Once at Plummer's I had come in second for the half-mile under fourteen,
and been captain of my side in the junior tug of war!  Now I was to have
my hair curled publicly!

It was no use resisting.  I was held fast while Evans with a long
penholder made ringlets of my back hair, and Scroop, with his five
fingers, made a fringe of my front.  My hat, moreover, was decorated
with quills by way of feathers, and a fan made of blotting-paper was
thrust into my hands.  Then I was pronounced to be nice and tidy, and
fit to go and join the other little girls.

I fear that the energy with which, as soon as I was released, I deranged
my locks and flung the feathers from my hat, amused my persecutors as
much as it solaced me.  I was conscious of their hilarious greetings as
I strolled up the street, trying to walk in a straight masculine way,
but hideously conscious of blushing cheeks and nervous gait.  I so far
forgot myself that, in my eagerness to display my male superiority, I
jostled against a lady, and disgraced myself by swaggering on without
even apologising for my rudeness--when, to my consternation, the lady
uttered my name, "Tommy."

It was my mother!  I was still within sight of the office.  How Evans
and his lot would make merry over this _contretemps_!  They wouldn't
know who it was who was putting her hand on my shoulder.  And yet I am
glad to say that I was spared that day the disgrace of being ashamed of
my own dear mother.  Let the fellows think what they liked.  If they had
mothers like mine they wouldn't be the cads they were!

So, with almost unnecessary pomp, I raised my hat to my parent, and put
my hand in her arm.

"You're going up to Miss Bousfield's," said she; "I thought I should
meet you.  What a hurry you were in!"

"Yes; I'm sorry I knocked against you, mother."

"I'm glad you did.  I'm longing to hear how you got on to-day."

"Oh, pretty well."

"Was it very hard work?"

"Not particularly."

"You'll soon be quite a man of business."

It occurred to me that if my business career was to be based on no
better experience than that I had hitherto had in my guardian's office,
I should not rank as a merchant prince in a hurry.

"Would you like me to go with you to Miss Bousfield's?"

"If you like, mother.  But I can go alone all right."  She was a brick.
She guessed what I hoped she would say, and she said it.

"Well, I'll be looking out for you at tea-time, dear boy," said she.
And she patted my arm lovingly as I started on.

I wished those fellows could have heard her voice and seen her kind
face.  _She_ treated me like a man--which was more than could be said
for them.

I went on my way soothed in my ruffled spirits.  But my perturbation
revived when I stood on the doorstep of the Girls' High School, and rang
the head mistress's bell.  It was a bitter pill, I can tell you, for a
fellow who had once been caned by Plummer for practising on the
horizontal bar without the mattress underneath to fall on.

Miss Bousfield was a shrewd, not disagreeable-looking little body, who
saved me all the trouble of self-introduction by knowing who I was and
why I came.

"Well, Jones," said she--I liked that, I had dreaded she would call me
Tommy--"here you are.  How is your mother?  Why, what a state your hair
is in!  I really think you'd like to go into the cloak room; you'll find
a brush and comb there.  It looks as if your hair were standing on end
with horror at me, you know."

Little she knew what my hair was on end about.  I was almost grateful to
her for the way she put it, and meekly retired to the cloak room,
where--I confess it--with a long-tailed girl's comb, and a soft brush,
and a big looking-glass, I contrived to restore my truant locks to their
former masculine order.

When I returned to the room.  Miss Bousfield was sitting at a table, at
which was also seated a young lady of about twenty, with an exercise
book and dictionary in front of her.

Was it a trap?  Was I to be taught along with the girls after all?  Miss
Bousfield evidently divined my perturbation and hastened to explain.

"Miss Steele, this is Master Jones, who is going to read Latin with us.
Miss Steele is one of my teachers, Jones, and we three are going to
brush up our classics together, you see."

Oh, all right.  That wasn't so bad.  I had no objection to assist Miss
Steele, or Miss Bousfield, for the matter of that, in brushing-up their
classics, as long as the girls at large were kept out of the way.

I acknowledged Miss Steele's greeting in a patronising way, and then
looked about for a chair.  I wished Mr Evans and his lot could see how
far removed I was from the common schoolgirl; here were two females
actually going to pick my brains for their own good.  If women must
learn Latin at all, they could hardly do better than secure a public
schoolboy to brush them up.

"Now, let us see," said Miss Bousfield, "how far we have all got.  Miss
Steele, you have read some Cicero, I know, already."

Cicero!  That girl read Cicero, when I had barely begun Caesar!  This
was a crusher for me.  How about the brushing-up now?

"And you, Jones, have you begun Cicero yet?"

"Well, no," I said, "not yet."

"Caesar, then; I think we shall both be ready to take that up again.
How far were you--or shall we begin at the beginning?"

"Better begin at the beginning," said I, anxious not to have to confess
that I had not yet got through the first chapter.

But before we had gone many lines, Miss Bousfield, I could see, began to
have her doubts about my syntax; and after a little conference about
syntax, the question of verbs came up, unpleasantly for me; and after
deciding we had a little brushing-up to do there, the conversation
turned on declensions, a subject on which I had very little definite
information to afford to these two females in distress.

I verily believe we should have come to exchanging views on the
indefinite article itself, had not Miss Bousfield taken the bull by the
horns, and said--

"I think the best thing, Jones, will be for us to assume we know
nothing, to begin with, and start at the beginning.  We shall easily get
over the ground then, and it will be all the better to be sure of our
footing.  Let us take Exercise 1. in the grammar."

Miss Steele pouted a little, as if to indicate it was hardly worth her
while, as a reader of Cicero, to waste her time over "a high tree," "a
bad boy," "a beautiful table," and so on.  But I felt sure the exercise
would do her good, and was glad Miss Bousfield set her to it.

She irritated me by having it all written down in a twinkling, and going
on with Cicero on her own account, while I plodded on up the "high tree"
and around the "beautiful table."  I hoped Miss Bousfield would rebuke
her for insubordination, but she did not, and I began to think much less
of both ladies as the afternoon went on.

It did not add to my satisfaction to get my exercise back with fifteen
corrections scored across it in bold red pencil--whereas Miss Steele's
was not even looked at.

I thought of suggesting that it would be only fair that she and I should
be treated alike, when Miss Bousfield capped all by saying to her
governess--

"Perhaps, Miss Steele, you will go through the exercise with Jones and
show him where he has gone wrong.  Then he can write it out again for
you, and try not to have any mistake this time."

This was really too much!  To be passed on to a girl who was learning
Latin herself, and for her to score about my exercises!  It was a
conspiracy to degrade me in the eyes of myself and my fellow-mortals.

But protest was rendered impossible by Miss Bousfield quitting the room
and leaving me to the mercies of her deputy.

"Why," said Miss Steele, not at all unkindly, but with a touch of
raillery in her voice--"why were you such a goose, Jones, as to pretend
you knew what you didn't?"

"I didn't; I forgot, that's all," said I.

"Well, look here, Jones," said she, in a friendly way--and, by the way,
she was not at all bad-looking--"if you really want to get up Latin, and
mean to work, I'll do my best to coach you; but if you're only playing
at learning, I've something better to do."

"I'm not playing," said I.  "I don't know why I've got to come and learn
Latin at all."

"I suppose you are going to a school some day, aren't you?"

"I've been to one, and I've left," said I.

"Left?" said she, with a little laugh.

"Well, then, I was expelled," said I.

"Tell me all about it."

And I did, and found her not only interested and sympathetic, but
decidedly indignant on my account.

"It was a great shame," said she, "especially as your friend never shot
the dog at all."

"He's all right, lucky chap," said I; "he's got an exhibition to Low
Heath, and is going there after the holidays."

"Why don't you get an exhibition too, Jones?"

The question astounded me.  I get an exhibition!  I who had been licked
once a week for bad copies, and had been told by every teacher I had had
anything to do with that I was a hopeless dunce.

"Why not?" said the siren at my side.  "You're not a dunce.  I can tell
that by the way you picked up some of the Caesar just now.  You're lazy,
that's all.  That's easily cured."

"But I'd have no chance at Low Heath.  Tempest was a dab at lessons."

"He's older than you.  Besides, the junior exhibitions are not as hard
to get.  When will you be fourteen?"

"July next year."

"Just twelve months.  Why not try, Jones?  I'll back you up.  I've
coached my young brother, and he got into Rugby.  You needn't tell any
one--so if you miss nobody will be any the wiser.  It will make all the
difference to have an exam, to aim at."

I stared in wonder at Miss Steele.  That young woman could have twisted
me round her finger.

"I'll try," said I.

"Not unless you mean to work like a horse," said she.

"All serene," said I; "honour bright."

"Then it's a bargain.  Mark my word, we'll pull through."

Whereat we fell hammer and tongs on Exercise Number 1. of the grammar.



CHAPTER FIVE.

A "COACH" DRIVE!

If any one had told me two days ago that it would be reserved to an
assistant teacher in a girls' school to inspire me with an ardent
interest in Latin and arithmetic I should have laughed him to scorn.

Miss Steele, however, succeeded in achieving the impossible.  I am bound
to confess that my new-born ardour was not mainly due to affection for
the dead language in question, or even to esteem for my preceptress.
But the idea of taking Low Heath, so to speak, by storm, had fairly
roused my ambition.  The glory of rising superior to my fate, of shaking
off the ill-tutored Mr Evans and his works, and rejoining my old
school-comrade with all the prestige of a fellow-exhibitioner,
captivated my imagination and steeled me to the endurance of hardships
of which I had hitherto conceived myself utterly incapable.

Miss Steele had no notion of letting me off my bargain.  She procured
particulars of the examinations, and very formidable appeared the list
of subjects as we conned them.  Still she was firm in her belief that I
could do it if I only worked, and since her eagerness fully equalled my
own, there was not much chance of my work dropping slack.

If any other incentive was wanted it was the supreme discomfort of my
position at my guardian's office.

My comrades there persistently misunderstood me.

They put me down as an opiniated young prig, with whom all sorts of
liberties might be taken, and out of whom it was lawful, for their own
amusement, to take unlimited "rise."

I was, of course, unmercifully chaffed about the girls' school.

"He's getting on," said one of them, on the very morning after my
_debut_.  "They walk out together."

"That was not Miss Bousfield you saw me with at all," I explained.
"That was my mother."

"Quite time she came to look after you, too.  How did she like your
curls?  You should put them in papers overnight, then we shouldn't have
to do them every day."

Where upon I was seized, and had my locks tied up in wads of blotting-
paper, and ordered to sit down and lick envelopes, and not dare to put
my hand to my head till leave was accorded me from headquarters.

In this plight my guardian came in and discovered me.

"Please, Mr Girdler--" said I, not waiting for him to remark on my
curious appearance.

But Mr Girdler, who was not ordinarily given to mirth, abruptly left
the room with a smile on his face before I could proceed.

When he re-entered he was stern and severe.

"Make yourself decent at once, sir," said he.  "No, I don't want any of
your explanations.  No doubt they are highly satisfactory.  I begin to
understand now why you were sent away from school.  It strikes me an
idiot asylum is the proper place for you."

I dismally tore my curl-papers out of my hair and went on with my work
till the blessed hour of release came.

Then I hied straight to the nearest barber.

"I want my hair as short as you can cut it," said I.

"Very good, sir; we can give you the county crop, if you like."

"Is that the shortest you do?" inquired I, not knowing what the "county
crop" was.

"Well, sir, we ain't asked to take more off as a rule, unless it is a
clean shave you want."

"No, the county crop will do," said I.

And, to do the barber justice, I got it.  I barely knew myself in the
glass when the operation was over.  I had some misgivings as to the
remarks of Evans & Company in the morning--at any rate, they wouldn't
curl my hair any more.

Miss Bousfield and Miss Steele regarded me with something like dismay
when they saw me, but were polite enough to make no remark beyond giving
me permission to wear my hat if I felt a draught.

"Miss Steele has been telling me of your plan of work," said Miss
Bousfield; "and I fully approve, on the understanding you are serious
about it.  I am not so sanguine as Miss Steele is; still, I do not wish
to discourage you, Jones.  But understand, it means a year's hard work."

I assured her I was prepared for any amount of work, and Miss Steele,
whose ambition was as keenly aroused as mine, gave a general promise on
my behalf that I would work like a horse.

"Now," said she, when Miss Bousfield had left us, "you're in for it,
Jones.  If you don't work, mind, it will be a disgrace to me as well as
you."

I fear, during the months that followed, this ardent young "coach" was
frequently on the point of disgrace.  For a week or two I surprised
myself with my industry.  Then I caught myself wondering at odd times
whether I was really as sure of passing as I fancied, and whether, if I
failed, it would not be a horrible sell to have worked so hard for
nothing.

Then for a day or so I came in a little late, and took to grumbling over
my tasks.

"Now, look here, Jones," said she, one day, "you were five minutes late
on Monday, ten minutes late on Tuesday and Wednesday, and a quarter of
an hour late to-day.  How much is that in the week?"

"Forty minutes," said I; mental arithmetic was a strong point with me.

"Very good; there's forty minutes lost.  The examination may turn on the
very lesson you might have learned in that time.  Now, I'm not going to
threaten you, but what should you say if I were to call at the office
and fetch you every day?"

I nearly jumped out of my chair.

"Oh, don't, please don't, Miss Steele!" said I.  "I'll be here to the
second, in future, I promise."

"All right," said she, with a smile, and the subject dropped.

This dreadful threat kept me up to the mark for the next few weeks, but
even it lost its terrors in time, and my preceptress had to apply the
spur in other ways as the time went on.

Once, after I had been particularly slack, and had, moreover, been so
rude to her that she ended the lesson abruptly, I thought it was all up.
For, when I presented myself next day, I was informed by the servant
that Miss Steele was busy, and had no time to see me.

I was locked out!  My dismay knew no bounds.  Suppose she had "chucked"
me altogether, what would become of my chance of getting into Low Heath?

I retired home in great perturbation, and confided the state of the case
to my mother, who advised me there and then to sit down and write an
apology.

I had never done such a thing in my life.  Once I had verbally begged
Tempest's pardon for some error; but to commit myself in writing to a
girl!

"My dear Miss Steele," I wrote,--"I'm sorry.  Yours truly, T.  Jones."

"That will do very well," said my mother.  "It's not too long, at the
same time it says what you want to say."

I wasn't altogether pleased with it myself, but allowed the maid to take
it up to the school, with instructions to wait for an answer.

In due time she returned with a missive from Miss Steele.

"My dear Jones,--To-morrow as usual.  Yours truly, M.  Steele."

I am sure no model letter-writer ever said as much in as few words.

This little correspondence cleared the air for the time.  No reference
was made to it when I turned up as usual the next day; but from the way
I worked, and the way she taught, it was evident we had both had a
shake.

My next relapse was even more serious.  It came early in the spring,
after our work had proceeded for about nine months.

I really had made good progress all round.  Not in Latin only, but in
Greek grammar, arithmetic, and English, and was naturally inclined to
feel a little cocky of the result.

"Don't crow, Jones," she said; "you've a lot to do yet."

But I did not altogether agree with her, and was inclined to indulge
myself a little of an evening when I was supposed to be preparing my
work.  In an evil day I fell across an old book-shop, and found two
books, which helped to undo me.  One was a rollicking story of a pirate
who swept the Western Main, and captured treasure, and seized youths and
maidens, and ran blockades, and was finally brought to book in a
sportsmanlike manner by a jolly young English middy, amid scenes of
terrific slaughter amidships.  That was one purchase.  The other was
even more disturbing.  It was a "crib" to the arithmetic I was doing,
with all the sums beautifully worked out and the answers given.

So--I must make the confession--I astonished Miss Steele greatly for a
while by my extraordinary proficiency in arithmetic, and during the same
time spent my evenings in imagination on the high seas, flying aloft the
black flag, and shooting across the bows of Her Majesty's ships wherever
I sighted them.

This career of duplicity could not be expected to last long.  One
afternoon Miss Steele brought matters to a crisis by calling upon me to
work a sum on the spot which was not in the book.

I failed egregiously.

"That's singular," said she; "it's far simpler than those you brought
with you to-day.  How long did it take you to do them?"

I looked hard at Miss Steele, and she looked hard at me.  The pirate
game was up at last.

"About two minutes each," said I.

"_Two_ minutes?"

"Yes--as fast as I could copy them out of the crib.  I'm sorry, Miss
Steele."

She shut up her book abruptly.

"I didn't expect it of you, Jones," said she; "you've been making a fool
of me.  I've lost confidence in you; now you can go."

"Oh, I say.  Miss Steele, I'm so awfully--"

"Be quiet, sir, and go!" said she, more fiercely than I had ever known
her.

I took up my cap and went.  She was in no humour to listen to
explanations, but it was clear I had done for myself now.  After what
had happened she was not likely to give me another chance.

I did not care to tell my mother how matters stood this time.  It would
be difficult to put my case in a favourable light, and I was quite sure
my mother could not help me out of my difficulty.

I solemnly burned my crib that night in the parlour fire, after every
one was in bed.  It took ages to consume, and nearly set the chimney on
fire in the operation.  But when that was done I was as far off a
solution of my difficulty as ever.

I hardly slept a wink, and in the morning my mother added to my
discomfort by remarking on my looks.

"You're working too hard, dear boy," said she.  "I must ask Miss Steele
to give you a little holiday, or you'll be quite knocked up."

"Please don't," said I.  "I'm all right."

Here the postman's knock caused a diversion.

"A letter for you, Tommy," said my mother.

It was from Tempest, of all people--the first he had condescended to
write me since we had parted company in Plummer's hall nearly a year
ago.

It was a rambling, patronising effusion, in his usual style; but every
word of it, in my present plight, had a sting for me.

"It's a pity you're not here," wrote he; "it's a ripping place.
Everything about the place is ripping except the drilling master and the
dumplings on Mondays, which are both as vile as vile can be.  I'm in the
upper fifth, and shall probably get my ribbon and perhaps my house after
summer.  Plummer's was regular tomfooling to this.  We've a match on
with Rugby this term, and I'm on the reserve for the Eleven.  I suppose
you know young Brown is coming here; though I'm sorry to say as a day
boy.  His people are going to live in the town, so he'll be able to come
on the cheap.  I shall do what I can for him, but I expect he'll have a
hot time, for the day boys are rather small beer.  The exhibitioners
have the best time of it.  If Brown could get a junior exhibition and
live in school, he could fag for me and have a jolly time.  But poor
Dicky hasn't got it in him.  I got rather lammed after I got home from
Plummer's; but it was all right when Plummer wrote to say that a burglar
had shot the dog, and he was sorry there had been a mistake, and hoped
I'd go back.  Catch me!  It's better fun here--as much cricket as you
like, and a river, and gymnasium, and all sorts of sprees.  It wouldn't
be half bad if you were here, kid; but I suppose you're a young gent
with a topper and a bag at your guardian's office.  I hope it suits
you--wouldn't me--" and so on.

How this letter made me long to be at Low Heath, and how it made me
realise what an ass I had been to go in for that crib!  I really felt
too bad to go that day to Miss Steele, even if she would have let me!
and wandered about cudgelling my brains how on earth I could get her to
take me back again.

She wouldn't believe my protestations, I knew; but she might believe
deeds, not words.

So I shut myself up in my room and took down my arithmetic, and worked
out sum after sum all off my own bat, till my brain reeled and I could
hardly distinguish one figure from another.  Some I knew were wrong,
others I hoped were right; all were _bona fide_.  I stuck to it till
nearly midnight, and then, merely writing my name on the top, put them
into an envelope, under the flap of which I wrote, "I've burnt the crib.
Try me this once," and posted them to my offended teacher.

No answer came for twenty-four hours, which I spent on pins and needles,
working away frantically during my leisure hours, and occupying part of
my business time in personally avenging an insult offered to Miss
Steele's name by one of my guardian's junior clerks.  I wished she could
have seen me.  I got a terrible blow on the eye, but I gave him two, and
caused him to regret audibly that he had spoken disparagingly of my
cruel fair.

Next morning a note came to my mother.

"Please tell your boy I shall be in this afternoon."

In fear and trembling I presented myself, and confronted not Miss Steele
but Miss Bousfield, who addressed me in terse and forcible language, and
gave me to understand that I was a person of extremely second-rate
character and attainments.  I acknowledged it, but hoped for an
opportunity of improving her impressions.

"I shall leave it to Miss Steele to do as she thinks best," said the
head mistress.  "I am sorry indeed her time has been wasted over a
worthless pupil.  You had better wait till she comes."

I waited grimly, like a culprit for the jury.  When she came in and saw,
as I suppose, my woebegone face, I read hope in her manner.

"I got your note, Jones," said she.

"Oh!  I say, Miss Steele, I'm really frightfully sorry.  I know it was a
caddish thing to do, especially when you had been so kind.  Look here, I
did all those sums myself, without help; and here's another batch I've
done since; and--and--" (here I resolved to play a trump card) "and I
got this black eye sticking up for you."

That settled it.  She smiled once more and said, "Well, Jones, I'll say
no more about it this once.  I had made up my mind it was no use our
going on together; but I'll try, if you will."

"Try--I'll kill myself working," said I, "to make up."

"That wouldn't do much good," said she; "but I'll try to forget all this
ever happened, and we'll go on just where we left off."

"That was page 72," said I eagerly; "and, I say, Miss Steele, you
remember my telling you about Tempest, and Dicky Brown, you know;
well--"

"Is that on page 72, or is it something which we can talk about when
work is done?"

So I got my chance once again, and this time I stuck to it.

The nearer the time came, the more desperately we worked.  Sometimes
Miss Steele had positively to hunt me out for a walk, or, if I would not
go alone, to drag me along with her to some place where, regardless of
our possible detection by Evans and his friends, we could combine fresh
air and education.

The fatal day came at last when I had to go off to my ordeal.  I was
obliged at the last moment to disclose my well-kept secret to my mother
and my guardian.  The former fell on my neck, the latter grunted
incredulously and embarrassed me by presenting me with a five-shilling
piece.

Miss Steele came down to see me off at the station.  "Keep cool," said
she; "sit where you can see the clock, and don't try to answer two
questions at once."

Never did tyro get better advice!

I was too excited to heed much of the big stately building I was so
eager some day to claim as my own school.  It was holiday time, and only
a little band of combatants like myself huddled into one corner of the
big hall, and gazed up in an awestruck way at the portrait of the
Jacobean knight to whom Low Heath owed its foundation.

To me it was all like a dream.  I woke to discover a paper on the desk
before me; a paper bristling with questions, each of them challenging me
to get into the school if I could.  Then I remember dashing my pen into
the ink and beginning to write.

"Keep cool.  Keep your eye on the clock.  Try one question at a time,"
echoed a voice in my ear.

How lonely I felt there all by myself!  How I wished I could turn and
see _her_ at my side!

The clock crawled round from eleven to three, and I went on writing.
Then I remember a hand coming along the desk and taking the papers out
of my sight.  Then a bewildered train journey home, and a hundred
questions at the other end.

I went on dreaming for a week, conscious sometimes of my mother's face,
sometimes of Miss Steele's, sometimes of Mr Evans's.  But what I did
with myself in the interval I should be sorry to be called upon to tell.

At last, one morning, I woke with a vengeance, as I held in my hand a
paper on which were printed a score or so of names, third among which I
made out the words--

"Jones, T.--(Miss M.  Steele, High School, Fallowfield): Exhibition,
£40."

So I was a Low Heathen at last!



CHAPTER SIX.

UP TO FORM.

I have reason to fear that for a fortnight after I received the
astounding news of my scholastic success I was an intolerable nuisance
to my friends and a ridiculous spectacle to my enemies.

I may have had some excuse.  I had worked hard, and got myself into a
"tilted" state of mind altogether.  Still, that was no reason why I
should consider that the whole world was standing still to look on at my
triumph; still less why I should patronise my mother and Miss Steele and
Miss Bousfield as three well-intentioned persons who had just had an
object-lesson in the inferiority of their sex.

My mother and Miss Steele were too delighted to mind my airs.  They were
really proud--one to be my mother, the other to be my "coach."  And when
I strutted in and talked as if they barely knew how honoured they were
by my company, they laughed good-humouredly, and said to one another,--

"No wonder he's pleased with himself, dear boy."

Miss Bousfield was less disposed to bow the knee.

"I hope you won't forget what you owe to Miss Steele," said she.  "I
never hoped she could make as much as she did of such unpromising
material.  It's what I always have said--good teaching can make a
scholar of a dunce."

"Ah," said I, "you thought I was a dunce.  I determined you should see I
wasn't.  I am glad your school gets the credit of the exhibition."

"I'll wait and see how you turn out, before I am glad," said she.  "I
hope the High School will not get a reputation for turning out prigs,
Jones."

I couldn't quite understand Miss Bousfield.  She was not as cordial as I
thought she might be, considering the honour I had brought upon her
school.

My guardian's clerks were even less impressed by my distinction than
she.

"What's the matter this morning?" said Mr Evans on the day of my
triumph, as I sat smiling inwardly at my desk.

"Nothing particular," said I.

"It looks as if it was bad stomach-ache--I'd try camomile pills, if I
were you."

"Thank you--I don't require pills.  If you want to know, I've been up
for an exam, and passed."

"Been up where?"

"Up for an exam.--an examination," said I, surprised at their density.

"Where, at the girls' school?"

"Girls' school, no; at Low Heath."  Mr Evans looked grave, and beckoned
his comrades a little nearer.

"Awfully sad, isn't it?" said he, with a seriousness which surprised me.

"Yes.  It's a good institution, though.  My uncle tried to get a case in
there once, but failed."  I wasn't surprised to hear that.

"They only let the _very_ dotty ones in," said Mr Evans.  "Besides,
it'll be a part payment case--at least, I should think the governor will
plank down something."

"It's worth £40 a year for four years," said I, understanding very
imperfectly the drift of these remarks, but pleased at least to find I
had succeeded in impressing my fellow-clerks.

"Ah, so much?--they can't treat cases like yours for nothing.  When are
you going in?"

"In September.  It's a splendid place--five hundred fellows there."

"So many!  It's rather sad to think about, isn't it, Hodges?  Five
hundred!  What a lot of trouble there is in the world, to be sure!"

"I can't say I shall be sorry--I know one or two chaps there already."

"Very likely, if it runs in the family at all."

"What runs?" said I, not taking him.

Mr Evans tapped his forehead.

"Never mind," said he, "it's not your fault.  I expect four years will
do marvels with you.  We'll come and see you sometimes, on visiting
days."

"Ah, I don't suppose there are visiting days, except for parents," said
I.

"I know one or two of the staff, though," said one of the party.  "I
shall be able to hear about you from them."

"Oh, all right," said I.  "I hope things here will go on all right when
I'm at school."

"School?" said Mr Evans, stooping with his hands on his knees, and
looking into my face.  "Did you say school?  Is Low Heath a school?"

"Rather.  What did you think it was?"

"We thought it was an idiot asylum," said Mr Evans.  And a shout of
laughter at my expense confirmed his statement.

I did not deign to explain; and for the few days I remained at the
office I made no further reference to my academic triumphs, though my
comrades rarely failed to make merry over the asylum.

At the end of a fortnight I began to come to myself, and realise that I
had not exactly borne my honours blushingly.  And I was glad when my
mother proposed a week or two at the seaside, to brace up before
plunging into the ocean of public school fife.

My guardian, who had of late grown fairly civil to me, in the prospect
of getting me off his hands, was good enough to release me from the
office; and I shook the dust of that detestable place off my feet with
unfeigned thankfulness.

Mr Evans wanted to get up a farewell supper for me, and I was very near
allowing myself the honour, when I accidentally discovered that all the
provisions were to be ordered in my name and the bill sent to me.
Whereupon I declined the invitation with thanks, and regretted that a
previous engagement would prevent my having the pleasure of joining
their party.

Once in the quiet of the seaside, with my mother for companion, I
recovered my proper frame of mind, and began to take sober views of the
prospect before me.

I wrote to Tempest--rather a cocky letter, perhaps, but one full of
delight at the prospect of joining him at Low Heath, and claiming his
patronage and support.

His reply was characteristic to say the least.

"The examiners for exhibitions here are the biggest muffs out.  They
plough the only men worth having and let in no end of scugs.  The
consequence is.  Low Heath is packed full of asses, as you'll find out.
I'm glad they let you in, though, as it will be sport having you here
and making you sing small.  I do hope, though, it won't get out that
you've been coached by a female, or there'll be a terrific lark.  I'm
getting quite a dab at photography, and shall have my camera up next
term.  Mind you get the right-shaped boiler, or I shall cut you.  The
kids are to be stopped wearing round tops like their betters, so you'd
best cut yours square.  Brown was too 'cute to try for an exhibition.
It's bad enough for him to be a day boy, but it would be a jolly sight
worse to be an exhibitioner as well.  When you come up, mind you're not
to collar me.  It's bad form for a kid to collar a senior.  Wait till I
speak to you, or else get some chap to bring you and introduce you.
Fellows who shirk form get jolly well lammed; so you'd better go easy at
first.  Bring plenty of pocket-money, and some thick boots for kicking
chaps back.--Yours truly, H.T.  Tempest."

This letter both gratified and perturbed me.  It was pleasing to be
hailed as one of the inner circle of a fellow like Tempest; but it made
me suspect that I should not be taken into the fold at my own valuation,
but that of my betters, which in a public school is a very different
thing.  The little details, too, about dress and manners rather startled
me.  For supposing I had gone up not knowing these things, what mistakes
I should have made!  Suppose, for instance, I had gone up in a billycock
with a round instead of a square top; or suppose I had hailed Tempest
without his first speaking to me, what would have become of me?  I
trembled to think of it, and was glad to feel I had a friend at court
who would see I didn't "shirk form."

What made me still more uneasy was the reference to my connection with a
girl's school.  The prize list had made it appear, to any one who did
not know better, that I was a pupil from Miss Steele's, High School,
Fallowfield.  Suppose this list should get into the hands of any of the
fellows, or that some other new boy should carelessly leave his copy
about!  I wished I had had more sense than to mention the High School at
all.  This came of my chivalrous desire, said I to myself, to give Miss
Steele and her principal the benefit of my distinction.  Now I might
have to thank them for endless trouble.  I did my best to hope the worst
would not happen.

"Fellows never read prize lists of exams, they've not been in for,"
thought I; "and when they have been in, they never trouble themselves
about any one's name but their own.  Why, I haven't even noticed where a
single other chap comes from.  They may all be girls' schools, for all I
know.  It's not likely any one has noticed mine."

And to avoid all accident I dropped mine into the fire, and had to stand
my mother's reproaches for destroying a document she had intended to
treasure till her dying day.

As the time for my going to Low Heath approached, I began to turn my
attention seriously to my _trousseau_.

My first care was to get the square-topped boiler, and a rare job I had
to procure it.  None of the hatters in Fallowfield knew of such a shape
in young gents' hats; and the shopkeepers in Wynd, whither I went over
on purpose, were equally benighted.  My mother, too, protested that she
had never heard of such a kind of hat, and that it would be hideous when
I got it.

That was no fault of mine.  It was the Low Heath form, and that was
enough for me.

At length I heard of a hat of the kind at Deercut, five miles off, and
walked thither.  It had been made, said the hatter, for a young sporting
party who attended to a gentleman's stables, and knew a thing or two.
He had got into trouble, it was explained, and was "doing his time on
the circular staircase," which I took to mean the treadmill.  That was
the reason the article had been thrown on the maker's hands.  It seemed
just the thing Tempest described.  The top was as flat as the lid of a
work-box; indeed, it was precisely like a somewhat broad-brimmed
chimney-pot-hat cut down to half height; and after a little pinching in
at the sides fitted me beautifully.  The maker was delighted to be able
to suit me, and smiled most graciously when I paid him my five shillings
and walked out of the shop with my junior exhibitioner's "boiler" on my
head.

I set down to envy or ignorance the jeers of the village youths who
encountered me on my way home.  Some people will laugh at anything they
do not understand.  My mother's protests, when she saw me, however, were
not so easy to dispose of.

"Why, Tommy, it makes you look like a common cheap-jack," said she.
"It's not a gentleman's hat at all.  I'm sure they would not tolerate it
at Low Heath."

"On the contrary," said I, "it's the form there.  You might say the same
of mortar boards or blue-coat dresses.  It all depends on the school."

"But are you sure Tempest was not exaggerating?"

"Tempest is the most particular chap about form I know," said I.

"Well, dear, promise me you won't wear this dreadful hat till you go to
school.  Wear your nice cap that suits you so well till then."

I humoured her.  Indeed, I was a little shy myself of meeting Mr Evans,
or any of that set, in my new garb.  They would be sure to pass their
nasty personal remarks upon it.  It would be better to preserve it in
its virgin purity for my entrance to Low Heath.

I took the precaution to write to Tempest and mention that I had got it,
appending to my letter a rough sketch of the hat, so that, if there were
anything wrong about it, he would be able to correct me.

He wrote back in great good spirits.

"Just the thing, kid.  It'll take the shine out of all the boilers up
here.  Did I tell you about gloves?  The knowing ones mostly sport
lavender; but the outsiders don't wear any, except at the first call-
over in the term, when of course it's compulsory.  One muff last term
got pretty well lammed because he only had two-button gloves instead of
six.  I believe one or two others were just as bad, only they didn't get
kotched; but it was a lesson to them.  I wonder if young Brown will be
up to the tips, or whether he'll turn up in black boots instead of tan.
I sha'n't write to him, because he's a town-boy, and it would be low.
Ta-ta.  Don't forget to wear your collar outside your great-coat, or I
sha'n't speak to you.--Yours, till then, H.T."

I kept this letter carefully from my mother.  I knew it would only
distress her, and suggest all sorts of difficulties.  For, dear soul, it
would be so hard to explain to her the exigencies of school form.  What
would have become of me without old Tempest?  I should have come utterly
to grief, I felt.  My only fear was that he might have forgotten
something which it was as important I should be made aware of as the
hat, or the six-button lavender gloves, or the tan boots.

I am afraid I must plead guilty to a little duplicity in the matter of
purchasing these highly necessary articles of my kit.  I had to persuade
my mother to allow me to choose my own gloves and boots; and expended
the money in such a manner that I could show her an ordinary pair of
each, while the special articles were carefully concealed in my box.
She thought the cheap black shoes and dog-skin gloves I paraded before
her dear at the price; but she little knew that I had safely stowed away
an elegant pair of light lavender gloves and a pair of tan boots of the
most fashionable appearance.

I had some difficulty about the former.  For six-button gloves for young
gents was not a "stock-line" in any of the shops.  I had finally to get
a lady's twelve-button pair and cut them down to suit my requirements.
The tan boots were more easily procured, although it grated somewhat
against my feelings to be sent over to the ladies' side of the shop to
get them, as they were not kept for boys on the men's side.  As it was,
I feared they did not come up to Tempest's description of "thick boots
for kicking back in," but they were the thickest I could procure.

At length my preparations were all complete.  My mother had been an
angel about them all.  She had let me have my own way, and forborne
criticism when my taste--or rather my conjecture as to what the Low
Heath form might demand--ran counter to hers.  On this account she made
no remark about my check shirts, or the steel chain which, after the
most approved fashion, came out from under the side of my waistcoat and
supported the weight of my keys in my side trouser pocket.  I confess it
was an inconvenient arrangement.  It was impossible to unlock my
portmanteau without either half undressing, or kneeling down so as to
bring the end of the chain on a level with the keyhole, or else standing
the portmanteau on a chair or table to bring it up to the key.  But it
was undoubtedly the smart way of carrying keys.  So the tailor said, and
so one or two friends in whom I confided also assured me.

I was really quite glad when I had sat down on the floor beside my trunk
for the last time, and knew I should not have to perform with the key
again till I was unpacking at Low Heath.

My handbag, for certain reasons, I carried with me unlocked.  It
contained, to tell the truth, the hat and gloves and tan boots and other
_articles de rigueur_ which I did not exactly like to start off in, but
which I was resolved to don during the journey, so as to dawn on the Low
Heath horizon altogether "up to Cocker," as Tempest would say.

At the last moment my spirits failed me a little.  I had been so taken
up with my own plans that I had almost forgotten I was leaving my mother
solitary, and turning my back on the sunshine of affection which during
the last year had come to be such a natural and soothing feature of my
surroundings.

"Don't forget the old home, Tommy," she said.  "God bless you and keep
you good, and innocent, and honest!  Don't be led astray by bad
companions, but try to help others to be good.  And, Tommy dear, don't
try to be a man just yet--be the dear boy you are--don't try to be
anything else, and--" But here the train began to move, and there was
barely time for a farewell kiss.

What she said ran rather in my head, especially the last exhortation,
which I was sorry she had uttered.  For I was quite sure she was
referring to my nervous desire to do everything correctly at the new
school; and it grieved me that she should speak of it as trying to be
something I was not.

Of course I would remember all she said.  There was not much fear of my
being led astray; it was much more likely that I, as an exhibitioner,
would be looked up to by some of the ordinary small boys to show them a
lead.  What with Tempest to befriend me at headquarters, and my prestige
as a scholar, and the fact that I knew a pretty good deal about school
already, it was as likely as not I might be instrumental in helping one
or two lame dogs over the stiles of their first term.

My only travelling companion was a motherly sort of person of the farmer
class, who eyed me affectionately--too affectionately to please me--and
attempted to condole with me on the sorrow of leaving home.

"Never mind, dearie," said she--Cheek! for a stranger to call a chap
"dearie."

"You'll be a bit lonely at first, so you will; but you'll get used to
it, and it won't be so long to holiday time, and then you'll see mamma
again."

I wished she wouldn't.  She misunderstood me.  I wasn't thinking about
the holidays at all.  The fact was, I was thinking about my boots and
hat in the bag, and wondering when I should put them on.

Bother it!  Why should I mind her or her remarks?  Some other new chap
might get in at the next station, and I couldn't change before him.  I'd
better get myself up to form now, and so be ready.

So, to the old lady's surprise, I proceeded to take off my shoes and put
on the thick tan boots in their place.  She watched me in mingled
admiration and surprise--no doubt the fresh yellow was very imposing,
and made me look as if I was shod in gold.  But the High Street at Low
Heath would presently be sparkling with a hundred pairs of such boots,
so what mattered an old lady's temporary astonishment?  It was the same
about the hat--indeed worse.  For at the sight of that particularly
sporting adornment, she threw up her hands and exclaimed,--

"What a funny little fellow, to be sure!"

I tried to look grave, and as if I had not heard her, but I felt very
conscious of the hat all the same, and only hoped another new boy would
get in presently, so that she might see that a thing might be the
fashion and yet she not know it.

I was a good deal perplexed about the lavender gloves.  Of course, I had
not to wear these until call-over that afternoon, or possibly next
morning.  But I might as well try them on now.  And the difficulty was
that it was very difficult to button the six buttons all the way up
without baring my arm half-way at least to the elbow.  I made a feeble
attempt, but it presented so many difficulties, and evidently so
seriously perturbed my companion, that I abandoned the attempt,
resolving to try them on under the bedclothes that night.

At the first station a youth of about my own age, with a hat-box and
bag, got into the carriage.  Was he, I wondered, a Low Heath chap?
Evidently not.  He wore a straw hat, and boots of the ordinary colour,
and--Whew! what a lucky thing I had not forgotten it!  He wore his white
collar inside the velvet of his great-coat.  And so should I have
continued to do, had not the sight of him called Tempest's injunction to
wear it outside to my memory.  I availed myself of the next tunnel to
rectify this serious omission, and had the satisfaction, when we emerged
into daylight, of noticing that neither of my fellow-travellers appeared
to pay much heed to the change.  They both stared at me now and then;
but the boy evidently grew tired of that, and curled himself up in a
corner of the carriage and read a _Boy's Own Paper_.

I presently followed his example, and what with reading, and speculating
on my coming entry into Low Heath, and an occasional thought for the
little home at Fallowfield, the time went quickly by.

"Is this Low Heath station?" inquired I, as the train began to slacken
speed.

"Yes," said the boy, regarding me from head to foot with evidently
increased curiosity.  "Are you a new kid at the school?"

"Yes," said I.

"Oh my!  What a lark!" said he.

I was glad he thought it so.

"Are you at the school?" inquired I.

"Looks like it," said he, getting together his traps hurriedly, and
bounding from the carriage with what I fancied was a broad grin on his
face.

So here I was at last!



CHAPTER SEVEN.

COMING DOWN A PEG OR TWO.

I had half hoped Tempest would be down at the station to meet me.  But
he was not: and I had to consider on the spur of the moment how to make
my entry into Low Heath.

Either I might walk, as I noticed a good many of the fellows who got out
of the train did, or I might charter a private fly, as a few of the
swells did, or I might go up in one of the school omnibuses, which was
evidently the popular mood of transportation.  I was so earnestly
desirous to do the correct thing, that I was nearly doing nothing at
all, and finally found myself standing almost alone on the platform with
the last omnibus ready to start.

Surely they might make some arrangement, thought I, for meeting
exhibitioners and taking them up.  How did I know this omnibus was not a
town-boys' vehicle, or one dedicated to the service of the inferior
boys?  Perhaps it would be better--

"Right away, Jimmy; off you go!" called one of the youths on the
knifeboard, whom I recognised as my late travelling companion.

At this point I decided I would risk it, and go up by omnibus after all.

"Wait!"  I called.  "I'm coming too."

"Fire away, Jimmy.  Cut along!" shouted the youth.  They could not have
heard me, surely.  The omnibus was actually moving!

"Hi!" called I, beginning to follow, bag in hand; "wait for me."

"Lamm it on, Jimmy," was the delighted cry from the knifeboard, as a
score of heads craned over to witness the chase.  The spectacle of an
ordinary youth giving chase to an omnibus crowded with roystering
schoolboys is probably amusing enough; but when that youth has his white
collar outside the collar of his great-coat, and wears brilliant tan
boots and a flat-topped billycock, it appears, at least so it seemed to
me, to be exceedingly funny for the people on the omnibus.

"Put it on," called one or two, encouragingly; "you're gaining!"

"Forge ahead, Jimmy; here comes the bogey man!" cried another.

"Whip behind!" suggested a third.

"Anybody got a copper for the poor beggar?" asked a fourth.

By a desperate effort, at last I succeeded in coming up with the runaway
omnibus, when to my disgust I discovered that it was one of those
forbidding vehicles of which the step disappears when the door is
closed.  So that I had nothing to hold on to, still less to climb on to;
and to continue to run with my nose at the door, like a well-trained
carriage dog, suited neither my wind nor my dignity.

So I gave up the chase and dropped behind, covered with dust and
perspiration, amid frantic cheers from the knifeboard and broad grins
from the passengers on the pavement.

In such manner, I, an exhibitioner and a living exponent of the latest
"form," entered Low Heath!  I was almost more grieved for the school
than for myself.  Those fellows on the omnibus evidently didn't know who
I was.  To-morrow, when they found out, and saw me arm-in-arm with
Tempest, they would be sorry for what they had done.

I confess that, as I walked up the steep street, and caught sight at
last of the chimneys of the school peeping up over the trees, I half
wished myself back at home with my mother.  I hadn't expected to feel so
lonely.  I had indeed looked forward to a little pardonable triumph in
being recognised at once as the fellow who had taken the entrance
exhibition, and who evidently knew what was what.  Of course it was
foolish, I told myself, to expect such a thing.  Fellows could hardly be
expected to know who I was until they were told.  Still it was a
little--just a little--disappointing, and I could not help feeling hurt.

I tramped on, till presently I came to the bridge, and loitered for a
moment to rest and watch the boats flitting about below.  There went a
four, smartly manned by youngsters no older than myself.  There lolled a
big fellow in a canoe.  There swished by a senior in a skiff, calling on
the four-oar to get out of the way as he passed.  There, too, stood a
master in flannels, with the Oxford Blue on his straw, talking to a
group of boys.  I wish I could have overheard what they were saying.
Perhaps they were discussing the merits of some of the new boys.

I strolled on, passing on the way inquisitive stragglers who stared hard
at me, till I came to where the road skirts the cricket field.  Here, at
a broken paling, I stood a moment and glanced in.  Fellows were bowling
and batting at the nets, others were strolling arm-in-arm up and down,
hailing new arrivals; others were enjoying a little horseplay; others
were critically examining the last season's pitch; others, impatient of
the seasons, were punting about a brand-new football.

How out of it I was! and yet how sure I felt that if some of those
fellows only guessed who was on the other side of the palings they would
feel interested!

I strolled on farther, and began now to pass the outbuildings.  There
was a lecture room, empty at present.  Should I be there to-morrow?  I
wondered, answering to my name and seeing fellows open their eyes as
they heard it.

There was the gymnasium, I supposed--the place presided over by the
drill master whom Tempest so much detested.  I meant to back Tempest up
in that feud.

Ah, there was the Lion Gate, standing open to receive me.  Little I had
expected, when once before I entered it on my way to examination, that I
should so soon be coming back, so to speak, in triumph like this.

It took some little self-persuasion, I must confess, to feel that it
really was a triumph.  I did think Tempest might have been on the look-
out for me.  I did not know where to go, or of whom to inquire my way.
The boys I met either took no notice of me at all, or else stared so
rudely at my hat and boots that I could not bring myself to accost them.
At length I was beginning to think I had better march boldly to the
first master's house I came to, when, as luck would have it, I stumbled
up against my old travelling companion, who, having safely arrived a
quarter of an hour before, was now prowling about on the look-out for
old acquaintances.

"Please," said I, "would you mind telling me the way to Mr Sharpe's
house?"

"Are you a Sharper then?" he inquired.  "My word! what are we coming to?
Why didn't you come up by the 'bus?"

"I tried to," said I; "you wouldn't stop."

"Jim's horses were a bit shy," said he, with a grin.  "They can't be
held in when they see a moke.  You should have got in quietly, without
their spotting you."

I didn't like this fellow.  He appeared to me to think he was funny when
he was not.

"Do you know if Tempest has come?" said I, hoping to impress him a
little.

"Who?"

"Tempest--Harry Tempest.  He's at Sharpe's too."

"What sort of looking chap is he?" demanded the youth, who, I suspected,
could have told me without any detailed description.

"He's one of the seniors," said I; "he was in the reserve for the Eleven
last term."

"Oh, that lout?  I hope you aren't a pal of his.  That would about
finish you up.  If you want him, you'd better go and look for him.  I
don't know whether every snob in the place has come up or not."

And he departed in chase of a friend whom he had just sighted.

This was depressing.  Not that I believed what he said about Tempest.
But I had hoped that my acquaintance with my old schoolmate would
redound to my own dignity, whereas it seemed to do nothing of the kind.

Presently I encountered a very small boy, of chirpy aspect, whom I
thought I might safely accost.

"I say," said I, "which is Mr Sharpe's house?"

"Over there," said he, pointing to an ivy-covered house at some little
distance higher up the street.  Then, regarding me attentively, he
added, "I say, you'll get in a jolly row if he sees you in that get-up."

"Oh," said I, feeling that the youngster was entitled to an explanation,
"I'm an exhibitioner."

"A who?  All I know is he's down on chaps playing the fool.  You'd
better cut in on the quiet before they bowl you out in that thing," said
he, pointing to my hat.

That thing!  True, I had not observed many hats like it, so far, at Low
Heath; but that was probably because I had not encountered any other
fellow-exhibitioner.  Tempest knew more about the form than this kid.

"Thanks," said I.  "Mr Sharpe will know who I am."

"Oh, all right," said he; "don't say I didn't tell you, that's all."

"I say," said I, feeling that enough had been said on a matter on which
we evidently misunderstood each other, "do you know Tempest?"

"Rather.  He's in our house.  You'll get it pretty hot from him if you
cheek him."

"Oh, I know him well; he's an old chum."

The boy laughed incredulously.

"He'd thank you if he heard you say so.  Oh my! fancy Tempest-- Hullo, I
say, there he is.  Cut away, kid, before he sees you."  And the youth
set me a prompt example.

I was sorry he had not remained to witness the fact that I was not quite
the outsider he took me for.

Tempest was strolling across the road, arm-in-arm with a friend.  He
certainly was not got up in the "form" which he had prescribed for me.
He wore a straw hat on the back of his head, and boots of unmistakable
blackness.  But then, though an exhibitioner himself once, he had now
attained to the dignity of a senior, and was probably exempt from the
laws binding on new boys.

As he approached I crossed the road to meet him, full of joy at the
prospect of encountering at least one friend, and marching under his
protection into my new quarters.  But I was doomed to a slight
disappointment.  For though for a moment, when he looked up, I fancied
he recognised me, he did not discontinue his conversation with his
friend, but drew him out into the middle of the road.  They seemed to be
enjoying a joke between them.  His companion looked round once or twice
at me, but Tempest, who was looking quite flushed, apparently did not
take me in, and walked on, looking the other way.

It was a little shock to me, or would have been had I not remembered his
friendly warning about the etiquette of a junior not accosting a senior
till the senior accosted him.  I wished he had spoken to me, for just
then his help would have been particularly patronising.  As it was, I
was tantalised by seeing him pass by close to me, and yet being unable,
without "shirking form" in a reprehensible way, to bring myself to his
notice.

In due time I reached Mr Sharpe's house.  To my dismay the door stood
wide open, and the hall was crowded with fellows claiming their luggage
as it was being deposited by the railway van.  As I arrived there was an
ominous silence, in the midst of which I stood on the step, and
carefully rung the bell marked, not "servants," but "visitors."  No one
came, so after a due interval, and amid the smiles of the onlookers, I
mustered up resolution to ring again, rather louder.  This time I had
not to wait long.  A person dressed as a sort of butler, very red in the
face, emerged from a green baize door at the end of the passage and
advanced wrathfully.

"Which of you young gents keeps ringing the bell?" demanded he.  "He's
to be made an example of this time.  Oh, it was you, was it?" said he,
catching sight of me.

"Yes," said I.  "Is Mr Sharpe at home?"

"At home?" demanded the official, redder in the face than ever.  "You
seem to be pretty much at home."  Then, apparently struck by my
appearance, he pulled himself up and honoured me with a long stare in
which all the assembled boys joined.

"Who is it?"

"One of the porters from the station, I should say, from the looks of
him," suggested a boy.

"Whoever it is, don't you ring that visitors' bell--do you hear?" said
the man-servant.  "If you want anything, go round to the side door and
don't interfere with the young gentlemen."

"But I'm a new boy," said I.  "I'm--I'm an exhibitioner;" at which there
was a great roar of laughter, which even my self-satisfaction could
hardly construe into jubilation.

I began to have a horrible suspicion that I had committed some great
_faux pas_ by ringing the visitors' bell, and blushed consciously, to
the increased amusement of my fellow "Sharpers."

"Can I see Mr Sharpe?"  I inquired, thinking it best to take the bull
by the horns.

"Can't you wait?" said the servant.  "Do you suppose the master has
nothing to do but run out and see--wild Indians?"  Here followed another
laugh at my expense.  "He'll see you quite soon enough."

Here a shove from behind precipitated me into the bosom of the speaker,
who returned me with thanks, and before I could apologise, into the
hands of the sender.  Thence I found myself passed on by a side impetus
to a knot of juveniles, who, not requiring my presence, passed me on to
a senior standing by, who shot me back to a friend, who sent me forward
among the boxes into the arms of the matron, who indignantly hustled me
up the passage, where finally I pulled up short in the grasp of a
gentleman who at that moment emerged from the green baize door.

In the confusion I had lost both my hat and my presence of mind.  I was
far too confused to observe who the new-comer was, and far too indignant
to care.  All that I called to my mind as I reeled into his clutches was
Tempest's directions about kicking back, which accordingly I proceeded
to do, with all the vigour of which my new tan boots were capable.

Mr Sharpe suffered this assault meekly for a second or two, then he
held me out stiffly at arm's length, like a puppy in a fit, and
demanded,--

"What do you mean, sir, by behaving like this?"

I was bound to admit that it was a natural inquiry from a person whose
shins had been considerably barked by my new boots.  I felt as if I owed
Mr Sharpe an apology.

"Please," said I, "I didn't mean to do it.  The boys shoved me, and I
didn't know where I was going, really, sir."

Mr Sharpe seemed inclined to believe me.  He was a florid-looking,
spectacled young man, with sandy whiskers, and a grip--oh that grip!--
that could have lifted me easily over the Lion Gate.

"Boys," said he, "let us have none of this nonsense, or I must set a
house theme.  Is Mrs Smiley here?"

Mrs Smiley, looking anything but the "moral" of her name, appeared in
due course.

"Mrs Smiley, will you please take charge of this new boy and keep him
out of trouble?  Run away with Mrs Smiley, my little man; and you,
boys, as soon as you have claimed your boxes, clear out till register
bell."

What I did my ears deceive me?  Was I, an exhibitioner, a scholar who
had come up to Low Heath in all the _eclat_ of the latest "form," the
friend of Tempest, the fellow who had made things too hot for himself at
Dangerfield--was I, I say, to be handed over to a sort of washer-womanly
person to be kept out of mischief, and called "my little man" in the
presence of the whole house?  Was this my triumphant entry then?

No sooner had Mr Sharpe retired, than greetings of "My little man,"
"Spiteful Sarah," "Run along with his Smiley, then," beset me on all
sides.  I would fain have explained and corrected any wrong impression,
but they only laughed when I tried; finally, when Mrs Smiley grabbed at
my hand and walked me off the scene like a baby, my humiliation was
complete.

Mrs Smiley, who was far too busy with the young gentlemen's luggage to
relish the extra duty put upon her by Mr Sharpe, had a very summary way
of dealing with cases of my kind.

"Sit down there, and don't move till you're told," said she, pointing to
a little three-legged stool in a corner in the box-room.

"But--" began I.

"Hold your tongue; how dare you speak to me?" she retorted.

"I only--"

"Stand in the corner, with your hands behind you, for disobedience,"
said she.

This was getting serious.  The little three-legged stool would not have
been exactly luxurious; but to be stood in the corner with my hands
behind me by a person of the feminine gender called Smiley, was really
too bad.  The worst of it was that if I made any further protest I might
be smacked in addition, and that possibility I hardly dared risk.

So, rather to my own surprise, I found myself standing in the corner,
with my hands at my back, scrutinising a blue and pink rose on the wall-
paper, and wondering whether it would not be worth my while to write to
the _Times_ about the whole business.  I could not help thinking that
Mrs Smiley did not hurry herself on my account.  I was conscious of box
after box being dragged to the front, emptied of its contents and put
back, to be removed presently by a porter, who probably looked at me
every time he came in, but, I am bound to say, received very little
encouragement from my studiously averted head.

After nearly an hour I began to get tired, and the blood of the Joneses
began to rise within me.  I was seriously meditating mutiny, or at least
a definite explanation with Mrs Smiley, when at last she broke silence.

"Now, young gentleman, this way, please."

And she led me to a small comfortable-looking apartment, which I
surmised to be her particular sanctum.

"What's your name?"

"Jones," said I.

"Ah--you're the boy who's brought down a rubbishy speckled waistcoat and
loud striped shirts--eh?"

"Well, yes," said I.

"Did your mother buy them for you, or did you buy them?"

"I did."

"I can see your mother's a lady by the way she has everything else done.
You'll find your own trash just where you put it, in the bottom of your
trunk.  You will not be allowed to wear it.  We expect our boys to dress
like young gentlemen, whether they are such or not.  What's that in your
hand, Jones?"

"My hat," said I, hoping I was coming in for a little credit at last.

"Hat!"  Here she was rude enough to laugh.  "What made you bring a thing
like that here for a hat?"

"But," said I, "I'm an exhibitioner."

"All the more shame on you not dressing like a gentleman.  Look at those
boots; I am sure your mother did not buy them for you.  Take them off at
once, sir--and put on your proper ones."

"Aren't they--isn't it the thing, the form, you know, for--"

"Form!  Fiddlesticks.  The thing at Low Heath is to behave and dress
like gentlemen, not like vulgar, public-house potmen," said she, with an
access of indignation which surprised me.  "To think that you, with a
nice mother like yours, should come up here a fright like that!  There,
put the shoes and hat in the trunk with the speckled waistcoat and
shirts, and get yourself up decently, and then I'll speak to you."

I was under the impression she _had_ spoken to me--pretty strongly too.
This, then, was the end of my elaborately prepared toilet!

A horrid suspicion began to come over me at last, not only that Tempest
had been having a little joke at my expense, but that I had lent myself
to it with an alacrity and eagerness which had almost--nay, very nearly
wholly--been ridiculous.

What does the reader think?

My further conversation with good Mrs Smiley, after I had, to use her
own expression, made myself decent, only tended to confirm the painful
impression.  I even went to the length of adding, of my own accord, my
six-button lavender gloves to the pile of sacrificed finery which
strewed the bottom of my trunk.  And when in due time a bell rang, and
Mrs Smiley said, "There now, go down to call-over, and don't be a silly
any more," I obeyed with a meekness and diffidence of which I could
hardly have believed myself capable, had I not been quite sure of the
fact.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

TEMPEST TALKS TO ME LIKE A FATHER.

As I entered the hall, in which were already assembled most of my fellow
"Sharpers," the first idea which occurred to me was that Low Heath was
not such a big place after all.  I had expected to encounter the whole
school, instead of some fifty boys of my own particular house, and it
was a relief to me to find that, for the present at any rate, I was to
blush before only a limited company.

The next thing that struck me was that these fellows evinced wonderfully
little interest in my appearance; which, considering the active interest
they had shown in me not long since, was quite a shock.  I had made up
my mind to be howled at and laughed out of countenance.  Instead of
which they contented themselves with a half-glance to see who the new-
comer was, and then went on talking together as if nothing had happened.

The conceit was already sufficiently knocked out of me to enable me to
take this indifference in good part.  Possibly when my name was called
reference would be made to my exhibition, which would make a few of them
look twice at me; but for the present I was glad to be left alone.

At first I could distinguish nobody; but in a little I caught sight of
Tempest's head among the seniors of the house.  He did not see me, nor
did he appear to be looking out for me.

Suddenly some one called "Seats!" an order that was so promptly obeyed
that it left me standing alone near the door at which I had entered.

"Seats--can't you hear?" said some one near me.  I made promptly for the
first empty desk I could see.  The youth at the end of the row had his
back partly turned, and it was necessary to push vigorously past him to
arrive at my destination.

"Look out, you mule!" said he; "you trod on my-- Hullo, Sarah, how are
you?" and a friendly kick on the shins helped me wonderfully on my way.

It was my old acquaintance of the railway carriage; and next to him was
the small youth who had been so terribly concerned about my costume in
the morning.

He put his feet up on the desk in front, and gave me the option of
climbing over or crawling under.  He was about three-quarters my size;
but he had such an air of authority about him, that I hardly liked to
suggest a third alternative, namely, that he should put down his feet
and let me pass.  So I climbed over, much to his indignation (which he
expressed by sticking a nib into me as I passed).

"I say," he began, "you'll catch it.  That's not your desk."

I was aware of that, and devoutly hoped the real owner would not arrive
on the scene.

"If Tinker kotches you-- Hullo, what _have_ you done with your patent
boots?"

"I've changed them," said I; "but do you think Tinker's coming?"

"We'll keep him out if he does--"

Just then one of the seniors on the front form, who had been talking to
Tempest, leant back, and said in a loud whisper to the boy at the end of
the form in front of ours--

"White, see all the new kids have their gloves on properly."

Gloves?  I felt my teeth begin to chatter in my head.

Had I not flung my gloves along with my hat and boots into my trunk,
thinking they would not be needed?  I had considered them as part of
Tempest's little joke.  But evidently I had made a fearful mistake.  For
the senior who had given the admonition was not Tempest at all, but his
next neighbour; and the fact that it was not given to me but to a
monitor made it clear that, however I had been humbugged over the other
details of "form," gloves were the order of the day for new boys at
first call-over.

In a panic I rose and tried to go out, with the wild idea of rescuing my
gloves from my trunk.  But it was impossible to escape.  Not only had my
companion his feet up more uncompromisingly than ever, but my sudden
movement called down upon me general remarks.

"Shut up! sit down, can't you?" said my neighbour.  "What are you up
to?"

"My gloves--I've--I've left them upstairs."

"Your what?"

"Gloves.  I thought it was a mistake about new boys having to wear them,
and didn't bring them."

The boy looked grave.

"Oh, you'll catch it!  You can't go now.  There's Sharpe coming in.
Haven't you got any at all?"

"Only my ordinary gloves."

"What colour?"

"Yellow."

"Stick them on then."

"But they've only two buttons."

"Can't be helped.  You're bound to catch it, but they're better than
nothing."

So, in dire agitation, I drew on my new dog-skin gloves.  The smiles of
the boys near me I interpreted as a grim recognition that I had "shirked
form" and did not know any better.  I longed to explain that I did, and
that I had not come to Low Heath as ignorant as they supposed.  But it
was impossible.  Mr Sharpe was already in his place, and "register" had
begun.

Register, a ceremony with which I was destined to become painfully
familiar in time, consisted in the calling over of the names of all the
boys in the house, in order of place, by the minor prefect, who took his
stand at the side of the master's desk for the purpose.  Instead of
answering "Here" or "Adsum," in the usual way, the boy whose name was
called stood in his place and held up his hand.

I had been so preoccupied with the lack of my six-button lavender gloves
and the remarks of my two left-hand neighbours, that I had failed
altogether to observe the boy on my right, who now quietly nudged me,
and presented to my astonished gaze the serene and serious countenance
of Dicky Brown.

"What have you got your gloves on for?" inquired he, as if he had seen
me daily since we parted.

"It's the form.  Haven't you got any?  I say, you'll get in a jolly
row," said I, quite delighted to be able to lord it a little over an
inferior.

"Why--who told you?"

"Tempest."

"Tempest's a regular humbug.  He tried to stuff me up by making me bring
a cheese-cutter cap.  But I wasn't such a fool as I look."

Alas! it was my turn to colour up.  Had Dicky, I wondered, seen my
square billycock?

At that moment Tempest's name was called, and we saw our old Dux rise
complacently in his seat and hold up his hand.

It was difficult to feel angry with him.  He looked so cool and
determined, his shoulders were so square, and the year that had elapsed
since we met had added three good inches to his stature.  It was a
feather in a fellow's cap to know Tempest, even if he did have his
little joke at one's expense now and then.

I came to the conclusion that Dicky and I must be the only two new boys
in the house, for none of the numerous hands, grimy and otherwise, which
went up were cased in anything but their native skin.

Presently the register clerk came to an end of his list, and I was
beginning to congratulate both myself and Brown on our probable escape
from detection when Mr Sharpe said--

"New boys, come forward."

My left-hand neighbour interposed no obstruction now, as, followed by
Dicky, I sidled out of my place and advanced along with five other
youths to the front.  I was conscious of smiles as I went past the
desks, some of recognition of the late owner of the tan boots, some of
appreciation of my blushes, and others, as I supposed, of the greenness
which had led all my companions to commit the fatal error of not
appearing in gloves, and of my error, though in a smaller degree, of
appearing in bright yellow two-button goods instead of lavender of the
regulation half-dozen.

I exchanged glances with Tempest, among others, who looked very serious,
and was evidently chagrined that after all his kind trouble on my behalf
I should now land myself in this dilemma.  Good old Tempest!  It wasn't
his fault.

"Answer to your--" began Mr Sharpe, when, suddenly catching sight of
me, he said--

"Why, sir, what nonsense is this?  What do you mean by wearing those
gloves?"

"I beg your pardon, sir," I faltered, and felt that not a word of my
speech was being lost by the assembled house; "I've left my lavender
six-button gloves in my trunk."

Mr Sharpe's mouth curled at the corner in a curious way, and a general
titter greeted my explanation from the benches behind.

I was fully convinced now that, after all my care, the very solecism I
had planned so carefully to avoid had tripped me up at last.

"Take them off at once, sir, and let me have no more of this
foolishness.  You are making a bad start.  Were you not the boy I had to
speak to in the hall this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir.  I am sorry I kicked your shins.  I hope I didn't hurt much.
I thought you were one of the boys."

I am sure I meant no harm by it, but he seemed to regard this as a
studied insult, and visited me with his wrath not only for it but for
the smiles from the boys behind which accompanied it.

"What is this boy's name?" he inquired severely, looking round.

I wondered who would answer the question; it was evidently not intended
for me.  It astonished me that Mr Sharpe should not apply at
headquarters; I am sure I could have told him.  "I think," said a voice
which I recognised as Tempest's, "his name is Jones, sir."

Think!  Surely Tempest might have had a little more confidence than
that.

"Perhaps you will see what you can make of him presently, Tempest.  If
he has any intelligence at all," (nice, wasn't it, for an exhibitioner?)
"you may be able to make him understand some of the rules of the place.
If not, I am afraid we shall have to put him down as a silly little boy,
and bear with him accordingly.  Go to your seat now, sir, and report
yourself to Tempest after register."

It was not a very dignified end to the interview.  Still, I felt myself
lucky to be handed over to the tender mercies of my old comrade, and
retired to my place a puzzled but not an amused boy.

What perplexed me most was to notice that Brown and the other new boys
who had no gloves at all, and did nothing but answer the questions put
to them in the plainest possible way, not only passed muster, but
received words of approval and encouragement from the master such as I
would have given a great deal to have got myself.  But such is life.
The fellows who take the most pains and deserve most, get least; and the
fellows who have least to boast of receive more than they expect.

I was glad when register was over and the time came for me to have an
explanation with Tempest.

"Look here," said the candid youth next to me, "you'd better sit up when
you go to Tempest, I can let you know.  He's cock of our house this
term, and he's not over-tender with idiots, I can let you know."

"What, has he been down on you?"  I inquired meekly.

The only reply I got was a touch on the calf which made me exclaim "Oh!"
rather more loudly than I should have chosen to do under ordinary
circumstances.  Luckily the general movement of the class somewhat
deadened the sound, and if Mr Sharpe heard me, he did not consider it
worth his while to deprive Tempest of the task of elucidating the reason
of it.

I kept my man carefully in view, and followed him upstairs into a little
study about the size of a commodious sentry box, with a window, book-
case, sofa, table, chairs, and all the requirements of a single man of
few needs.  It seemed to me a delightful little sanctum; and for a
moment I began to wonder whether, being an exhibitioner, I might not be
entitled to one like it for myself--perhaps this _was_ mine.

Tempest soon disabused me of that notion.

"Light the fire, and stick on my kettle, kid," said he--they were the
first words after more than a year--"and cut and get us a muffin from
the shop."

"I say," said I, longing for rather more cordial a recognition, "I am
jolly glad to see you again, Tempest."

Just then another senior popped his head in.

"Have tea with me.  Tempest?  Come on, Wales is coming too."

"Is Crofter coming?"

"No."

"All right, I'm on; thanks, Pridgin.  Blow that fire out, kid."

"Is that kid your fag?"

"Not likely."

"Is he all there?  Sharpe seemed to doubt it."

Tempest shrugged his shoulders.

"How soon?  Ten minutes?"

"Yes--not longer."

"Now, kid," said Tempest, when we were left alone, "how long are you
going to play the fool?  Take your time; but let us know when you've
done, that's all."

"Really, I'm not fooling; I know I ought to have had on the lavender--"

Tempest laughed.  A jolly laugh it was, though it frequently preceded a
licking.

"You mean to say you sucked in all that rot?  I thought I'd just see how
far you'd let yourself be humbugged; I'm sorry I didn't tell you to
stand on your head.  I don't doubt you'd have done it."

I had painful reason to think he might be right.

"Why, even Dicky Brown was too old a bird for that sort of chaff," said
Tempest; "he twigged it at once--and he's a day boy.  Hand me that cane
out of the cricket box, there's a good fellow, and hold out your hand.
Don't yell; only muffs do that."

"What?"  I exclaimed, "am I to be licked, Dux?"

"Don't call me Dux here.  Yes, rather--three on each hand."

"But Mr Sharpe only said--"

"Sharpe--what's he got to do with it?  Come on, look alive, or I shall
be late for tea."

I could barely be angry with him.  He didn't seem to be able to see the
matter from my point of view at all, and was so genuinely friendly with
it all.

"The third will be a hot one," said he, as I held out my hand; "but I
don't want to break the cane--it's a good one."

The third _was_ a hot one.

"Hurt you much?" said Tempest, carefully examining his weapon.

"Middling," said I.

"Now the other hand.  I suppose you've not got to know many chaps yet?
Did you get any cricket in the vac.?"

"No," said I, extending my left in a deprecating way.

"We did," said he.  "We were jolly near licking--"

"Ow!"

"Feel that much?  Good cane, isn't it?  Now the other two will be easy."

To do him justice they were, or would have been had they not fallen
uncomfortably near the site of the first.

"Stick the cane back," said he,--"and look here," he added in the old
friendly way which always captivated me, "if you'll take any advice
you'll drop playing the fool.  It may be funny, but it doesn't pay.
Fellows get bored by it."

"But I really--"

"I know you can't help it.  Your best dodge is to lie low for a bit, and
keep out of everybody's way."

"I never meant--"

"Of course you didn't.  You can't help being an ass, but don't swagger
or brag about it.  Go easy--and, by the way, whatever you do, forget
you're an exhibitioner.  It's not your fault, I know, but it's a sort of
thing to be lived down up here.  Be nobody, that's the rule! then you'll
worry through."

"But _you_ were an exhibitioner, Tempest," I suggested, "weren't you?"

"Yes, but I kept it dark.  Do you know the chap who asked me to tea?"

"No."

"He's Pridgin--in the Eleven--makes beastly bad jokes, but not a bad
chap.  You'll like fagging for him."

"What--am I to fag?" said I, undergoing another shock.  I had made quite
sure exhibitioners were exempt from that indignity.

"There you go again.  What did I tell you?" said Tempest, in tones of
mild menace; "you're putting it on again already.  You'd better fish out
that cane again, there's a good chap."

"Oh, please don't--I didn't mean, Tempest!  All right, I'll fag for
him."

Tempest regarded first me, then the cricket box where the cane lay,
doubtfully.

"I tell you he's not half a bad chap.  Bother it," added he, picking up
the cane, "I must do it, kid.  Awfully sorry, but it would be low to let
you off because I know you.  Look alive.  One, middling warm, on each
hand, that's all.  Thanks."

He was quite unnecessarily grateful.  His idea of middling warm, I could
not help thinking, was not very different from hot.  And yet I felt I
could stand it better from him than from most.

"Some chaps," said he, after returning me the cane to put back in its
place, "would say that this sort of thing pained them more than it does
you.  It didn't me.  I fancy you felt it more than I did.  Anyhow,
you'll remember what I said, won't you?  Pridgin's not half a bad chap."

"If you want any one to fag for you.  Tempest--"

I began.

"Oh, I've got one--a beauty--young Trimble; he sat next to you at
register to-day.  You'll hit it off with him to a T.  Talking of tea, by
the way, it's time we showed up at Pridgin's.  Come along, and I'll
introduce you."

The reader may not believe it, but my interview with Tempest helped to
knock the nonsense out of me more than any treatment I had yet
undergone.  It was not so much the caning (which, by the way, I
afterwards discovered to be a wholly unauthorised proceeding on my old
comrade's part), but his plain advice, and the friendly way in which it
was all given.  It made me realise that he really meant to stick by me
and pull me through my troubles, and the sense of his interest in me
made up wonderfully for the loneliness which had been growing on me ever
since I entered Low Heath that morning.

Pridgin, as became a member of the Eleven, received me with dignity
quite devoid of curiosity.  He informed Tempest that he considered it
was playing it pretty low down on him to let an idiot like me loose on
him.  Still, times were bad, and one must put up with what one could
get.

Whereat I had the good sense to grin appreciatively, and was thereupon
permitted to boil my new master's eggs and stand by the kettle until it
was ready for the tea.



CHAPTER NINE.

ACQUAINTANCES, HIGH AND LOW.

I was at first too much concerned in my important culinary occupations
to bestow much attention on the company.  It was only when the eggs were
boiled and the teapot filled that I had leisure to make a few
observations.

The host, Pridgin, my new master, was not a very formidable sort of
person at first blush.  True he was in the Eleven and a fine all-round
athlete.  True he was fairly well up in the Sixth, and one of the boys
Low Heath was proud of.  These things did not strike one in beholding
him.  What did strike one was his air of lazy humour, which seemed to
regard life as a huge joke, if only one could summon up the energy to
enjoy it.  Pridgin did indeed enjoy his share of it, but one could not
help feeling that, were he to choose, that share would be a great deal
larger than it really was.

It was plain to see he was fond of Tempest; a weakness which reconciled
me to him from the first.  Tempest, however, seemed, if anything, to
prefer the third member of the party present, who was in every way a
contrast to his genial host.

Wales struck one as a far more imposing person than Pridgin, but not
quite as attractive.  He was dressed in what seemed to me the top of the
fashion, and had the appearance of a youth who made a point of having
everything of the best.  He had the reputation, as I discovered
afterwards, of possessing the most expensive bats and racquets, the
best-bound books, the best-fitting clothes, of any one in Low Heath.  It
was also rumoured that he spent more than any boy in the town shops, and
gave the most extravagant entertainments in his study.  Fellows were a
little shy of him for this very reason.  He forced the pace in the
matter of money, and there were only a few fellows who could stand it.

Tempest was not one of these, and yet he seemed very thick with Wales.
It was certainly not for the sake of his money, for Tempest was one of
those fellows who never care for a fellow for the same reason that any
one else would.  He had begun by being amused with Wales's dandyism and
extravagance, and had ended in encouraging him in them.

"I expect," said Wales, as the three heroes sat discussing their tea,
"we're in for a pretty lively term, if it's true what I hear, that
Redwood is to be captain."

"Why shouldn't he be?" asked Pridgin; "he's a hot man in the fields, as
well as in classics."

"My dear fellow, he's a town-boy."

"What of that?"

"What of that?  First of all, the town-boys are most of them snobs.
Sons of hard-up people who come to live at Low Heath so as to get them
into the school cheap.  Then they can't possibly keep up with what goes
on in school when they are away every evening."

"There's more in the second objection than the first," said Tempest.  "I
don't see why a fellow should be out of it because he's poor.  If so, I
can cut my lucky here.  But it does seem a swindle to stick a town-boy
over all of us."

"I don't see it," said Pridgin.  "He's one of us.  The only difference
is, he goes home to sleep instead of tucking up in a cubicle here.  No,
what seems to me the cool thing is this talk of a town-boys' club, that
brags it's going to lick the school clubs into fits.  I hope it's not
true, for if it is, we shall have to sit up, and I loathe sitting up."

His guests laughed.  It was notorious that Pridgin when he did bring
himself to "sit up" was a person worth reckoning with.

"For the matter of that," said Wales, "Redwood's not likely to trouble
himself much.  He'll take all the glory and do none of the work.  The
captain of Low Heath ought to have his hand in everything, and not let
everything slide."

"You'll find Redwood can be awkward enough when he chooses.  You can
never tell how far he'll let things go on.  But when his back once gets
up he'll stiffen pretty hard."

"All I can say is," said Tempest, "if I'm to be cock of this house this
term--and I've no right to be--"

"Yes, you have, old chap," said Pridgin.

"You know you purposely ran for second place last term, so as to get out
of the fag of cocking the house," retorted his friend.  "Anyhow, if I
_am_ to be cock, I mean to stand up for our rights, and see we're not
done out of them by town-boys, of all people."

"Hear, hear," said Pridgin; "stick up for your rights.  I don't exactly
know what rights we're got more than any other Low Heathens, but stick
up for them certainly.  Nothing like having a grievance, if you can only
find one."

"What do you say to Jarman for one?" said Wales.

The faces of all three clouded at the mention of this name.

"Ah, I'd forgotten about that.  Is it true he's to be a sort of general
discipline master, and have the right of pulling up any fellow, senior
or junior, without even saying a word to his house prefects?"

"He won't do it here, if I can help," said Tempest, with a frown.

"Well, have some more tea," said Pridgin, "before you begin operations.
Here, kid, make a fresh brew, sharp, and then cut."

What I had heard had been quite enough to satisfy me that things were
not running altogether smoothly at Low Heath, and that Tempest was not
beginning his new duties as head of his house in the best of tempers.  I
confess I felt a little uneasy.  For I knew my old chief's impulsive,
generous nature well enough to be sure that he might easily get himself
into trouble for the sake of other people.  His friends were evidently
glad enough to let him fight their battles, but were not likely, at
least so it seemed to me, to take much trouble to help him through with
them.

I was wandering rather disconsolately down the passage when it occurred
to me I did not know what I was expected to do or where I was expected
to go.

I therefore ventured to accost a senior who was lounging about at the
head of the stairs.

"If you please," said I, "I'm a new boy--can you tell me where to go?"

The senior, a bland, good-looking sort of youth, surveyed me carefully
and replied--

"To bed, I should say."

"All right, thanks," said I; "which way is that?"

He laughed pleasantly.

"What's your name?"

"Thomas Jones."

"You needn't mind about the Thomas up here.  Where have you come from?"

"Do you mean, where do I live, or where have I been just now?"  I
inquired, anxious to avoid any misunderstanding.

"Look here," said he, "hadn't you better take a seat, if you want to
tell me all your family history?  I'm sure it's very interesting, but
it's rather late in the day to begin now.  Where have you come from, not
originally, but just now?"

I flushed up very much at this polite rebuke.  Whatever made every one
so anxious to assume that I was an ass?

"Pridgin's," said I.  "I'm his fag, and he's having a tea party."

"Oh," said the youth; "who's there?"

"Only Tempest and Wales," I replied, feeling more at my ease.

"No one else?"

"No," I answered.  Then, guessing he might have the same antipathies as
Tempest, I volunteered--

"Crofter's not asked."

My companion opened his eyes.  "Indeed--why?"

"I don't know.  Only I know Tempest wouldn't have gone if he had been.
Please which way do I go?"

"What objection has Tempest to Crofter?"

"I don't know--I suppose he's a beast.  Tempest hates beasts."

The boy laughed.

"He must be very fond of you," said he.

"Yes," said I, "we're old chums; we were at Dangerfield together, and
both got ex--"

There I was, after Tempest's warning about keeping my exhibition dark.

"Both got what?  _Expelled_?" inquired the senior, with interest.

"Well--yes," said I, thinking that the best way of getting out of it.
"It was this way--"

"Really, Jones, it's getting late," said the senior; "I've no doubt it's
an interesting story.  There, go and inquire in the fourth room on the
left.  They'll show you the way to bed."

And he departed.

I was very sorry he had not given me time to explain the little matter
at Dangerfield.  It would be a pity for any one to get a wrong
impression about it.  Still, what a lucky escape I had had from blabbing
about my exhibition!  The fellow, too, seemed a nice sort of chap, and
disposed to be friendly, so there was no harm done after all.

I could tell, long before I reached it, that the room which had been
indicated to me as the place where I might get the information for which
I thirsted was, to say the least, inhabited--for the noise which
penetrated through the keyhole and the cracks of the door was appalling.
Either, thought I, a free fight is going on within, or there is a steam
engine at work, or the builders are shooting bricks through the window.
I was mistaken.  It was only five boys of about my age talking.

The silence which greeted my appearance was rather more formidable than
the noise which had preceded it.  In the midst of it, however, I
observed the form of Master Trimble, also that of my travelling
companion of the morning, and concluded therefore that I had come to the
right place for information.

"Full up! cut!" was the cordial greeting of the company generally.

"Hullo, it's Sarah!" cried my travelling companion.  "What a lark!
Collar him, you chaps.  That's the idiot I was telling about.  He came
down in the train with his ma--"

"She wasn't," said I; "she was no relation."

A loud laugh greeted this disclaimer.

"Well, his nurse, or aunt, or washerwoman, or something."

"No, she wasn't."

"Shut up, and don't tell crams."

"It's _you_ who are telling crams," said I, for the blood of the Joneses
was getting up.

"Look here; do you mean to call me a crammer?" demanded the speaker,
looking very imposing.

"If you say it again I will," said I.  "I tell you that woman had no
more to do with me than you; there!"

It was a critical situation, and the key to it was in my accuser's
hands.  If he insisted that the lady in question had anything to do with
me, I was committed to call him a crammer.  And if I called him a
crammer, he was equally committed by all tradition to punch my head.
And in the humour I was then in, he was not likely to do that without
getting one back for himself.

"I know who it was," suddenly cried Trimble; "of course!  Tempest told
me last term there was a young ass coming up who'd been at a girls'
school, and had got an exhibition or something.  Of course this was his
old school dame.  Good old Sarah!"

At this terrific exposure the spirit leaked out of me.  My tell-tale
blushes confirmed what was true in the story, and my silence lent
countenance to what was untrue.  The delight of my tormentors was beyond
words.  They danced the "mulberry bush" round me, overwhelmed me with
endearing expressions, offered me fans and smelling salts and cushions
and hairpins, simulated hysterics and spasms, trod on my skirts, and
conversed to me in shrill treble till I was sick of the business.  Only
one course was open to me.  It was an unpleasant one, but on it
depended, I felt, my future welfare at Low Heath.

I seized the nearest, who happened to be Master Trimble, and pulling him
gently but firmly by the nose, demanded if girls generally treated him
that way?  He kicked vigorously, and ordered me to release the
imprisoned member.  I declined to do so until I had kicked back, and
finally deposited him on the floor, amidst the laughter of his
perfidious comrades, who told him it served him right, and that "Sarah"
was evidently one too many for him.

This little protest stood me in good stead.  It put an end to all direct
aspersions on my sex, although it was a long while before I was destined
to hear the last of delicate insinuations on the topic.  And it advanced
me very considerably in favour with the four whose noses I had not been
fortunate enough to engage.

"Look here; stop fooling, you chaps," said one of them, when in due time
Master Trimble was permitted to regain his feet.  "This new kid had
better make up our sixth man here.  No other faggery would be likely to
take him, so we may as well."

I concluded from this remark that the juniors of Mr Sharpe's house were
permitted to herd together in half dozens; and on the whole I was
disposed rather to bear the ills I had than fly to others I knew not of.

"I don't mind," said I, "if you let me be."

"Who wants to touch you with a pair of tongs?  You may as well pull in
with us, and help us kick the others.  It'll be a change after the
girls' school."

"I _wasn't_ at a girls' school," said I, "I told you.  All I did was to
coach with one of the teachers."

"About the same thing, I fancy," said Trimble, blowing his outraged nose
somewhat defiantly, "Sarah!"

"If you call me Sarah again," said I hotly, "I'll pull your nose again."

"All right: Miss Jones, then."

"No, not Miss; just Jones."

"All serene, just Jones, then shut up; stick on your lavender gloves,
and keep your hair on."

There was a general laugh at this which vastly solaced the aggrieved
Trimble, and encouraged him to refer jocularly to my late hat and boots,
topics which I had not the spirit to resent.

As soon as these personal matters were disposed of, I was tacitly
admitted as a member of the honourable faggery, and invited to express
my opinion on a matter which had been engaging the attention of the
fraternity before I arrived.

"We were thinking," said my late travelling companion, whom his friends
addressed as Langrish, "that it would be a score to get up a
Philosophical Society in the school.  What do you say?"

"What to do?"  I ventured to ask.

"Oh, discussions, and picnics, and larks.  What do you suppose we
_should_ do?  There's a senior club of the kind already.  They go in for
dry rot--science and history, and that sort of thing.  Awful slow, and
nobody knows what he's talking about.  I flatter myself _we_ should."

"We ought to draw up some rules, oughtn't we?" said Trimble.

"Rather--forge ahead."

Whereupon we crowded solemnly round the small table and put our heads
together.

One of the party, by the way, answering to the name of Purkis, appeared
to be the leading spirit, and made the most valuable suggestions.

"Rule 1," dictated he, "That this club be called the Low Heathen
Conversation Club."

"Hold on," said Trimble; "you've got club coming twice in the same
sentence.  Bad grammar."

"Besides, I thought there was to be something about philosophy,"
suggested Langrish.

"And keeping out the day cads," said Warminster, another of the party.

"Of course, if you make the rule long enough," said Purkis, with lofty
contempt, "you can get something in it about the man in the moon."

"But," said I, thinking to make a little joke, just to show I had no
ill-feeling, "we don't want him in the club, do we?"

"No," said Langrish, who had evidently been on the look-out for his
chance; "no more do we want pretty Sarah's washerwoman; do we, you
chaps?"

I subsided gracefully.  The time was not yet ripe, evidently, for me to
assert myself.

"I tell you what," said Warminster; "what's the use of every one making
each rule?  Let old Purkis make the first, and I'll make the second, and
Langrish the third, and so on.  It will be ever so much quicker, and
give each chap a fair innings."

It seemed a good idea, and as it allowed Purkis's rule to stand
unchallenged, he acquiesced.

So in due time the following wonderful code of rules was drawn up and
adopted--

1.  That this club be called the Low Heath Conversation Club.  (Purkis.)

2.  That the object of the club be and are periodical picnics and
meetings for the discussion of philosophy, etcetera.  (Warminster.)

There was some debate as to whether the ninth word should be "is" or
"are."  But "are," as agreeing with the plural, was carried by a large
majority.

3.  That each member bring his own grub, _alias_ provisions.  (Trimble.)

4.  That no day boy be eligible on to the club.  (Langrish.)

5.  That any member breaking the rules is hereby expelled.  (Coxhead.)

6.  That the subscription be two shillings a term, payable in advance.
(Jones.)

Warminster was anxious for consistency's sake to add the words "and are"
after "be," but was overruled.

After which we honourably drew lots for the various posts of emolument
and honour in connection with the club.

To my surprise I was drawn for president.  At first I was disposed to
disclaim the honour on account of my youth and inexperience.  But my
fellow-Philosophers assured me that was no excuse, and that my name
would undoubtedly "draw."  I did not exactly see how, but they were
probably better judges than I; and perhaps as an exhib--

No, I was bound to keep that dark.  At any rate, it would be a nice
thing to be able to write home to my mother, that on the day of my
arrival I had been appointed president of the Philosophical Conversation
Club, with a right to add the initials P.L.H.C.C. after my name.  It
sounded well, and would give me a better footing in Low Heath than my
tan boots.

Langrish was drawn for treasurer, and Purkis for secretary; while, to
obviate any cause for jealousy, Trimble was selected as auditor,
Warminster as librarian, and Coxhead as registrar.

A levy of subscriptions was made forthwith by the treasurer, and the
secretary was ordered to expend part of the amount in a handbill setting
forth the object and _personnel_ of the society, for distribution
through the school.  The auditor undertook to check the printer's bill,
the librarian to keep a copy of the document among the archives of the
club, and the registrar to prepare a book for entering the names of the
new members.  Altogether it was a most businesslike proceeding, and one
which reflected, as it seemed to me, great credit on the young life of
Low Heath.

After this, a peremptory summons from the bell dismissed us
precipitately to bed.  I had the indignity of being conducted to my
cubicle by Mrs Smiley, who had the bad taste to adjure me in the
hearing of my comrades to behave myself like a good boy and go to sleep
directly the lights were out.  This was not altogether easy, for my
cubicle happened to be between those of Trimble and Langrish, and the
partitions were not particularly high.  I was, indeed, allowed to
undress and say my prayers without interference, which was more than I
had hoped for.  But no sooner was I in bed, and lights out, than I was
favoured with all sorts of missiles pitched over the partitions on
either side with extraordinary accuracy.  A book from Langrish hit me on
the ear, and a wet sponge from Trimble moistened my cheek.  And when I
sought shelter under the sheets, the butt-end of a fishing-rod in the
ribs drew me from my hiding-place, and a clever cast with a hooked pin
by Langrish relieved me of my outer covering altogether.  The footsteps
of the monitor on duty deprived me of the privilege of making an audible
protest.  All I could do was to send Trimble's sponge quietly over to
Langrish, and Langrish's book across to Trimble, and, as well as I was
able, recover my abstracted sheet with the aid of the rod.  It took a
long time, and laid me open to dire penalties for disturbing the public
peace.  But it had to be done, and fortunately for me a row at the other
end of the room called the monitor away in the nick of time.

When he returned, all was still, and I was dreaming that Mr Evans was
selling a pair of second-hand six-buttoned lavender gloves to my mother
in the hall of Mr Sharpe's house.



CHAPTER TEN.

SPECIAL SERVICE.

My introduction to Low Heath at large next day turned out to be a far
less formidable affair than I had anticipated.  I had long since given
up the notion that the whole school would rise at my appearance and
salute me.  I had even ceased to expect that they would all stare and
make remarks.  But I was hardly prepared for the absolute indifference
with which I was permitted to answer to my name at "Great register."
Not a soul took any notice of me, even when Dr England explained to me
publicly that as there were already three other Joneses in the School, I
would please answer in future to the title of Jones iv., which I humbly
promised to do.  Brown, I was not sorry to hear, was to be designated as
Brown iii. for similar reasons.

The ceremony being over, the new boys were trooped up to the head
master's library, and there told off to their respective forms with a
few words of warning and encouragement.  It surprised me that, in spite
of my scholastic honours, I was entered in the same form as Brown.  But
on the whole I was more pleased than disappointed, for I loved my old
comrade dearly, and after all, if he _was_ placed above his merits, it
wasn't his fault.

"It's a pity you aren't a day boy," said he, as he walked across
afterwards; "we could have larks together."

"It's a pity you aren't in the school," said I.

"Oh, our chaps say it's rather stale to be in the school.  I don't see
why your fellows should be looked down on, but they are."

"Pooh! you should hear our chaps talk about the day boys.  Do you know,
Dicky, I'm president of a club, a Philosophical Club; and day boys
aren't eligible.  I'm awfully sorry; I should have liked to have you
in."

"That's just what I thought about the Urbans.  They don't let in any
fellow who's in the school--only day boys--they're obliged to draw the
line somewhere, you know.  Do you know Redwood, the captain, is a senior
Urban?"

"I know.  Our chaps say it's a soak for the school having a day boy for
captain."

"Oh!  _We_ don't think so!  I say, do you see that chap there?"

The youth at whom he pointed was the friendly senior of whom I had
inquired the way to bed last night.

"Rather; he's a Sharper.  Why, and what about him?"

"He's a hot man, they say, and the most popular chap at Low Heath.  He's
captain of the Rifles."

"What's his name?  Do you know?"

"Crofts, or Crofter, or something like that.  What's up?"

He might well ask!

"Crofter!" exclaimed I.  "My word, Dicky, I've been and done it!"

"Done what?"

"Why, I called him a beast yesterday."

"You did?  You're getting on, Jones iv."

"No, without humbug, I did.  I didn't know it was Crofter, and I told
him Tempest thought he was a beast."

"If Tempest says so, he probably is," remarked the unemotional Dicky.

"But what's to become of me?  How was I to know?"

"I don't know.  Perhaps you'd better go and tell him you were mistaken."

"I don't like to.  I say, what a downer he'll have on me!  I half wish I
was a day boy, after all."

"It's a pity you aren't.  We've a jolly lot in the Urban Minors; quite a
literary lot."

"Bother the Urban Minors!" said I, looking dismally after the retreating
form of Crofter.

"It'll take you all your time to bother some of them.  There's Flitwick,
he's--"

"Hang Flitwick!  Whatever am I to do, Dicky?"

"I wouldn't advise you to hang Flitwick.  Oh, about that fellow Crofter!
Oh, it'll be all right.  He's plenty else to think about."

It was poor comfort, but the best I could get, and our arrival at our
class room cut short further discussion on this most unfortunate
incident.

But it weighed on my mind all day.  When class was over, I was summoned
by my fellow "Philosophers" to come out into the playing fields; I went
in fear and trembling, lest I should encounter Crofter.  But he was
nowhere to be seen.

My companions were evidently hand and glove with most of the juniors in
the school, and I was favoured with a bewildering number of
introductions, not always of the most gratifying kind.

"What have you got there, Trim?  A tame monkey?" asked one gorgeous
youth, whose cap bore the badge of Mr Selkirk's house.

"Not exactly," said Trimble; "haven't had time to tame him yet."

"What's his name?"

"Sarah.  Allow me.  Muskett--Sarah Jones; Jones--Silly Muskett.  Now you
know one another."

"He's only fooling about my name," said I; "it's Thomas."

"Oh, is it?  Delighted to see you, Sarah Thomas."

And before I could put him right he was off, and I was led away by my
rejoicing comrades.

"Look here, Trimble," said I, "it's time you knew my name by now."

Trimble laughed, as did the others.  They all thought it was high time.

But everybody we met I was introduced to as Sarah.

"Awfully sorry," said Langrish, after the fourth or fifth offence.
"I've such a bad memory for names.--Well kicked, sir."

This exclamation was addressed, not to me, but to a senior who had just
appeared on the scene, and was kicking about the practice football with
a friend prior to a match which was evidently due.

It was a splendid kick, and the author of it was a splendid fellow--
brawny of limb and light of foot, with fair hair and clear blue eyes--as
one might picture one of the Norsemen of the story-books.  You could see
by the way he moved, and the spirit he put even into this practice
kicking, that he was a sportsman every inch of him; and his good-natured
laugh, as he exchanged greetings with this and that arriving friend,
proclaimed him, even before you heard him speak, as good a gentleman as
he was an athlete.

"Redwood's in form to-day," said some one.  "We'd better stop and see
the play."

"Is that Redwood, the captain?" inquired I, in an awestruck way, of
Warminster.

"Rather," was the reply, in a tone of pride which convinced me that Low
Heath was proud of its chief, even though he had the misfortune to be a
day boy.

Just then Redwood turned and waved his hand to somebody near us.

"Look out; he wants you," said Langrish.

"Me?" said I, flabbergasted.

"Don't you see him beckoning?  Look alive, or you'll catch it."

I could hardly believe it; and yet everybody near looked round at me in
apparent wonder at my delay.

Perhaps Redwood had heard something about me from Tempest and wanted
to--

"Go on," said Trimble, giving me a shove.  "If he wants to stick you in
the Fifteen, tell him it's not good enough."

"Look sharp," called the others, encouragingly, as I started to obey the
summons.

By this time Redwood was strolling our way.  Mahomet, thought I, is
coming to the mountain.  So, to save him trouble, I trotted up to meet
him.

At first he didn't notice me.  Then when I said, "Did you want me?" he
stared me over from head to foot as a Newfoundland dog would inspect a
pug.  It was on the whole a benevolent stare, not unmingled with humour;
especially when the cheers of my late comrades called his attention to
my ingenuous blushes.

"I didn't," said he; "but you'll do, if you don't mind.  Cut home to my
house.  Number 3, Bridge Street, and ask them to send my leather belt.
Look alive, there's a good chap."

This speech, the first really polite speech I had heard since I entered
Low Heath, took me by storm, and captivated me at once to the service of
the captain of the school.  I galloped off, as proud as a non-
commissioned officer who has been sent to fetch his regimental flag on
to the field of battle.  The chaps behind might cheer and jeer and cry,
"Gee-up, Sarah!" and "Mad dog!" as much as they liked.  They would have
been only too proud to be sent on my errand.

It was a good ten minutes' run to Bridge Street, and I was fairly out of
breath when I rang at the bell of Number 3.  It seemed a long time
before any one came, and I was beginning to be afraid I should forfeit
the reputation I hoped to acquire, when hurried footsteps announced that
my ring had been heard.

Mrs Redwood was out, said the servant, and she had been down the garden
with the children.

When I delivered my message, she asked me to wait; and with her little
charges evidently on her mind, ran upstairs to fetch the belt.

It was a nice house, although a small one.  The garden door was open,
and gave a beautiful peep over the little sloping lawn to the river and
the woods beyond.  I was not sure that, after all, a town-boy might not
have a good time of it, living in a place like this, instead of in
school.

Suddenly my reflections were disturbed by a shrill scream from the
garden, followed by a little girl of five or six crying--

"Annie, Annie!  Mamie's tumbled in; Mamie's tumbled in!"

For a wonder I had my wits about me, and divined the truth at once.
With a bound I was down the steps and across the lawn, half knocking
down the panic-stricken little messenger on the way, and at the river's
edge, floundering piteously in about two feet of water, found the
unfortunate little Mamie--evidently a twin-sister--more frightened than
hurt, but perilously near to getting into deep water.

Her yells redoubled when she found herself grabbed by the sash by a
stranger, and lugged most unceremoniously on to _terra firma_.

Scarcely had I achieved this gallant rescue, without even wetting my own
shoes, when Annie, as white as a sheet, came flying on to the scene.

"It's all right," said I; "she's not hurt."

Whereupon Annie most inconsiderately leaned up against a post, clapped
her hands to her heart, and went or threatened to go off into hysterics.
And there was I, a poor unprotected male, left to face the squalling of
two infant female children and a full-grown female nurserymaid!

"Look here," said I, appealingly, "Mamie's soaking wet.  You'd better
take her and dry her, before she gets her death of cold."

This appeal had the desired effect.  It stopped the nurse's spasms and
let loose her tongue.

"Oh dear, oh my!  And I told her not to go through the gate.  Oh, you
naughty girl you; and you.  Miss Gwen, for letting her do it.  Come in
directly, you little hussies!"

It struck me as grossly unfair of Annie; but I did not venture in her
present state of mind to protest, for fear she should call me hussy too.
I followed indoors, somewhat guiltily, at the tail of the procession,
feeling myself in a very unpleasant situation, in which I would not on
any account be caught by Redwood's mother or by Redwood himself.  To my
delight, on the floor of the hall, where Annie had dropped it, lay the
belt, at which I sprang greedily, and not waiting to say thank you, or
put in a word for the doomed infants, which would have been quite
inaudible in the volume of Annie's philippics, I saved myself (as the
Frenchman says), and ran at racing speed with my prize back to the
school field.

To my mortification I found the match had just begun, and it would be
impossible to deliver my missive till half-time.  What would the captain
think of me?  Would he suspect me of having dawdled to buy sweets, or
look over the bridge, or gossip with a chum?  I would not for anything
it had happened, and felt not at all amiably disposed to Miss Mamie, as
the inconsiderate cause of my delay.

However, there was nothing for it but to wait.  I resolved not to put
myself into the clutches of the Philosophers till my mission was
discharged, for fear of accident; so I seated myself on one of the
pavilion steps and watched the play.

It was evidently a hot match for a scratch one.  As far as I could make
out, the remnants of last season's Fifteen, amounting to eleven veterans
only, were playing the next Fifteen, who, having the best of the wind,
were giving a dangerously good account of themselves.  They were acute
enough to make all the use they could of the favouring element by
keeping open order and kicking whenever they had the chance, whereas of
course the other side played a tight game, and ran with the ball.  Even
for a novice like myself, it was interesting to watch a contest of this
kind.  The Fifteen evidently hoped to rush the thing and carry their
goal before half-time deprived them of the wind, whereas the Eleven were
mainly concerned to keep on the defensive and risk nothing by over-
haste.

Among the veterans I could distinguish the big form of Redwood, always
close to the ball, and near him with a shudder I recognised Crofter
working hard, while hovering on the wing of the scrimmage was the genial
Pridgin, looking as if he would fain be in bed, but, when the time for
action came, making it very uncomfortable for the enemy.  On the other
side I was not long in finding out Tempest, with the glow of enthusiasm
on his cheek as now and again he broke through the ruck and sent the
ball into quarters.  Wales, too, was there, spick and span as usual,
playing neatly and effectively, and withal elegantly.

As time wore on it was evident the veterans were being penned closer and
closer by their antagonists.  Presently a dangerous scrimmage was formed
just in front of their goal.  For some minutes the ball was invisible,
then by an apparently preconcerted movement the forwards of the Fifteen
loosened and let it dart back into the open behind them, where lurked
Tempest ready to receive it.  He did not wait to pick it up, but ran to
meet it with a flying kick.  For a moment it seemed doubtful whether it
would clear the onward rush of Redwood and his forwards.  But it did,
and rose steadily and beautifully over their heads, and with the wind
straight upon it, reached the goal and skimmed over the bar, amid the
loud shouts of every one, conspicuous among which was my shrill voice.

Half-time!  Now was my chance; and before the shouting had ceased, or
the discomfited Eleven had quite realised their misfortune, I darted
into the sacred enclosure, and presented the captain with his belt.

"I'm awfully sorry I wasn't in time," said I.  "You'd just begun when I
got back."

"Thanks, youngster, it's all right," said Redwood, wonderfully cheerful,
as it seemed to me; "here, take care of this for me," and he divested
himself of the belt he was wearing and donned the new one.

"You'll have the wind with you now," I ventured to observe.

"Yes," said he with a nod, "I think we shall do the trick this time,
eh?"

"Rather," said I; and departed elated, not so much to have been spared
the rebuke I expected, but to be talked to by such a hero, as if I was
not a junior at all, but a comrade.

My chums when I rejoined them were anxious to prevent my being too much
puffed up by my exploit.

"Good old Sarah Toady," cried Trimble, as I approached.  "Is he coming?"

"Who?  Where?"  I inquired.

"I thought you were asking Redwood to tea or something."

"No, I wasn't--I only--"

"There's Jarman," cried Langrish.  "Run and cadge up to him.  Perhaps
he'll pat you on the back too."

Despite these taunts I could not fail to notice the depressing effect of
the new arrival on the onlookers generally.  Mr Jarman, the gymnasium
master, was a ruddy, restless-looking man of about thirty-five, with
cold grey eyes, and the air of a man who knew he was unpopular, but was
resolved to do his duty nevertheless.  If I had heard nothing about him
before, I should have disliked him at first glance, and instinctively
tried to avoid his eye.  And yet, as he stood there, talking to Mr
Selkirk, the melancholy master of the reputedly "fast" house at Low
Heath, he did not look particularly offensive.

"Look out now; they're starting again."

There was no mistaking the veterans now.  Their backs were up, and the
order had evidently gone out for no quarter to be given to the audacious
Fifteen.

Redwood's kick off all but carried the goal from the middle of the
field, and from that moment it never got out of the "thirties," as the
imaginary line between the two distance flags was called.  To Crofter
belonged the honour of first wiping off scores with the enemy.  And
after him Redwood dropped a goal, first from one side line, then from
the other.  Pridgin, too, scored a smart run in; but, unluckily, the
kick fouled the goal post and saved the Fifteen a further disaster then.
But before time was called a fourth goal was placed to the credit of
the veterans.  The vanquished fought gamely to the end.  Once or twice
Tempest broke away, but for want of effective backing was repulsed.  And
once a smart piece of dribbling down the touch line by Wales gave the
Eleven's half-backs an anxious moment.  But that was all.  The match
ended, as every one expected, in a slashing victory for the old hands,
together with a general verdict that Tempest and Wales, at any rate, had
won their laurels and were safe for two of the vacant caps.

In the stampede which followed I missed my opportunity of restoring
Redwood's property, as he vanished immediately after the game, and my
comrades would by no means allow me out of their sight.  Indeed, it was
not till after evening chapel that I contrived to elude their vigilance
and start on my second run to Bridge Street.

But if I eluded them I was less fortunate with another sentinel.  For at
the gates I encountered the forbidding presence of Mr Jarman.

"What are you doing here?"

"Please, sir, this is Redwood's belt, and I promised to give it to him."

"Go back.  What is your name?"

"Jones, sir."

"Whose house are you in?"

"Mr Sharpe's."

"Do not let me find you out of bounds again, Jones."

And he fixed me with his eye as if to impress me with the fact that he
would certainly know me again.

"But, sir, Redwood--"

"Did you hear me, sir?"

I capitulated, cowed and indignant.  I was beginning to understand what
the fellows said about Mr Jarman.

"It's all rot," said the Philosophers, when I confided my grievance to
them; "it's not out of bounds before 6:30--and if it was, it's no
business of his.  It's the house master's business, or the house
captain's.  If you get lagged by them, all right; but _he's_ got no
right to lag fellows, the cad."

In my present humour I was far from disputing the appellation.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CHEAP ADVERTISING EXTRAORDINARY.

I spent a bad quarter of an hour that evening before bed-time in
inditing a letter of "explanation" to Crofter.  I had come to the
conclusion this would be easier and safer than a personal interview, and
that the sooner it was done the better.  How to do it was another
problem.  To write a letter in the raggery was out of the question.  I
tried it, but failed miserably.  For either my paper was twitched away
from under my pen, or some one looked over my shoulder and pretended to
read expressions of endearment which were not there, or some one got
under the table and heaved it about tempestuously to the detriment of my
handwriting, or some one drew skeleton figures of spider-legged bipeds
on the margin of the paper.  Worse still, it was evident every word I
wrote would be common property, which I did not desire.  I had therefore
to abandon the attempt till later on; when, finding myself in Pridgin's
study, I ventured to inquire if I might write there.

Pridgin was good enough to express admiration of my cheek, but said if I
spread one newspaper over his carpet and another over his table-cloth to
catch the blots, and didn't ask him how to spell any word of less than
four letters, or borrow a stamp, I might.

All which I faithfully undertook to do, and sat down to my delicate
task.  It took me a long time, considering the result, and I was by no
means satisfied with the performance when it was done.

"Dear Crofter," I wrote; but that seemed too familiar, whereas "Dear
Sir" from one schoolfellow to another was too formal.  So I attempted my
explanation in the "oblique oration":--

"Jones iv. is sorry he accidentally told Crofter he was a beast
yesterday.  He did not know it was him when he saw him, or he would not
have told him what Tempest said about him, which was quite
unintentional.  He also must explain that what he said about his being
expelled was in consequence of a dog's death, about which there was a
misunderstanding.  He hopes Crofter will not tell him he told him, as he
would be very angry with him."

"Done?" said Pridgin, who, comfortably ensconced in his easy-chair with
his feet upon the window-ledge, was reading a comic paper.

"Yes, thanks," said I, half terrified lest he should demand to read my
not too lucid epistle.

"All right.  Go and tell Crofter I want him, will you?  Look alive, and
then cut to bed."

Here was a blow!  I had been at all this labour in order to avoid the
painful necessity of an interview with Crofter, and here I was as badly
off as ever.

"Can't you hear?" said Pridgin as I hesitated.

"If you please, Pridgin," said I, resolved to take the bull by the
horns, "I'm awfully sorry, but I don't want Crofter to catch me.  The
fact is--"

Pridgin's good-humoured reply was to shy a book at me, which I was
fortunate enough to miss, but which Tempest, who entered the study at
the moment, caught fairly on his forehead.

"Hullo!  Are you and the kid playing catch?" said he.  "Sorry to disturb
you, really; but my fag's skulking somewhere, and I want to borrow yours
to take a message to Crofter."

"Was it a plot, or what?  I had far better have written in the faggery
after all."

"That was exactly the subject about which the kid and I were playing
catch just now," said Pridgin.  "I asked him to go to Crofter too."

"What, has he been sending you a _billet-doux_?" said Tempest.

"Well, yes.  He seems to be sore I didn't ask him to tea yesterday, and
says he's afraid some one has been libelling him, though how he knew I
had any one here last night I can't imagine."

"That's funny," said Tempest; "he writes to me to say he is sorry I
should take the trouble to call him a beast in public.  He understands a
fellow's right to his private opinion, he says, and would be sorry not
to be allowed his about me, but he thinks it imprudent to shout it out
for every one to hear.  Just his style."

"I was going to send him word to ask him to come in and make himself a
cup of tea out of my pot, just to show there was no ill-feeling," said
Pridgin.

"And I was going to say that I hope he won't trouble to think better of
me in private then I think of him in public.  Though for the life of me
I can't imagine what he refers to."

"The fact is.  Tempest," said Pridgin, putting his feet up on the
window-ledge again, "it's just as well to be above board with Crofter.
He's a slippery customer, and if he knows what we think of him, and we
know what he thinks of us, we shall get on much better."

"If he'd only give a chap a chance of a row with him," said Tempest;
"but he won't.  The more down on him you are, the more affectionate he
is, and the sweeter he smiles.  Ugh!"

"But who on earth has been blabbing to him?" said Pridgin; "not Wales?"

"Wales?" said Tempest; "rather not.  He's not that sort."

"I don't think he is," said Pridgin; "and yet, old man--the fact is--
I--"

"You don't fancy Wales, I know."

"Hardly that.  I don't mind him; but he's more of a pull over you than
he has over me.  I can't be bothered with his fashions.  It's too much
grind.  But you aren't lazy like me, and--well--you know he runs you
into a lot of expense.  That picnic last term, for instance.  We could
have had quite a jolly day for half the cost.  Chicken and ham's all
very well, but cold boiled eggs are just as good for keeping a chap
going."

"But Wales can't stand things not being--"

"Dear!" said Pridgin.  "Don't flare up, old chap.  You've got your work
cut out for you this term, and can't afford to spend all your time
paying bills, even if you had the tin."

"All very well for you who've let me in for cocking the house," said
Tempest, with a laugh.  "Anyhow, you've a right to talk to me like a
father.  All the same, I fancy you've a little downer on old Wales.
He's a good sort of chap, and there's nothing of the eel about him."

"Which brings us back to Crofter," said Pridgin.  "Some one has told him
that he's not popular in this study, and he doesn't like it.  I wonder
who our candid friend is."

"It was me," said I, coming out at last with my pent-up confession.
"I'm awfully sorry, Tempest.  It was this--"

"Take a seat," said Tempest, putting me off in the identical way that
Crofter had done yesterday.  But I was not to be put off; I took a seat
and continued--

"I met him and didn't know who he was, and I mentioned that I'd come
from here, and that a tea was going on, and that Crofter was out of it,
and the reason was because Tempest thought him a beast.  And--I'm
awfully sorry, Tempest--I let out to him that we'd been expelled from
Dangerfield, and I'd not the least idea it was him."

"He," suggested Pridgin.

"He; and I've just been writing to him to explain."

"Rather a tough job, eh?" said Tempest.

"You may see the letter," said I.

The two seniors read it with a gravity which scarcely seemed genuine.

"I think it may pass," said Tempest, coming out at last with a laugh.
"There are only about twelve 'he's' and 'him's' in it, and as it will be
absolutely unintelligible it can't possibly do harm."

"If Crofter has the least sense of literary taste, he will frame it,"
said Pridgin.  "I trust no dogs' deaths will occur here."

My confusion was tempered by the relief I felt that they took my
indiscretion in such good part, and saw only--what I failed to see
myself--the humorous side of the incident.

I begged hard to be allowed to tear up my letter, but this they would by
no means allow.  On the contrary, I was compelled to address it and
stamp it then and there, and place it in the post-box in the hall.
Then, with compliments and good wishes, I was dismissed to bed, and left
the two friends talking school politics.

I felt a good deal more humbled by the manner in which they had received
my confession than if they had, as I had expected, roundly abused me.
To be let down easy, as if I was barely responsible for my actions, was
not conducive to my vanity; and if that was the object they had in view,
it was amply attained.  I went to bed on my second night at Low Heath
with as little vanity in me as I could decently do with; and even that,
as I lay awake for an hour or two, oozed away, and did not return till
in a happy moment I fell asleep, and once more, and for a few
unconscious hours, became a hero to myself.

The next morning I tumbled out of bed at the call of the bell in no very
light-hearted way.  First of all, Crofter would receive my letter;
secondly, I had still got Redwood's belt; thirdly, I had not done my
preparation; and fourthly, I felt concerned about Tempest and his
alliance with the expensive Wales.  Strangely enough, this last trouble
weighed on me most as I dressed.

Tempest, I knew, was not well off.  But he was proud, and not the sort
of fellow to shirk a thing on account of the cost.  I could remember at
Dangerfield his spending all his money at the beginning of the term on
an absurdly expensive cricket bag, and having to go without spikes in
his shoes because he could not afford a set.  At Low Heath, where
seniors were allowed to run up bills in certain shops, I was certain his
ignorance about money matters, added to the friendly encouragements of
an exquisite like Wales, would make it all the worse for him.  Why, even
_I_ knew more about money than he did, and could reckon that if I
brought thirteen shillings up at the beginning of the term, I should
have just a shilling a week to bless myself with till break-up.  Whereas
he, I verily believe, would consider that he had thirteen shillings a
week.  And the worst of it was he would never let any one know how hard
up he was, or tolerate any remarks, except from a privileged chum like
Pridgin, on the subject.

As I joined my comrades in the faggery, in the fond hope of snatching a
precious quarter of an hour for my neglected studies, I found great
excitement and jubilation afoot.  The printer had sent home the
handbills of the Conversation Club.

"That ought to do our business," said Langrish, flourishing one of the
documents in my face.

I took it, and read it with mingled pride and concern.  It ran as
follows:--

Under the distinguished Patronage of the Nobility and Gentry of Low
Heath:

*A Philosophical Conversation Club* has been started for conversation on
Philosophy, Picnics, and Cross-country Runs.  Meetings weekly; to be
announced.  Subscription: Two shillings in advance; every member to find
himself.  No town-boys or masters eligible.  "Come in your hundreds!!!
No questions asked.  Evening dress or flannels.  The Inaugural Picnic
next week.  Particulars on receipt of subscription.  No connection with
any other so-called club in Low Heath!  For further particulars apply to
the following:

  Sarah Jones, Esquire, Pr.Ph.C.C, President.
  Ted Langrish, Esquire, S.Ph.C.C, Secretary.
  Wilfred Trimble, Esquire, T.Ph.C.C, Treasurer.
  Jos.  Warminster, Esquire, L.Ph.C.C, Librarian.
  Tom Coxhead, Esquire, A.Ph.C.C, Auditor.
  Michael Purkis, Esquire, R.Ph.C.C, Registrar.

P.S.--As the membership is strictly limited to 500, early application is
advised.  No eligible cash offer refused!  Our motto is "_Mens sano in
corpore sanae_."

I naturally bridled up at the record of my own name.

"Look here," said I; "you've stuck it down wrong again."

"Awfully sorry," said Langrish; "the printer chaps made a little slip
over the Christian name, but all the rest seems right.  It's wonderful
how sharp they are, isn't it?"

"But you're going to have it corrected, surely?" said I.

"Why, it would cost a frightful lot!" protested the company.  "We might
alter it in ink, but that would only call attention to it.  Bless you,
no one will notice it.  They'll put it down to a pr

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