



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's, by Talbot Baines Reed.

________________________________________________________________________
This is a rather famous book about life in a boys' boarding school.  We
start off with the entry to the school of a little new boy, not quite
eleven years old, who also happens to have an older brother in the
school.  We learn about the school at the same time as little Steevie
does.

Steevie is appointed to be the fag of one Loman, and as the story
unfolds we begin to see life through the eyes of the older boy.  There
is an interesting moment when Steevie refuses to do the work of fag to
Loman, and is soundly beaten up for his refusal.

There is a rather unsuitable public-house owner, Cripps, and Loman
becomes indebted to him for a large sum of money.  What Loman does to
try to liquidate his debt is what much of the latter part of the book
is about.  We do not wish to spoil the story for you, so we will not go
into any details of this.

There is a rather nice episode during the summer holidays when some of
the boys row down the river Thames from Oxford to London, which your
reviewer has also done more than once.  Many of the landmarks that they
saw are still there.  You will enjoy reading or listening to this book.

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THE FIFTH FORM AT SAINT DOMINIC'S, BY TALBOT BAINES REED.



PREFACE.

_The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's_ is a story of public-school life,
and was written for the _Boy's Own Paper_, in the Fourth Volume of which
it appeared.  The numbers containing it are now either entirely out of
print or difficult to obtain; and many and urgent have been the
requests--from boys themselves, as well as from parents, head masters,
and others--for its re-issue as a book.

Of the story itself little need be said.  It deals in a bright and
vigorous style with the kaleidoscopic, throbbing life of a great public
school--that world in miniature which, in its daily opportunities and
temptations, ambitions and failures, has so often afforded superabundant
material for narratives powerful to enchain the attention and sway the
emotions, whether to smiles or tears.  This will take its place, amongst
the best of them.

Though the story is one of school life, its interest is by no means
limited to school or college walls.  Boys of all sorts and conditions--
ay, and their parents too--will follow its fortunes with unflagging zest
from the first page to the last; and it is difficult to conceive of any
reader, be he young or old, who would not be the better for its vivid
portraiture and bracing atmosphere.  There is a breeziness about it
calculated to stir the better life in the most sluggish; and without
pretence or affectation it rings out its warnings, no less than its
notes of cheer, clear and rousing as trumpet blasts.

  "Do right, and thou hast nought to fear,
  Right hath a power that makes thee strong;
  The night is dark, but light is near,
  The grief is short, the joy is long."

Without the most distant approach to that fatal kind of sermonising
which all but inevitably repels those whom it is meant to benefit, the
story forcefully illustrates how rapidly they may sink who once tamper,
for seeming present advantage, with truth, and how surely, sooner or
later, a noble character comes to vindication and honour; and in all
such respects it is eminently true to life.  These boys of Saint
Dominic's, even the best of them, are very human--neither angels nor
monstrosities, but, for the most part, ardent, impulsive, out-and-out,
work-a-day lads; with the faults and failings of inexperience and
impetuosity, no doubt, but also with that moral grit and downright
honesty of purpose that are still, we believe, the distinguishing mark
of the true British public-school boy.  Hence one is impelled to take
from the outset a most genuine interest in them and their affairs, and
to feel quite as though one had known many of them personally for years,
and been distinctly the better, too, for that knowledge.  Such boys
stand at the antipodes alike of the unreal abstractions of an effeminate
sentimentalism--the paragons who prate platitudes and die young--and of
the morbid specimens of youthful infamy only too frequently paraded by
the equally unreal sensationalism of to-day to meet the cravings of a
vitiated taste.

_The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's_ is the kind of book we should place
with confidence in the hands of our own boys when leaving the home
shelter, whether for school or the sterner after-battle; and we cannot
conceive of the parent who, having read it with care and pleasure, as we
have done, and knowing at the same time anything of the stress and
strain of daily life, would not, with gratitude to the author, gladly do
the same.  With all their faults, Oliver Greenfield and Wraysford are
splendid boys, of just the fibre that the Church needs, and the world
cannot afford to do without; and yet their school career proves by no
means a bed of roses.  To drift with the current is proverbially easy;
to seek to stem it manfully, and steer by the stars, may, and often
does, lay one open to misapprehension or envy, and all the ills that
follow in their train; yet--

  "God is God, and right is right,
  And truth the day must win;
  To doubt would be disloyalty,
  To falter would be sin."

Our heroes had their full share of trouble--what real hero has not?--but
they come out of the ordeal purified and strengthened, with nobler
aspirations after duty, and tenderer thoughts of helpfulness towards
those needing, if far from seeking, their succouring arm.

How all this comes about it is not for us to tell.  Readers will find
that out for themselves, and thank us for allowing them, unaided, to do
so.  The school cricket match, the grand football struggle, the
ever-memorable prize-day--these are matters that no alien pen may touch.
Our prayer is that God may abundantly bless the book to the building up
in our schools and families of strong Christian characters, who in the
after days shall do valiant service for Christ and humanity.

G.A. Hutchison.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE NOTICE BOARD.

The four o'clock bell was sounding up the staircase and down the
passages of Saint Dominic's school.  It was a minute behind its time,
and had old Roach, the school janitor, guessed at half the abuse
privately aimed at his devoted head for this piece of negligence, he
might have pulled the rope with a good deal more vivacity than he at
present displayed.

At the signal there was a general shuffling of feet and uproar of
voices--twelve doors swung open almost simultaneously, and next moment
five hundred boys poured out, flooding the staircases and passages,
shouting, scuffling, and laughing, and throwing off by one easy effort
the restraint and gravity of the last six hours.

The usual rush and scramble ensued.  Some boys, taking off their coats
and tucking up their sleeves as they ran, made headlong for the
playground.  Some, with books under their arms, scuttled off to their
studies.  The heroes of the Sixth stalked majestically to their
quarters.  The day boarders hurried away to catch the train at Maltby.
A few slunk sulkily to answer to their names in the detention-room, and
others, with the air of men to whom time is no object and exertion no
temptation, lounged about in the corridors with hands in pockets,
regarding listlessly the general stampede of their fellows, and
apparently not knowing exactly what to do with themselves.

Among these last happened to be Bullinger of the Fifth and his
particular friend Ricketts, who, neither of them having any more
tempting occupation, were comfortably leaning up against the door of the
Fourth junior class-room, thereby making prisoners of some twenty or
thirty youngsters, whose infuriated yells and howls from within appeared
to afford the two gentlemen a certain languid satisfaction.

"Open the door! do you hear?" shrieked one little treble voice.

"All right!" piped another.  "I know who you are, you cads.  See if I
don't tell Dr Senior!"

"Oh, please, I say, I shall lose my train!" whimpered a third.

"Wait till I get out; see if I don't kick your shins!" howled a fourth.

It was no use.  In vain these bantams stormed and raved, and entreated
and blubbered.  The handle would not turn, and the door would not yield.
Mr Bullinger and his friend vouchsafed no reply, either to their
threats or their supplications, and how long the blockade might have
lasted it is impossible to say, had not a fresh dissension called the
beleaguerers away.  A cluster of boys at a corner of the big corridor
near the main entrance attracted their curiosity, and suggested a
possibility of even more entertainment than the goading into fury of a
parcel of little boys, so, taking advantage of a moment when the
besieged had combined, shoulder to shoulder, to make one magnificent and
desperate onslaught on to the obdurate door, they quietly "raised the
siege," and quitting their hold, left the phalanx of small heroes to
topple head over heels and one over another on to the stone floor of the
passage, while they sauntered off arm-in-arm to the scene of the new
excitement.

The object which had attracted the knot of boys whom they now joined was
the School Notice Board, on which, from time to time, were posted
notices of general and particular interest to the school.  On this
particular afternoon (the first Friday of the Summer term) it was, as
usual, crowded with announcements, each interesting in its way.

The first was in the handwriting of Dr Senior's secretary, and ran as
follows:--

"A Nightingale Scholarship, value 50 pounds a year for three years, will
fall vacant at Michaelmas.  Boys under seventeen are eligible.
Particulars and subject of examination can be had any evening next week
in the secretary's room."

"Fifty-pounds a year _for_ three years!" exclaimed a small boy, with a
half whistle.  "I wouldn't mind getting that!"

"Well, why don't you, you avaricious young Jew?  You're under seventeen,
I suppose?" retorted the amiable Mr Bullinger, thereby raising a laugh
at the expense of this little boy of eleven, who retired from the scene
extinguished.

The next notice was in the classical handwriting of the secretary of the
Sixth Form Literary Society, and ran as follows:--

"This Society will meet on Tuesday.  Subject for debate, `That the
present age is degenerate,' moved by A.E. Callander, opposed by T.
Winter.  Boys from the Senior Fifth are invited as auditors."

This notice, even with the patronising postscript, would have passed
without comment, as Sixth Form notices usually did, had not some
audacious hand ventured to alter a word and make the subject of debate,
instead of "That the present age is degenerate," read "That the present
Sixth is degenerate."  Who the perpetrator of this outrage might be was
a mystery, but the alteration was quite enough to render the notice very
amusing to many of the readers, especially the Fifth Form boys, and very
terrible to others, especially the small boys, who looked nervous and
guilty, and did not dare by the slightest sign to join in the mirth of
their irreverent seniors.  Most of the assembly agreed that "there would
be a row about it," with which assurance they passed on to the next
notice.

"Wanted, a Smart Fag.  No Tadpoles or Guinea-pigs need apply.  Horace
Wraysford, Fifth Form."

"Bravo, Horatius!" said Ricketts.  "A lucky young cub it will be that he
takes on," added he, turning to a group of the small boys near.  "He'll
do your sums and look over your exercises for you like one o'clock.
Ugh! though, I suppose every man Jack of you is a Tadpole or a Pig?"

Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs, I should say, were the names given to two
combinations or clubs in the clannish Junior School, the mysteries of
which were known only to their members, but which were not regarded with
favour by the older boys.

As no one answered this charge, Ricketts indulged in a few general
threats, and a few not very complimentary comments on the clubs in
question, and then returned to the notice board, which contained two
more announcements.

"Cricket Notices.  To-morrow will be a final big practice, when the
elevens for the `A to M _versus_ N to Z' match on the 25th will be
chosen.  `Sixth _versus_ School' will be played on the 1st proxo.  The
School Eleven will be selected from among players in the two above
matches."

"A private meeting of the Fifth will be held this afternoon at 4.30 to
discuss an important matter."

"Hullo!" said Bullinger, looking up at the clock, "it's half-past now!
Come along, Rick."

And the two demagogues disappeared arm-in-arm down the passage, followed
by the admiring glances of the juniors, who spent the next half-hour in
wondering what could be the important matter under consideration at the
private meeting of the Fifth.  The universal conclusion was that it had
reference to the suppression of the Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs--a
proceeding the very suggestion of which made those small animals tremble
with mingled rage and fear, and sent them off wriggling to their own
quarters, there to deliberate on the means of defence necessary to
protect themselves from the common enemy.

The meeting in the Fifth, however, was to consider a far more important
subject than the rebellious clubs of the Junior School.

The reader will doubtless have inferred, from what has already been
said, that the young gentlemen of the Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's
entertained, among other emotions, a sentiment something like jealousy
of their seniors and superiors in the sixth.  Perhaps Saint Dominic's is
not the only school in which such a feeling has existed; but, at any
rate during the particular period to which I am referring, it was pretty
strong there.  Not that the two Forms were at war, or that there was any
fear of actual hostilities.  It was not so bad as all that.  But the
Fifth were too near the heroes of the top Form to consent to submit to
their authority.  They would be Sixth men themselves soon, and then of
course they would expect the whole school to reverence them.  But till
that time they resented the idea of bowing before these future comrades;
and not only that, they took every opportunity of asserting their
authority among the juniors, and claiming the allegiance for themselves
they refused to render to others.  And they succeeded in this very well,
for they took pains to make themselves popular in the school, and to
appear as the champions quite as much as the bullies of the small fry.
The consequence was that while Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs quaked and
blushed in the presence of the majestic Sixth, they quaked and smirked
in the presence of the Fifth, and took their thrashings meekly, in the
hope of getting a Latin exercise looked over or a minor tyrant punished
later on.

Just at the present time, too, the Fifth was made up of a set of fellows
well able to maintain the peculiar traditions of their fellowship.  They
numbered one or two of the cleverest boys (for their age) in Saint
Dominic's; and, more important still in the estimation of many, they
numbered not a few of the best cricketers, boxers, football-players, and
runners in the school.  With these advantages their popularity as a body
was very great--and it is only due to them to say that they bore their
honours magnanimously, and distributed their kicks and favours with the
strictest impartiality.

Such was the company which assembled on this afternoon in their own
class-room, with closed doors, to deliberate on "private and important
business."  About twenty boys were present, and the reader must let me
introduce a few of them, before his curiosity as to the occasion of
their assembling themselves together can be satisfied.

That handsome, jovial-looking boy of sixteen who is sitting there
astride of a chair, in the middle of the floor, biting the end of a
quill pen, is the redoubtable Horace Wraysford, the gentleman, it will
be remembered, who is in want of a fag.  Wraysford is one of the best
"all-round men" in the Fifth, or indeed in the school.  He is certain to
be in the School Eleven against the County, certain to win the mile race
and the "hurdles" at the Athletic Sports, and is not at all unlikely to
carry off the Nightingale Scholarship next autumn, even though one of
the Sixth is in for it too.  Indeed, it is said he would be quite
certain of this honour, were it not that his friend and rival Oliver
Greenfield, who is standing there against the wall, with his head
resting on a map of Greece, is also in for it.  Greenfield does not
strike one as nearly so brilliant a fellow as his friend.  He is quieter
and more lazy, and more solemn.  Some say he has a temper, and others
that he is selfish; and generally he is not the most popular boy in
Saint Dominic's.  Wraysford, however, sticks to him through thick and
thin, and declares that, so far from being ill-tempered and selfish, he
is one of the best fellows in the school, and one of the cleverest.  And
Mr Wraysford is prepared to maintain his allegation at the point of
the--knuckle!  That hulking, ugly youth is Braddy, the bully, the terror
of the Guinea-pigs, and the laughing-stock of his own class-mates.  The
boy who is fastening a chalk duster on to the collar of Braddy's coat is
Tom Senior, the Doctor's eldest son, who, one would have imagined, might
have learned better manners.  Last, not least (for we need not
re-introduce Messrs. Ricketts or Bullinger, or go out of our way to
present Simon, the donkey of the Form, to the reader), is Master Anthony
Pembury, the boy now mounting up onto a chair with the aid of two
friends.  Anthony is lame, and one of the most dreaded boys in Saint
Dominic's.  His father is editor of the _Great Britain_, and the son
seems to have inherited his talent for saying sharp things.  Woe betide
the Dominican who raises Tony's dander!  He cannot box, he cannot
pursue; but he can _talk_, and he can ridicule, as his victims all the
school over know.

He it is who has, of his own sweet will, summoned together the present
meeting, and the business he is now about to explain.

"The fact is, you fellows," he begins, "I wanted to ask your opinion
about a little idea of my own.  You know the _Sixth Form Magazine_?"

"Rather," says Ricketts; "awful rubbish too!  Papers a mile long in it
about Greek roots; and poetry about the death of Seneca, and all that
sort of thing."

"That's just it," continued Pembury; "it's rubbish, and unreadable; and
though they condescend to let us see it, I don't suppose two fellows in
the Form ever wade through it."

"I know _I don't_, for one," says Wraysford, laughing; "I _did_ make a
start at that ode on the birth of Senior junior in the last, which began
with--

  "`Hark, 'tis the wail of an infant that wakes the still echoes of
  lofty Olympus,'

"but I got no farther."

"Yes," says Tom Senior, "Wren wrote that.  I felt it my duty to
challenge him for insulting the family, you know.  But he said it was
meant as a compliment, and that the Doctor was greatly pleased with it."

"Well," resumed Pembury, laughing, "they won't allow any of us to
contribute.  I suggested it to the editor, and he said (you know his
stuck-up way), `They saw no reason for opening their columns to any but
Sixth Form fellows.'  So what I propose is, that we get up a paper of
our own!"

"Upon my word, it's a splendid idea!" exclaimed Wraysford, jumping up in
raptures.  And every one else applauded Pembury's proposition.

"We've as good a right, you know," he continued, "as they have, and
ought to be able to turn out quite as respectable a paper."

"Rather," says Ricketts, "if you'll only get the fellows to write."

"Oh, I'll manage that," said Anthony.

"Of course you'll have to be editor, Tony," says Bullinger.

"If you like," says the bashful Tony, who had no notion of _not_ being
editor.

"Well, I call that a splendid idea," says Braddy.  "Won't they be in a
fury?  (Look here, Senior, I wish you wouldn't stick your pins into my
neck, do you hear?)"

"What shall we call it?" some one asks.

"Ah, yes," says Pembury, "we ought to give it a good name."

"Call it the _Senior Wrangler_," suggested Ricketts.

"Sounds too like a family concern," cried Tom Senior.

"Suppose we call it the _Fifth Form War Whoop_," proposed Wraysford,
amid much laughter.

"Or the _Anti-Sixth_," says Braddy, who always professes an implacable
enmity towards the Sixth when none of them are near to hear him.

"Not at all," says Greenfield, speaking now for the first time.  "What's
the use of making fools of ourselves?  Call it the _Dominican_, and let
it be a paper for the whole school."

"Greenfield is right," adds Pembury.  "If we can make it a regular
school paper it will be a far better slap at the Sixth than if we did
nothing but pitch into them.  Look here, you fellows, leave it to me to
get out the first number.  We'll astonish the lives out of them--you
see!"

Every one is far too confident of Tony's capacity to raise an objection
to this proposal; and after a good deal more talk, in which the idea of
the _Dominican_ excites quite an enthusiasm among these amiable young
gentlemen, the meeting breaks up.

That evening, as the fellows passed down the corridor to prayers, a new
notice appeared on the board:

"The first number of the _Dominican_ will appear on the 24th inst."

"What does it mean?" asked Raleigh of the Sixth, the school captain, of
his companion, as they stopped to examine this mysterious announcement;
"there's no name to it."

"I suppose it's another prank of the Fifth.  By the way, do you see how
one of them has altered this debating society notice?"

"Upon my word," said Raleigh reading it, and smiling in spite of
himself, "they are getting far too impudent.  I must send a monitor to
complain of this."

And so the two grandees walked on.

Later in the evening Greenfield and Wraysford sat together in the study
of the former.

"Well, I see the Nightingale is vacant at last.  Of course you are going
in, old man?" said Wraysford.

"Yes, I suppose so; and you?" asked the other.

"Oh, yes.  I'll have a shot, and do my best."

"I don't mean to let you have it, though," said Greenfield, "for the
money would be valuable to me if I ever go up to Oxford."

"Just the reason I want to get it," said Wraysford, laughing.  "By the
way, when is your young brother coming?"

"This week, I expect."

"I wonder if he'll fag for me?" asked Wraysford, mindful of his
destitute condition.

Greenfield laughed.  "You'd better ask the captain about that.  I can't
answer for him.  But I must be off now.  Good-night."

And an hour after that Saint Dominic's was as still and silent as,
during the day, it had been bustling and noisy.



CHAPTER TWO.

A NEW BOY.

"Good-Bye, my boy; God bless you! and don't forget to tell the
housekeeper about airing your flannel vests."

With this final benediction ringing in his ears, the train which was to
carry Master Stephen Greenfield from London to Saint Dominic's steamed
slowly out of the station, leaving his widowed mother to return lonely
and sorrowful to the home from which, before this day, her youngest son
had never wandered far without her.

Stephen, if the truth must be told, was hardly as affected by the
parting as his poor mother.  Not that he was not sorry to leave home, or
that he did not love her he left behind; but with all the world before
him, he was at present far too excited to think of anything rationally.
Besides, that last remark about the flannel vests had greatly disturbed
him.  The carriage was full of people, who must have heard it, and would
be sure to set him down as no end of a milksop and mollycoddle.

He blushed to the roots of his hair as he pulled up the window and sat
down in his corner, feeling quite certain every one of his
fellow-travellers must be secretly smiling at his expense.  He wished
his mother would have whispered that last sentence.  It wasn't fair to
him.  In short, Stephen felt a trifle aggrieved; and, with a view to
manifesting his hardihood, and dispelling all false impressions caused
by the maternal injunction, he let down the window and put his bare head
out of it for about a quarter of an hour, until a speck of dust settled
in his eye and drove him back to his seat.

It is decidedly awkward to get dust in your eye when you want to figure
as a hero, for the eyes will water, and must be wiped, and that looks
particularly like weeping.  Stephen refrained from using his
handkerchief as long as he could; but it was no use; he must wipe his
eye in the presence of his fellow-passengers.  However, if he whistled a
tune while doing so, no one could suspect him of real tears; so he
struck up, "Glide along, my bonny boat," as cheerfully as he could, and
mopped his smarting eye at the same time.  Alas! the dust only got
farther in, and the music, after half an hour's heroic perseverance,
flagged altogether.  It was no use trying to appear heroic any longer,
so, what with pain and a dawning sense of loneliness and home-sickness,
Stephen shed a _few_ real tears into his handkerchief, an indulgence
which did him good in every way, for it not only relieved his drooping
spirits, but washed that wretched piece of dust fairly out of its
hiding-place.

This relief, with the aid of a bun and a bottle of ginger-beer at one of
the stations, set him, so to speak, on his feet again, and he was able
to occupy the rest of his journey very pleasantly in drumming his heels
on the floor, and imagining to himself all the marvellous exploits which
were to mark his career at Saint Dominic's.  He was to be a prodigy in
his new school from the very first; in a few terms he was to be captain
of the cricket club, and meanwhile was to gain the favour of the Sixth
by helping them regularly in their lessons, and fighting any one against
whom a special champion should be requisite.  He was, indeed, just being
invited to dinner with the Doctor, who was about to consult him
concerning some points of school management, when the train suddenly
pulled up at Maltby, and his brother Oliver's head looked in at the
window with a "Hullo! here you are!  Tumble out!"

Oliver and Stephen were Mrs Greenfield's only children.  Their father
had died twelve years ago, when Stephen was a baby, and the two boys had
been left in charge of an uncle, who had carefully watched over their
education, and persuaded his sister to allow her elder boy to go to a
public school.  Mrs Greenfield had consented, with many tremblings, and
Oliver had, four years ago, been sent to Saint Dominic's, where he was
now one of the head boys in the Fifth Form.  Only a _few_ weeks before
the opening of this story the boys' uncle had died, leaving in his will
a provision for sending Stephen to the same school as his brother, or
any other his mother might select.  The poor widow, loth to give up her
boy, yet fain to accept the offer held out, chose to send Stephen to
Saint Dominic's too, and this was the reason of that young gentleman's
present appearance on the stage at that centre of learning.

"I'll send up your traps by the carter; we can walk," said Oliver,
taking his young brother into charge.

Stephen was only too glad, as it gave him time to breathe before
plunging at once into the scene of his future exploits.  "Is it far?" he
asked.

"Only a mile," said Oliver; "come on.  Hullo, Rick, where have you been
to?"

This was addressed to Ricketts, whom they met just outside the station.

"Oh! to Sherren's about my togs.  I wanted them for the match to-morrow,
you know.  I've told him if he doesn't send them up in time we'll all
get our things made in London, so I guess he'll hurry himself for once.
Oh, look here! did you get a paper with the result of the American
match?  Bother!  Here, you kid, what's your name, cut back to the
station and get a daily.  Look sharp!  Bring it to me in my room.  Come
on, Greenfield."

Master Stephen looked so astonished at this cool request from a total
stranger that both the elder boys laughed.

"This is my young brother, Rick, just come--"

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Mr Ricketts, blushing, "I'll go--"

"No, I'll go," said Stephen, darting off, and expending a penny of his
own to get this magnifico of the Fifth his paper.

This little incident served to break the ice for the new boy, who felt
highly honoured when Ricketts said he was "much obliged to him."

"By the way," said Oliver, suddenly, "I ought to get my togs up too.
Bother that Sherren!  I say, Rick, see my young brother up to the
school, will you? while I cut back; he can wait in my study."

Stephen felt very desolate to be left thus alone the moment after his
arrival, and it did not add to his pleasure to observe that Ricketts by
no means appeared to look upon the task of seeing him to Saint Dominic's
as a privilege.  They walked on in silence for about half a mile, and
then encountered several groups of boys strolling out along the road.
Ricketts stopped to talk to several of them, and was very nearly going
off with one of the party, when he suddenly remembered his charge.  It
was rather humiliating this, for Stephen; and already his triumphal
entry into Saint Dominic's was beginning to be shorn of some of its
glory.  No one noticed him; and the only one that paid him the least
attention appeared to look upon him as a nuisance.

"Here, Tony," suddenly shouted Ricketts to Pembury, who was jogging
along on his crutches a little way ahead, towards the school; "do you
mind showing this kid the way up?  I have to go back with Wren.  There's
a good fellow."

"Well, that's cool," replied Master Pembury; "I'm not a kid-conductor!
Come on, youngster; I suppose you haven't got a name, have you?"

"Yes, Stephen Greenfield."

"Oh, brother of our dear friend Oliver; I hope you'll turn out a better
boy than him, he's a shocking character."

Stephen looked concerned.  "I'm sure he doesn't mean to do what's
wrong," began he, apologetically.

"That's just it, my boy.  If he doesn't mean to do it, why on earth does
he do it?  I shall be sorry if he's expelled, very sorry.  But come on;
don't mind if I walk too fast," added he, hobbling along by Stephen's
side.

Stephen did not know what to think.  If Ricketts had not addressed his
companion as "Tony" he would have fancied he was one of the masters, he
spoke with such an air of condescension.  Stephen felt very
uncomfortable, too, to hear what had been told him about Oliver.  If he
had not been told, he could not have believed his brother was anything
but perfection.

"I'm lame, you see," said Pembury, presently.  "You are quite sure you
see?  Look at my left leg."

"I see," said Stephen, blushing; "I--I hope it doesn't hurt."

"Only when I wash my face.  But never mind that Vulcan was lame too, but
then he never washed.  You know who Vulcan was, of course?"

"No, I don't think so," faltered Stephen, beginning to feel very uneasy
and ignorant.

"Not know Vulcan!  My eye! where have you been brought up?  Then of
course you don't know anything about the Tenth Fiji War?  No?  I thought
not.  Dreadful!  We shall have to see what you do know.  Come on."

Stephen entered Saint Dominic's thoroughly crestfallen, and fully
convinced he was the most ignorant boy that ever entered a public
school.  The crowds of boys in the playground frightened him, and even
the little boys inspired him with awe.  _They_, at any rate, had heard
of Vulcan, and knew about the Tenth Fiji War!

"Here," said Anthony, "is your brother's study.  Sit here till he
returns, and make the most of your time, for you'll have to put your
best foot foremost to-morrow in the Doctor's examination."

So saying, he left abruptly, and the poor lad found himself alone, in
about as miserable a frame of mind as a new boy would wish to be in.

He looked about the study; there were some shelves with books on them.
There was a little bed let into the wall on one side; there was an
easy-chair, and what professed to be a sofa; and there was a pile of
miscellanies, consisting of bats and boots and collars and papers,
heaped up in the corner, which appeared to be the most abundantly
furnished portion of the little room.  Stephen sat there, very dismal,
and wishing himself home again once more, when the door suddenly opened
and a small boy of his own age appeared.

"Hullo!  What do you want?" demanded this hero.

"I'm waiting for my brother."

"Who's your brother?"

"Oliver Greenfield."

"Oh, all right! you can get his tea as well as I can; you'll find all
the things in the cupboard there.  And look here, tell him Bullinger
wants to know if he can lend him some jam--about half a pint, tell him."

Poor Stephen! even the small boys ordered him about, and regarded him as
nobody.  He would fain have inquired of this young gentleman something
about Vulcan, and have had the advantage of his experience in the
preparation of his brother's tea; but the youth seemed pressed for time,
and vanished.

As well as he could, Stephen extricated the paraphernalia of his
brother's tea-table from the cupboard, and set it out in order on the
table, making the tea as well as profound inexperience of the mystery
and a kettle full of lukewarm water would permit.  Then he sat and
waited.

Before Oliver arrived, four visitors broke in upon Stephen's vigil.  The
first came "to borrow" some tea, and helped himself coolly to two
teaspoonfuls out of Oliver's canister.  Stephen stood by aghast and
speechless.

"Tell him I'll _owe_ it him," calmly remarked the young gentleman, as he
departed with his booty, whistling a cheerful ditty.

Then a fag came in and took a spoon, and after him another fag, with a
mug, into which he poured half of the contents of Oliver's milk-jug; and
finally a big fellow rushed in in a desperate hurry and snatched up a
chair and made off with it.

Stephen wondered the roof of Saint Dominic's did not fall in upon these
shameless marauders, and was just contemplating putting the stores all
back again into the cupboard to prevent further piracy, when the welcome
sound of Oliver's voice in the passage put an end to further suspense.

"Well, here you are," said Oliver, entering with a friend.  "Wray, this
is my young brother, just turned up."

"How are you?" said Wraysford, in a voice which won over Stephen at
once; "I heard you were coming.  Have you--"

"Oh!" suddenly ejaculated Oliver, lifting up the lid of his teapot.  "If
that young wretch Paul hasn't been and made my tea with coal-dust and
cold water!  I'd like to scrag him!  And--upon my word--oh, this is too
much!--just look, Wray, how he's laid the table out!  Those Guinea-pigs
are beyond all patience.  Where _is_ the beggar?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Stephen, starting up, very red in the face, as his
brother went to the door; "it wasn't him.  I made the tea.  The boy told
me to, and I didn't know the way.  I had to guess."

Oliver and Wraysford both burst out laughing.

"A pretty good guess, too, youngster," said Wraysford.  "When you come
and fag for me I'll give you a few lessons to begin with."

"Oh! by the way, Wray," said Oliver, "that's all knocked on the head.
Loman makes out the captain promised him the first new boy that came.
I'm awfully sorry."

"Just like Loman's cheek.  I believe he did it on purpose to spite me or
you.  I say, Greenfield, I'd kick-up a row about it if I were you."

"What's the use, if the captain says so?" answered Oliver.  "Besides,
Loman's a monitor, bad luck to him!"

"Loman's a fellow I don't take a great fancy to," said Wraysford.  "I
wouldn't care for a young brother of mine to fag to him."

"You are prejudiced, old man," said Oliver.  "But I wish all the same
Stephen was to fag for you.  It's a pity, but it can't be helped."

"I'll speak to the captain, anyhow," growled Wraysford, sitting down to
his tea.

All this was not very pleasant for Stephen, who gathered that he was
destined to serve a not very desirable personage in the capacity of fag,
instead of, as he would have liked, his brother's friend Wraysford.

However, he did justice to the tea, bad as it was, and the sardines
Oliver had brought from Maltby.  He was relieved, too, to find that his
brother was not greatly exasperated on hearing of the various raids
which had been made on his provisions, or greatly disconcerted at Mr
Bullinger's modest request for half a pint of jam.

Then, as the talk fell upon home, and cricket, and other cheerful
topics, the small boy gradually forgot his troubles, even down to the
Fiji War, and finished up his first evening at Saint Dominic's in a good
deal more cheerful frame of mind than that in which he had begun it.



CHAPTER THREE.

A MORNING WITH A TADPOLE.

It so happened that on the day following Stephen Greenfield's arrival at
Saint Dominic's, the head master, Dr Senior, was absent.

This circumstance gave great satisfaction to the new boy when his
brother told him of it, as it put off for another twenty-four hours the
awful moment when he would be forced to expose his ignorance before that
terrible personage.

"You'd better stick about in my room while I'm in school," said Oliver,
"and then you can come down to the cricket-field and see the practice.
By the way, some of the fellows may be in to bag my ink; they always run
short on Friday; but don't let them take it, for I shall want it
to-night.  Ta, ta; give my love to the _mater_ if you're writing home.
I'll be back for you after the twelve bell."

And off he went, leaving Stephen to follow his own sweet devices for
three hours.

That young gentleman was at no loss how to occupy part of the time.  He
must write home.  So after much searching he unearthed a crumpled sheet
of note-paper from one of the drawers, and set himself to his task.  As
he wrote, and his thoughts flew back to the home and the mother he had
left only yesterday, his spirits fell, and the home-sickness came over
him worse than ever.  What would he not give to change places with this
very letter, and go back home!

Here, no one cared for him, every one seemed to despise him.  He wasn't
used to those rough public schools, and would never get on at Saint
Dominic's.  Ah! that wretched Tenth Fiji War.  What _would_ become of
him to-morrow when the Doctor would be back?  There was no one to help
him.  Even Oliver seemed determined to let him fight his own battles.

Poor boy!  He sat back in his chair and let his mind wander once more
back to the snug little home he had left.  And, as he did so, his eyes
unconsciously filled with tears, and he felt as if he would give
anything to escape from Saint Dominic's.

At this moment the door opened and a small boy entered.

He did not seem to expect to find any one in the room, for he uttered a
hurried "Hullo!" as he caught sight of Stephen.

Stephen quickly dashed away a tear and looked up.

"Where's Greenfield?" demanded the small boy.

"He's in school," replied Stephen.

"Hullo! what are you blubbering at?" cried the small boy, growing very
bold and patronising all of a sudden, "eh?"

Stephen did not answer this home question.

"I suppose you are a new kid, just left your mammy?" observed the other,
with the air of a man of forty; "what's your name, young 'un?"

"Stephen Greenfield."

"Oh, my! is it?  What form are you in?"

"I don't know yet."

"Haven't you been examined?"

"No, not yet."

"Oh, of course; old Senior's away.  Never mind, you'll catch it
to-morrow, blub-baby!"

This last epithet was thrown in in such a very gratuitous and offensive
way, that Stephen did not exactly like it.

The small youth, however, finding himself in a bantering mood, pursued
his questions with increasing venom.

"I suppose they call you Steenie at home?" he observed, with a sneer
that was meant to be quite annihilating.

"No, they don't," replied Stephen; "mother calls me Steevie."

"Oh, Steevie, does she?  Well, Steevie, were you ever licked over the
knuckles with a ruler?"

"No," replied Stephen; "why?"

"Because you will be--I know who'll do it, too, and kick you on the
shins, too, if you're cheeky!"

Stephen was quite at a loss whether to receive this piece of news in the
light of information or a threat.  He was inclined to believe it the
latter; and as he was a rash youth, he somewhat tartly replied, "_You_
won't!"

The small boy looked astounded--not that he ever contemplated attempting
the chastisement about which he had talked; but the idea of a new boy
defying _him_, one of the chosen leaders of the Tadpoles, who had been
at Saint Dominic's two years, was amazing.  He glared at the rash
Stephen for half a minute, and then broke out, "Won't I? that's all! you
see, you pretty little blubber boy!  Yow-ow-ow! little sneak! why don't
you cut behind your mammy's skirt, if you're afraid?  I would cry if I
were you.  Where's his bottle?  Poor infant!  Yow-ow-boo-boo!"

This tornado, delivered with increasing vehemence and offensiveness,
quite overpowered Stephen, who stared at the boy as if he had been a
talking frog.

That youth evidently seemed to expect that his speech would produce a
far deeper impression than it did, for he looked quite angry when
Stephen made no reply.

"Wretched little sneak!" the amiable one continued; "I suppose he'll go
peaching to his big brother.  Never mind, _we'll_ pay you out, see if we
don't!  Go and kiss your mammy, and tell your big brother what they did
to little duckie Steevie, did they then? they shouldn't!  Give him a
suck of his bottle! oh, my!" and he finished up with a most withering
laugh.  Then, suddenly remembering his errand, he walked up to the
table, and said, "I want that inkpot!"

Now was Stephen's time.  He was just in the humour for an argument with
this young Philistine.

"What for?"

"What's that to you? give it up!"

"I shan't give it up; Oliver said it was not to be taken."

"What do you say?" yelled the small boy, almost beside himself with rage
and astonishment.  "It's my brother's ink, and I'm not to give it up,"
said Stephen, shutting the top and keeping his hand on it.

It was enough!  The patriarch of the Tadpoles knew his strong point was
in words rather than action; but this could not be endured.  At whatever
risk, the dignity of his order must be maintained, and this insolent,
mad new boy must be--kicked.

"I'll kick you on the legs if you don't give it up," said the Tadpole,
in a suppressed white heat.

Stephen said nothing, but kept his hand on the pot, and awaited what was
to follow.

The hero stepped back a pace or two, to allow of a run worthy of the
coming kick; and what might have happened no one knows.  At that moment
the door opened, and Pembury entered on his crutches.

At sight of this Fifth Form celebrity the Tadpole cringed and cowered,
and tried to sneak out of the study unobserved.  But Anthony was too
quick for him.  Gently hooking him by the coat-collar with the end of a
crutch, he brought him back.

"What are you doing here?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, he is," shouted Stephen; "he's been trying to take, away Oliver's
ink."

"Silence, young gentleman, pray!" said Pembury, very grandly.  Then,
turning to the Tadpole, he added, "Oh, so you've been trying to bag some
ink, have you?"

"Well, I only wanted a little; and this--"

"Silence! how much ink did you want?"

"Only half a potful."

"You shall have half a potful!" said Pembury.  "Come here."

The Tadpole obeyed, and glared triumphantly at Stephen.

"Now, Master Greenfield," said Pembury, addressing Stephen; "have the
kindness to hand me the ink."

Stephen hesitated; he felt _sure_ Anthony was a master; and yet Oliver's
directions had been explicit.

"Do you hear?" thundered Anthony.

"Do you hear?" squeaked the Tadpole, delighted to have the tables turned
on his adversary.

"Oliver said I wasn't to let it go," faltered Stephen.

"Do you hear me, sir?" again demanded Anthony.

"Do you hear? give it up!" again squeaked the Tadpole.

Stephen sighed, and surrendered the inkpot.  There was an air of
authority about Pembury which he dared not defy.

"Now, Master Tadpole, here's your ink; half a pot you said?  Put your
hands behind you, and stir if you dare!" and Pembury looked so awful as
he spoke that the wretched boy was quite petrified.

The Fifth Form boy then solemnly emptied half the inkpot on to the top
of the young gentleman's head, who ventured neither by word nor gesture
to protest.

"Now you can go, sir!" and without another word he led the small youth,
down whose face trickled a dozen tiny streams of black, making it look
very like a gridiron, to the door, and there gently but firmly handed
him into the passage.  The wretched youth flew off to proclaim his
sorrows to his confederates, and vow vengeance all over Tadpole and
Guinea-pig-land against his tormentor and the new boy, who was the
author of all his humiliation.

Pembury meanwhile returned to Stephen.  That young gentleman had felt
his belief in Pembury's authority somewhat shaken by this unusual mode
of punishment, but the Fifth Form boy soon reassumed his ascendency.  He
produced from his pocket a paper, and thus addressed Stephen: "Dr
Senior regrets that he should be absent at such an important time in the
history of Saint Dominic's as the day of your arrival, Master
Greenfield, but he will be back to-morrow.  Meanwhile, you are to occupy
yourself with answering the questions on this paper, and take the
answers to the head master's study at ten to-morrow.  Of course you will
not be so dishonourable as to show the questions to any one, not even
your brother, or attempt to get the slightest help in answering them.
Good-bye, my boy.  Don't trouble to stare at my left leg, if it _is_
shorter than the other.  Good-bye."

Poor Stephen felt so confused by the whole of this oration, particularly
the last sentence, which made him blush scarlet with shame, that for
some time after the lame boy had hobbled off he could not bring himself
to look at the paper.  At last, however, he took it up.

This, then, was the awful examination paper which was to determine his
position at Saint Dominic's, or else expose his ignorance to the scorn
of his masters.  How he wished he was on the other side of it, and that
the ordeal was over!

"Question 1.  Grammar.  Parse the sentence, `Oh, ah!' and state the
gender of the following substantives: `and,' `look,' `here.'"

Stephen scratched his head and rubbed his eyes.  This was not like
anything he had learned at home.  They must learn out of quite different
books at Saint Dominic's.

"Question 2.  History--"

"Hullo," thought Stephen, "they don't give many questions in grammar;
that's a good job."

"Question 2.  History.  Whose daughter was Stephen the Second, and why
was he nicknamed the `Green?'"

Stephen laughed.  He had found out a mistake in his examiners.
"`Daughter,' the paper said, should be `son' of course.  Funny for Dr
Senior to make such a slip," thought he.

"Question 3.  History and Geography.  Who built England? and state the
latitude and longitude of Saint Dominic's, and the boundaries of Gusset
Weir."

"_However_ am I to know?" murmured Stephen, in despair.  "I was never
here before in my life.  Oh, dear, I shall _never_ pass!"

"Question 4.  Compound Theology.  Give a sketch of the rise and history
of the Dominicans from the time of Herod the Conqueror to the death of
Titmus."

"Whew!" was Stephen's despairing ejaculation.  "I never heard of Titmus;
it sounds like a Latin name."

"Question 5.  Pure Theology.  Who was Mr Finis?  Give a list of the
works bearing his signature, with a short abstract of their contents.
What is he particularly celebrated for?"

"Mr Finis?" groaned Stephen.  "How can they expect a boy like me to
know who he was?  And yet I seem to know the name.  Oh dear me!"

"Question 6, and last but one," ("That's a comfort," sighed Stephen).
"Mathematics.  What is a minus?  Describe its shape, and say how many
are left when the whole is divided by seven.  Reduce your answer to
vulgar decimals."

"I'm certain I can never do that.  Minus?  Minus?  I know the name, too.
But here's the last."

"Question 7.  Miscellaneous.  Give a brief history of your own life from
the earliest times, being particular to state your vicious deeds in
chronological order."

Stephen sighed a sigh of relief.  "I can answer that, after a fashion,"
he said; "but I can't even then be sure of all the dates.  As for the
others--" and he dashed the paper down on the table with an air of
bewildered despair.

"What am I to do?  They are all too hard for me.  Oh!  I wish I might
just show them to Oliver.  If I was only at home, mother could help me.
Oh, dear!  I wish I had never come here!"

And he gave himself over to the extreme of misery, and sat staring at
the wall until the twelve bell rang, and Oliver and Wraysford broke in
on his solitude.

"Hullo, young 'un; in the dumps?  Never mind; you'll be used to it in a
day or two, won't he, Wray?"

"Of course you will," said Wraysford, cheerily; "it's hard lines at
first.  Keep your pecker up, young 'un."

The young 'un, despite this friendly advice, felt very far from keeping
up his pecker.  But he did his best, and worked his face into a
melancholy sort of a smile.

"Fish us my spike shoes out of that cupboard, Stee, there's a good
fellow," said Oliver, "and come along to the cricket-field.  There's a
big practice on this afternoon."

Stephen hesitated.

"I've got to do my exam before ten to-morrow.  Some one brought me up
the paper and said so.  Perhaps I'd better stop here and do it?"

"I thought you weren't to be had up till the Doctor came back.  Who
brought you the paper?  I suppose it was Jellicott, the second master?"

"I suppose so," said Stephen, who had never heard of Mr Jellicott in
his life before.

"Let's have a look at it," said the elder brother.

"I promised I wouldn't."

"Oh, all serene; I only wanted to see the questions.  It's a new dodge
giving papers, isn't it, Wray?  We were examined _viva voce_ in the
Doctor's study.  Well, come on, old man, or we shall be late.  You'll
have lots of time for that this evening."

And off they went, the wretched Stephen wrestling mentally with his
problems all the while.

Of course, profound reader, you have made the brilliant discovery by
this time that Master Stephen Greenfield was a very green boy.  So were
you and I at his age; and so, after all, we are now.  For the more we
think we know, the greener we shall find we are; that's a fact!



CHAPTER FOUR.

FAGGING.

There is a queer elasticity about boys which no one, least of all
themselves, can account for.  A quarter of an hour after the big
practice had begun Stephen had forgotten all about his examination, and
could think of nothing but cricket.

As he sat cross-legged on the grass among half a dozen youngsters like
himself, he even began to forget that he was a new boy, and was
surprised to find himself holding familiar converse with one and another
of his companions.

"Well bowled, sir!" shouted Master Paul, as a very swift ball from
Ricketts took Bullinger's middle stump clean out of the
ground--"rattling well bowled!  I say," he added, turning round; "if
Ricketts bowls like that to-day week, the others will be nowhere."

"Oh," said Stephen, to whom this remark seemed to be addressed.

Master Paul looked sharply round.

"Hullo, young 'un, is that you?  Jolly good play, isn't it?  Who are you
for, A or Z?"

"What do you mean?"

"Mean?  Do you back the A's or the Z's? that's what I mean.  Oh, I
suppose you don't twig, though.  A to M, you know, against N to Z."

"Oh," said Stephen, "I back the A to M's, of course; my brother is in
that half."

"So he is--isn't that him going in now?  Yes; you see if Ricketts
doesn't get him out in the first over!"

Stephen watched most eagerly and anxiously.  They were not playing a
regular game, only standing up to be bowled at in front of the nets, or
fielding at fixed places; but each ball, and each hit, and each piece of
fielding, was watched and applauded as if a victory depended on it, for
out of those playing to-day the two elevens for the Alphabet match were
to be chosen; and out of those two elevens, as every one knew, the
School eleven, which would play the County in June, was to be selected.
Oliver, despite Paul's prophecy, stood out several overs of Rickett's,
and Loman's, and the school captain's, one after the other, cutting some
of their balls very hard, and keeping a very steady guard over his
wicket.  At last a ball of Loman's got past him and snicked off his
bails.

Stephen looked inquiringly round at Paul, and then at the small knot of
Sixth fellows who were making notes of each candidate's play.

"He's all right," said Paul; "I guess Raleigh," (that was the school
captain) "didn't fancy his balls being licked about like that.  Never
mind--there goes Braddy in."

And so the practice went on, each candidate for the honour of a place in
the eleven submitting to the ordeal, and being applauded or despised
according as he acquitted himself.  Wraysford, of course, came out of
the trial well, as he always did.

"I declare, the Fifth could lick the Sixth this year, Tom," said Pembury
to Tom Senior, as they sat together looking on.

"I'm sure they could; I hope we challenge them."

Just then a Sixth Form fellow strolled up to where the speakers were
standing.

"I say, Loman," said Pembury, "we were just saying our men could lick
yours all to fits.  Don't you think so yourself?"

"Can't say I do; but you are such a wonderful lot of heroes, you Fifth,
that there's no saying what you couldn't do if you tried," replied
Loman, with a sneer.

"But you take such precious good care we shall not try, that's just it,"
said Pembury, winking at his companion.  "Never mind, we'll astonish you
some day," growled the editor of the _Dominican_ as he hobbled away.

Loman strolled up to where the small boys were sitting.

"Which of you is young Greenfield?" he said.

"I am," said Stephen, promptly.

"Run with this letter to the post, then, and bring me back some stamps
while you are there, and get tea ready for two in my study by half-past
six--do you hear?"

And off he went, leaving Stephen gaping at the letter in his hand, and
quite bewildered as to the orders about tea.

Master Paul enjoyed his perplexity.

"I suppose you thought you were going to get off fagging.  I say, you'll
have to take that letter sharp, or you'll be late."

"Where's the post-office?"

"About a mile down Maltby Road.  Look here, as you are going there, get
me a pound of raisins, will you?--there's a good chap.  We'll square up
to-night."

Stephen got up and started on his errands in great disgust.

He didn't see why he was to be ordered about and sent jobs for the other
boys, just at a time, too, when he was enjoying himself.  However, it
couldn't be helped.

Three or four fellows stopped him as he walked with the letter in his
hand to the gates.

"Oh, are you going to the post?  Look here, young 'un, just call in at
Splicer's about my bat, will you? thanks awfully!" said one.

Another wanted him to buy a sixpenny novel at the library; a third
commissioned him to invest threepence in "mixed sweets, chiefly
peppermint;" and a fourth to call at Grounding, the naturalist's, with a
dead white mouse which the owner wanted stuffed.

After this, Stephen--already becoming a little more knowing--stuffed the
letter in his pocket, and took care, if ever he passed any one, not to
look as if he was going anywhere, for fear of being entrusted with a
further mission.

He discharged all his errands to the best of his ability, including that
relating to the dead mouse, which he had great difficulty in rescuing
from the clutches of a hungry dog on the way down, and then returned
with Paul's raisins in one pocket, the mixed sweets in another, the book
in another, and the other boy's bat over his shoulder.

Paul was awaiting him at the gate of Saint Dominic's.

"Got them?" he shouted out, when Stephen was still twenty yards off.

Stephen nodded.

"How much?" inquired Paul.

"Eighteenpence."

"You duffer!  I didn't mean them--pudding raisins I meant, about
sixpence.  I say, you'd better take them back, hadn't you?"

This was gratitude!  "I can't now," said Stephen.

"I've got to get somebody's tea ready--I say, where's his study?"

"Whose?  Loman's?  Oh, it's about the eighth on the right in the third
passage; next to the one with the kicks on it.  What a young muff you
are to get this kind of raisin!  I say, you'd have plenty of time to
change them."

"I really wouldn't," said Stephen, hurrying off, and perhaps guessing
that before he met Mr Paul again the raisins would be past changing.

The boy to whom belonged the mixed sweets was no more grateful than Paul
had been.

"You've chosen the very ones I hate," he said, surveying the selection
with a look of disgust.

"You said peppermint," said Stephen.

"But I didn't say green, beastly things!" grumbled the other.  "Here,
you can have one of them, it's sure to make you sick!"

Stephen said "Thank you," and went off to deliver up the bat.

"What a time you've been!" was all the thanks he got in that quarter.
"Why couldn't you come straight back with it?"

This was gratifying.  Stephen was learning at least one lesson that
afternoon--that a fag, if he ever expects to be thanked for anything he
does, is greatly mistaken.  He went off in a highly injured frame of
mind to Loman's study.

Master Paul's directions might have been more explicit--"The eighth door
on the right; next to the one with the kicks."  Now, as it happened, the
door with the kicks on it was itself the eighth door on the right, with
a study on either side of it, and which of these two was Loman's Stephen
could not by the unaided light of nature determine.  He peeped into
Number 7; it was empty.

"Perhaps he's cut his name on the door," thought Stephen.

He might have done so, but as there were about fifty different letters
cut on the door, he was not much wiser for that.

"I'd better look and see if his name is on his collars," Stephen next
reflected, remembering with what care his mother had marked his own
linen.

He opened a drawer; it was full of jam-pots.  At that moment the door
opened behind him, and the next thing Stephen was conscious of was that
he was half-stunned with a terrific box on the ears.

"Take that, you young thief!" said the indignant owner of the study;
"I'll teach you to stick your finger in my jam.  What do you mean by
it?" and a cuff served as a comma between each sentence.

"I really didn't--I only wanted--I was looking for--"

"That'll do; don't tell lies as well as steal; get away."

"I never stole anything!" began Stephen, whose confusion was being
rapidly followed by indignation at this unjust suspicion.

"That'll do.  A little boy like you shouldn't practise cheating.  Off
you go!  If I catch you again I'll take you to the Doctor."

In vain Stephen, now utterly indignant, and burning with a sense of
injustice, protested his innocence.  He could not get a hearing, and
presently found himself out in the passage, the most miserable boy in
all Saint Dominic's.

He wandered disconsolately along the corridor, trying hard to keep down
his tears, and determined to beg and beseech his brother to let him
return home that very evening, when Loman and a friend confronted him.

"Hullo, I say, is tea ready?" demanded the former.

"No," said Stephen, half choking.

"Why ever not, when I told you?"

Stephen looked at him, and tried to speak, and then finally burst into
tears.

"Here's an oddity for you!  Why, what's the row, youngster?"

"Nothing," stammered Stephen.

"That's a queer thing to howl at.  If you were weeping because you
hadn't made my tea, I could understand it.  Come along, I'll show you
how to do it this time, young greenhorn."

Stephen accompanied him mechanically, and was ushered into the study on
the other side of the door with the kicks to that in which he had been
so grievously wronged.

He watched Loman prepare the meal, and was then allowed to depart, with
orders to be in the way, in case he should be wanted.

Poor Stephen!  Things were going from bad to worse, and life was already
a burden to him.  And besides--that exam paper!  It now suddenly dawned
upon him.  Here it was nearly seven o'clock, and by ten to-morrow he was
to deliver it up to Dr Senior!

How _ever_ was he to get through it?  He darted off to Oliver's study.
It was empty, and he sat down, and drawing out the paper, made a dash at
the first question.

The answer _wouldn't_ come!  Parse "Oh, ah!"

"Oh" is an interjection agreeing with "ah."

"Ah" is an interjection agreeing with "oh."  It wouldn't do.  He must
try again.

"Why," cried the voice of Wraysford, half an hour later, "here's a
picture of industry for you, Greenfield.  That young brother of yours is
beginning well!"

Stephen hurriedly caught up his papers for fear any one should catch a
glimpse of the hopeless attempts at answers which he had written.  He
was greatly tempted to ask Oliver about "Mr Finis," only he had
promised not to get any help.

"Let's have a look at the questions," again demanded Oliver, but at that
moment Loman's voice sounded down the passage.

"Greenfield junior, where are you?"

Stephen, quite glad of this excuse for again refusing to show that
wretched paper, jumped up, and saying, "There's Loman wants his tea
cleared away," vanished out of the room.

Poor Stephen!  There was little chance of another turn at his paper that
night.  By the time Loman's wants had been attended to, and his
directions for future fagging delivered, the prayer-bell rang, and for
the half-hour following prayers the new boy was hauled away by Master
Paul into the land of the Guinea-pigs, there to make the acquaintance of
some of his future class-fellows, and to take part in a monster
indignation meeting against the monitors for forbidding single wicket
cricket in the passage, with a door for the wicket, an old inkpot for
the ball, and a ruler for the bat.  Stephen quite boiled with rage to
hear of this act of tyranny, and vowed vengeance along with all the rest
twenty times over, and almost became reconciled with his enemy of the
morning (but not quite) in the sympathy of emotion which this
demonstration evoked.

Then, just as the memory of that awful paper rushed back into his mind,
and he was meditating sneaking off to his brother's study, the first
bed-bell sounded.

"Come on," said Paul, "or they'll bag our blankets."

Stephen, wondering, and shivering at the bare idea, raced along the
passage and up the staircase with his youthful ally to the dormitory.
There they found they had been anticipated by the blanket-snatchers; and
as they entered, one of these, the hero of the inky head, was
deliberately abstracting one of those articles of comfort from Stephen's
own bed.

"There's young Bramble got your blanket, Greenfield," cried Paul, "pitch
into him!"

Stephen, nothing loth, marched up to Master Bramble and demanded his
blanket.  A general engagement ensued, some of the inhabitants of the
dormitory siding with Stephen, and some with Bramble, until it seemed as
if the coveted blanket would have parted in twain.  In the midst of the
confusion a sentry at the door suddenly put his head in and shouted
"Nix!"  The signal had a magical effect on all but the uninitiated
Stephen, who, profiting by his adversaries' surprise, made one desperate
tug at his blanket, which he triumphantly rescued.

"Look sharp," said Paul, "here comes Rastle."  Mr Rastle was the small
boys' tutor and governor.  Stephen took the hint, and was very soon
curled up, with his brave blanket round him, in bed, where, despite the
despairing thought of his paper, the cruel injustice of the owner of the
jam-pots, and the general hardness of his lot, he could not help feeling
he was a good deal more at home at Saint Dominic's than he had ever yet
found himself.

Of one thing he was determined.  He would be up at six next morning, and
make one last desperate dash at his exam paper.



CHAPTER FIVE.

SHAKING DOWN TO WORK.

"Master Greenfield, junior, is to go to the head master's study at
half-past nine," called out Mr Roach, the school porter, putting his
head into the dormitory, at seven o'clock next morning.

Stephen had been up an hour, making fearful and wonderful shots of
answers to his awful questions, half of which he had already ticked off
as done for better or worse.  "If I write _something_ down to each,"
thought he to himself, "I might happen to get one thing right; it'll be
better than putting down no answer at all."

"Half-past nine!" said he to Paul, on hearing this announcement; "_ten_
was the time I was told."

"Who told you?"

"The gentleman who gave me my paper."

"What paper? you don't have papers.  It's _viva voce_."

"I've got a paper, anyhow," said Stephen, "and a precious hard one, too,
and I've only half done it."

"Well, you'll have to go at half-past nine, or you'll catch it," said
Paul.  "I say, there's Loman calling you."

Stephen, who, since the indignation meeting last night, had felt himself
grow very rebellious against the monitors, did not choose to hear the
call in question, and tried his hardest to make another shot at his
paper.  But he could not keep deaf when Loman himself opened the door,
and pulling his ear inquired what he meant by not coming when he was
told?  The new boy then had to submit, and sulkily followed his lord to
his study, there to toast some bread at a smoky fire, and look for about
half an hour for a stud that Loman said had rolled under the chest of
drawers, but which really had fallen into one of that gentleman's boots.

By the time these labours were over, and Stephen had secured a mouthful
of breakfast in his brother's study, it was time to go down to prayers;
and after prayers he had but just time to wonder what excuse he should
make for only answering half his questions, when the clock pointed to
the half-hour, and he had to scuttle off as hard as he could to the
Doctor's study.

Dr Senior was a tall, bald man, with small, sharp eyes, and with a
face as solemn as an owl's.  He looked up as Stephen entered.

"Come in, my man.  Let me see; Greenfield?  Oh, yes.  You got here on
Tuesday.  How old are you?"

"Nearly eleven, sir," said Stephen, with the paper burning in his
pocket.

"Just so; and I dare say your brother has shown you over the school, and
helped to make you feel at home.  Now suppose we just run through what
you have learned at home."

Now was the time.  With a sigh as deep as the pocket from which he
pulled it, Stephen produced that miserable paper.

"I'm very sorry, sir," he began, "I've not had time--"

"Tut, tut!" said the Doctor; "put that away, and let us get on."

Stephen stared.  "It's the paper you gave me!" he said.

The Doctor frowned.  "I hope you are not a silly boy," he said, rather
crossly.

"I'm afraid they are all wrong," said Stephen; "the questions were--
were--rather hard."

"What questions?" exclaimed the Doctor, a trifle impatient, and a trifle
puzzled.

"These you sent me," said Stephen, humbly handing in the paper.

"Hum! some mistake; let's see, perhaps Jellicott--ah!" and he put on his
glasses and unfolded the paper.

"Question 1.  Grammar!" and then a cloud of amazement fell over the
Doctor's face.  He looked sharply out from under his spectacles at
Stephen, who stood anxiously and nervously before him.  Then he glanced
again at the paper, and his mouth twitched now and then as he read the
string of questions, and the boy's desperate attempts to answer them.

"Humph!" he said, when the operation was over, "I'm afraid, Greenfield,
you are not a very clever boy--"

"I know I'm not, sir," said Stephen, quite relieved that the Doctor did
not at once order him to quit Saint Dominic's.

"Or you would have seen that this paper was a practical joke."  Then it
burst all of a sudden on Stephen.  And all this about "Mr Finis", "Oh,
ah," and the rest of it had been a cruel hoax, and no more!

"Come, now, let us waste no more time.  I'm not surprised," said the
Doctor, suppressing a smile by a very hard twitch; "I'm not surprised
you found these questions hard.  How far have you got in arithmetic?"

And then the Doctor launched Stephen into a _viva voce_ examination, in
which that young prodigy of learning acquitted himself far more
favourably than could have been imagined, and at the end of which he
heard that he would be placed in the fourth junior class, where it would
be his duty to strain every nerve to advance, and make the best use of
his time at Saint Dominic's.  Then the Doctor rang his bell.

"Tell Mr Rastle kindly to step here," said he to the porter.

Mr Rastle appeared, and to his charge, after solemnly shaking hands and
promising to be a paragon of industry and good conduct, Stephen was
consigned by the head master.

"By the way," said the Doctor, as Stephen was leaving, "will you tell
the boy who gave you this paper I wish to see him?"

Stephen, who had been too much elated by the result of the real
examination to recollect for the moment the trickery of the sham one,
now blushed very red as he remembered what a goose he had been, and
undertook to obey the Doctor's order.  And this it was very easy to do.
For as he opened the study-door he saw Pembury just outside, leaning
against the wall with his eyes on the clock as it struck ten.

As he caught sight of Stephen emerging from the head master's study, his
countenance fell, and he said eagerly and half-anxiously, "Didn't I tell
you ten o'clock, Greenfield?"

"Yes, but the Doctor said half-past nine.  And you are a cad to make a
fool of me," added Stephen, rising with indignation, "and--and--and--"
and here he choked.

"Calm yourself, my young friend," said Pembury.  "It's such a hard thing
to make a fool of you that, you know, and--and--and--!"

"I shall not speak to you," stammered Stephen.

"Oh, don't apologise," laughed Pembury.  "Perhaps it would comfort you
to kick me.  Please choose my right leg, as the other is off the ground,
eh?"

"The Doctor wants to speak to you, he says," said Stephen.

Pembury's face fell again.  "Do you mean to say he saw the paper, and
you told him?" he said, angrily.

"I showed him the paper, because I thought he had sent it; but I didn't
tell him who gave it to me."

"Then why does he want me?"

"He wants the boy who gave me the paper, that's all he said," answered
Stephen, walking off sulkily to his quarters, and leaving Anthony to
receive the rebukes of Dr Senior, and make his apologies for his evil
deeds as best he could.

The offence after all was not a very terrible one, and Pembury got off
with a mild reprimand on the evils of practical joking, at the end of
which he found himself in his usual amiable frame of mind, and
harbouring no malice against his innocent victim.

"Greenfield," said he, when shortly afterwards he met Oliver, "I owe
your young brother an apology."

"What on earth for?"

"I set him an examination paper to answer, which I'm afraid caused him
some labour.  Never mind, it was all for the best."

"What, did that paper he was groaning over come from you?  What a shame,
Tony, to take advantage of a little beggar like him!"

"I'm awfully sorry, tell him; but I say, Greenfield, it'll make a
splendid paragraph for the _Dominican_.  By the way, are you going to
let me have that poem you promised on the Guinea-pigs?"

"I can't get on with it at all," said Oliver.  "I'm stuck for a rhyme in
the second line."

"Oh, stick down anything.  How does it begin?"

  "`Oh, dwellers in the land of dim perpetual,'"

began Oliver.

"Very good; let's see; how would this do?--

  "`I hate the day when first I met you all,
  And this I undertake to bet you all,
  One day I'll into trouble get you all,
  And down the playground steps upset you all,
  And with a garden hose I'll wet you all,
  And then--'"

"Oh, look here," said Oliver, "that'll do.  You may as well finish the
thing right out at that rate."

"Not at all, my dear fellow.  It was just a sudden inspiration, you
know.  Don't mention it, and you may like to get off that rhyme into
another.  But I say, Greenfield, we shall have a stunning paper for the
first one.  Tom Senior has written no end of a report of the last
meeting of the Sixth Form Debating Society, quite in the parliamentary
style; and Bullinger is writing a history of Saint Dominic's, `gathered
from the earliest sources,' as he says, in which he's taking off most of
the Sixth.  Simon is writing a love-ballad, which is sure to be fun; and
Ricketts is writing a review of Liddell and Scott's _Lexicon_; and
Wraysford is engaged on `The Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.'"

"Good!" said Oliver, "and what are _you_ writing?"

"Oh, the leading article, you know, and the personal notes, and `Squeaks
from Guineapigland and Tadpoleopolis,' and some of the advertisements.
Come up to my study, you and Wray, this evening after prayers, I say,
and we'll go through it."

And off hobbled the editor of the _Dominican_, leaving Oliver greatly
impressed with his literary talents, especially in the matter of finding
rhymes for "perpetual."

By the time he and Wraysford went in the evening to read over what had
been sent in, the poem on the Guinea-pigs was complete.

They found Pembury busy over a huge sheet of paper, the size of his
table.

"What on earth have you got there?" cried Wraysford.

"The _Dominican_, to be sure," said Anthony, gravely.

"Nonsense! you are not going to get it out in that shape?"

"I am, though.  Look here, you fellows," said Anthony, "I'll show you
the dodge of the thing.  The different articles will either be copied or
pasted into this big sheet.  You see each of these columns is just the
width of a sheet of school paper.  Well, here's a margin all round--do
you twig?--so that when the whole thing's made up it'll be ready for
framing."

"Framing!" exclaimed Greenfield and his friend.

"To be sure.  I'm getting a big frame, with glass, made for it, with the
title of the paper in big letters painted on the wood.  So the way we
shall publish it will be to hang it outside our class-room, and then
every one can come and read it who likes--much better than passing it
round to one fellow at a time."

"Upon my word, Tony, it's a capital notion," exclaimed Wraysford,
clapping the lame boy on the back; "it does you credit, my boy."

"Don't mention it," said Tony; "and don't whack me like that again, or
I'll refuse to insert your `Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.'"

"But, I say," said Greenfield, "are you sure they'll allow it to hang
out there?  It may get knocked about."

"I dare say we may have a row with the monitors about it; but we must
square them somehow.  We shall have to keep a fag posted beside it,
though, to protect it."

"And to say `Move on!' like the policemen," added Wraysford.  "Well,
it's evident you don't want any help, Tony, so I'll go."

"Good-bye; don't ask me to your study for supper, please."

"I'm awfully sorry, I promised Bullinger.  I know he has a dozen
sausages in his cupboard.  Come along there.  Are you coming,
Greenfield?"

And the worthy friends separated for a season.

Meanwhile, Stephen had made his _debut_ in the Fourth Junior.  He was
put to sit at the bottom desk of the class, which happened to be next to
the desk owned by Master Bramble, the inky-headed blanket-snatcher.
This young gentleman, bearing in mind his double humiliation, seemed by
no means gratified to find who his new neighbour was.

"Horrid young blub-baby!" was his affectionate greeting, "I don't want
you next to me."

"I can't help it," said Stephen.  "I was put here."

"Oh, yes, because you're such an ignorant young sneak; that's why."

"I suppose that's why you were at the bottom before I came--oh!"

The last exclamation was uttered aloud, being evoked by a dig from the
amiable Master Bramble's inky pen into Stephen's leg.

"Who was that?" said Mr Rastle, looking up from his desk.

"Now then," whispered Bramble, "sneak away--tell tales, and get me into
a row--I'll pay you!"

Stephen, feeling himself called upon, stood up.

"It was me," he said.

"It was I, would be better grammar," said Mr Rastle, quietly.

Mr Rastle was a ruddy young man, with a very good-humoured face, and a
sly smile constantly playing at the corners of his mouth.  He no doubt
guessed the cause of the disturbance, for he asked, "Was any one
pinching you?"

"Go it," growled Bramble, in a savage whisper.  "Say it was me, you
sneak."

Stephen said, No, no one had pinched him; but finished up his sentence
with another "Oh!" as the gentle Bramble gave him a sharp side-kick on
the ankle as he stood.

Mr Rastle's face darkened as he perceived this last piece of by-play.

"Bramble," said he, "oblige me by standing on the form for half an hour.
I should be sorry to think you were as objectionable as your name
implies.  Sit down, Greenfield."

And then the class resumed, with Master Bramble perched like a statue of
the sulky deity on his form, muttering threats against Greenfield all
the while, and the most scathing denunciations against all who might be
even remotely connected with big brothers, and mammies, and blub-babies.

Stephen, who was beginning to feel himself much more at home at Saint
Dominic's, betrayed no visible terror at these menaces, and only once
took any notice of his exalted enemy, when the latter attempted not only
to stand on the form, but upon a tail of Stephen's jacket, and a bit of
the flesh of his leg at the same time.  Then he gave the offending foot
a knock with his fist and an admonitory push.

"Please, sir," squeaked the lordly Bramble, "Greenfield junior is trying
to knock me over."

"I was not," shouted Stephen; "he was squashing me with his foot, and I
moved it away."

"Really, Bramble," said Mr Rastle, "you are either very unfortunate or
very badly behaved.  Come and stand on this empty form beside my desk.
There will be no danger here of `squashing' any one's leg or of being
knocked over.  Come at once."

So Mr Bramble took no advantage by his last motion, and served the rest
of his term of penal servitude, in the face of the entire class, under
the immediate eye of Mr Rastle.

Directly class was over, Stephen had to go and wait upon Loman for a
particular purpose, which the reader must hear of in due time.



CHAPTER SIX.

MR CRIPPS THE YOUNGER.

Loman was a comparatively new boy at Saint Dominic's.  He had entered
eighteen months ago, in the Fifth Form, having come direct from another
school.  He was what many persons would call an agreeable boy, although
for some reason or other he was never very popular.  What that something
was, no one could exactly define.  He was clever, and good-tempered, and
inoffensive.  He rarely quarrelled or interfered with any one, and he
had been known to do more than one good-natured act.  But whether it was
that he was conceited, or selfish, or not quite straight, or a little
bit of all three, he never made any very great friends at Saint
Dominic's, and since he had got into the Sixth and been made a monitor,
he had quite lost the favour of his old comrades in the Fifth.

As far as Wraysford and Greenfield were concerned, this absence of
goodwill had ripened into something like soreness, by the way in which
Loman had made use of his own position as a monitor, on a casual
reference by Oliver to the probable coming of Stephen to Saint
Dominic's, to secure that young gentleman as his fag, although he quite
well knew that Wraysford was counting on having him.  Though of course
the captain's word was final, the two friends felt that they had not
been quite fairly dealt with in the matter.  They took no trouble to
conceal what they thought from Loman himself, who seemed to derive
considerable satisfaction from the fact, and to determine to keep his
hand on the new boy quite as much for the sake of "scoring off" his
rivals as on the fag's own account.

Loman, Wraysford, and Greenfield _were_ rivals in more matters than one.
They were all three candidates for a place in the school eleven, and
all three candidates for the Nightingale Scholarship next autumn; and
besides this, they each of them aspired to control the Junior
Dominicans; and it was a sore mortification to Loman to find that,
though a monitor, his influence among the small fry was by no means as
great as that of the two Fifth Form boys, who were notoriously popular,
and thought much of by their juniors.

For these and other reasons, the relations between the two friends and
Loman were at the present time a little "strained."

To Stephen, however, Loman was all civility.  He helped him in his
lessons, and gave him the reversion of his feasts, and exercised his
monitorial authority against Master Bramble in a way that quite charmed
the new boy, and made him consider himself fortunate to have fallen into
the hands of so considerate a lord.

When he entered Loman's study after his first morning's work in class,
he found that youth in a highly amiable frame of mind, and delighted to
see him.

"Hullo, Greenfield!" he said; "how are you? and how are you getting on?
I hear you are in the Fourth Junior; all among the Guinea-pigs and
Tadpoles, eh?  Which do you belong to?"

"I don't know," said Stephen; "they are going to draw lots for me
to-morrow."

"That's a nice way of being elected!  I say, have you any classes this
afternoon?"

"No; Mr Rastle has given us a half-holiday."

"That's just the thing.  I'm going to scull up the river a bit after
dinner, and if you'd like you can come and steer for me."

Stephen was delighted.  Of all things he liked boating.  They lived near
a river at home, he said, and he always used to steer for Oliver there.

So, as soon as dinner was over, the two went down to the boathouse and
embarked.

"Which way shall you row?" asked Stephen, as he made himself comfortable
in the stern of the boat, and took charge of the rudder-lines.

"Oh, up stream.  Keep close in to the bank, out of the current."

It was a beautiful afternoon, and Loman paddled lazily and luxuriously
up, giving ample time to Stephen, if so inclined, to admire the wooded
banks and picturesque windings of the Shar.  Gusset Lock was reached in
due time, and here Loman suggested that Stephen should get out and go
round and look at the weir, while he went on and took the boat through.
Stephen acceded and landed, and Loman paddled on to the lock.

"Hello, maister," called down a feeble old voice, as he got up to the
gate.

"Hullo, Jeff, is Cripps about?" replied Loman.

"Yas; he be inside or somewheres, maister," replied the old lock-keeper.

"All right! take the boat up; I want to see Cripps."

Cripps was the son of the old man whom Loman had addressed as Jeff.  He
was not exactly a gentleman, for he kept the Cockchafer public-house at
Maltby, and often served behind the bar in his own person.  Neither was
he altogether a reputable person, for he frequently helped himself to an
overdose of his own beverages, besides being a sharp hand at billiards,
and possessing several packs of cards with extra aces in them.  Neither
was he a particularly refined personage, for his choice of words was
often more expressive than romantic, and his ordinary conversation was
frequently the reverse of edifying; it mainly had to do with details of
the stable or the card-room, and the anecdotes with which he enlivened
it were often "broader than they were long," to put it mildly.  In
short, Cripps was a blackguard by practice, whatever he was by
profession.  He had, however, one redeeming virtue; he was very partial
to young gentlemen, and would go a good bit out of his way to meet one.
He always managed to know of something that young gentlemen had a fancy
for.  He could put them into the way of getting a thoroughbred bull-dog
dirt-cheap; he could put them up to all the tips at billiards and "Nap,"
and he could make up a book for them on the Derby or any other race,
that was bound to win.  And he did it all in such a pleasant, frank way
that the young gentlemen quite fell in love with him, and entrusted
their cash to him with as much confidence as if he were the Bank of
England.

Of all the young gentlemen whose privilege it had been to make the
acquaintance of Mr Cripps--and there were a good many--he professed the
greatest esteem and admiration for Loman, of Saint Dominic's school, to
whom he had been only recently introduced.  The two had met at the
lock-keeper's house a week ago, when Loman was detained there an hour or
two by stress of weather, and, getting into conversation, as gentlemen
naturally would, Loman chanced to mention that he wanted to come across
a really good fishing-rod.

By a most curious coincidence, Mr Cripps had only the other day been
asked by a particular friend of his, who was removing from the country
to London--"where," said Mr Cripps, "there ain't over much use for a
rod,"--if he knew of any one in want of a really good fishing-rod.  It
was none of your ordinary ones, made out of green wood with pewter
joints, but a regular first-class article, and would do for trout or
perch or jack, or any mortal fish you could think of.  Cripps had seen
it, and flattered himself he knew something about rods, but had never
seen one to beat this.  Reel and all, too, and a book of flies into the
bargain, if he liked.  He had been strongly tempted to get it for
himself--it seemed a downright sin to let such a beauty go--and would
have it if he had not already got a rod, but of a far inferior sort, of
his own.  And he believed his friend would part with it cheap.

"I tell you what, young gentleman," said he, "I'll bring it up with me
next time I come, and you shall have a look at it.  Of course, you can
take it or not, as you like, but if my advice is worth anything--well,
never mind, I suppose you are sure to be up stream in the course of the
next week or so."

"Oh, yes," said Loman, who in the presence of this universal genius was
quite deferential; "when can you bring it?"

"Well, my time ain't so very valuable, and I'd like to oblige you over
this little affair.  Suppose we say to-day week.  I'll have the rod
here, and you can try him."

"Thank you--have you--that is--about what--"

"You mean, about what figure will he want for it?  Well, I don't know
exactly.  They run so very various, do good rods.  You could get what
they call a rod for ten bob, I dare say.  But _you_ wouldn't hardly
fancy that style of thing."

"Oh no; if it was a really good one," said Loman, "I wouldn't mind
giving a good price.  I don't want a rotten one."

"That's just it.  This one I'm telling you of is as sound as a bell, and
as strong as iron.  And _you_ know, as well as I do, these things are
always all the better after a little use.  My friend has only used this
twice.  But I'll find out about the price, and drop you a line, you
know.  May be 2 pounds or 3 pounds, or so."

"I suppose that's about what a really good rod ought to cost?" said
Loman, who liked to appear to know what was what, but secretly rather
taken aback by this estimate.

"So it is.  It's just a guess of mine though; but I know for _me_ he'll
put it as low as he can."

"I'm sure I shall be very much obliged to you," said Loman, "if you can
manage it for me."

"Not at all, young gentleman.  I always like to oblige where I can;
besides, you would do as much for me, I'll wager.  Well, good-day, Mr--
what's your name?"

"Loman--at Saint Dominic's.  You'll send me a line, then about the
price?"

"Yes, sir.  Good-day, sir."

But Mr Cripps had forgotten to send the line, and to-day, when Loman,
according to arrangement, came up to the lock-keeper's to receive the
rod, the keeper of the Cockchafer was most profuse in his apologies.  He
was most sorry, but his friend had been ill and not able to attend to
business.  He had been a _trifle_ afraid from what he heard that he was
not quite as anxious to part with that rod as formerly.  But Cripps had
gone over on purpose and seen him, and got his promise that he should
have it to-morrow certain, and if Mr Loman would call or send up, it
should be ready for him, without fail.

At this stage, Stephen, having explored the weir, rejoined his
schoolfellow, and the two, after partaking of a bottle of ginger-beer at
Mr Cripps's urgent request, returned with the stream to Saint
Dominic's.

The result of this delay was to make Loman doubly anxious to secure this
famous fishing-rod, on which his heart was set.  Next day, however, he
had classes all the afternoon, and could not go himself.  He therefore
determined to send Stephen.

"I want you to run up to Gusset Weir," said he to his fag, "to fetch me
a rod the keeper's son is getting for me.  Be quick back, will you? and
ask him what the price is."

So off Stephen trotted, as soon as school was over, in spite of the
counter attraction of a Guinea-pig cricket match.  When he reached the
lock, Cripps had not arrived.

"He warn't be long, young maister," said old Jeff, who was one of the
snivelling order.  "Take a seat, do 'ee.  Nice to be a young gemm'un, I
says--us poor coves as works wery 'ard, we'd like to be young gemm'un
too, with lots o' money, and all so comfortable off.  Why, young
maister, you don't know now what it is to be in want of a shillun.  I
do!"

Stephen promptly pulled out one of his five shillings of pocket-money in
answer to this appeal, and felt rather ashamed to appear "comfortable
off" in the presence of this patriarch.

"Not that I complains o' my lot, young gemm'un," continued old Cripps,
pulling his forelock with one hand and pocketing the shilling with the
other.  "No, I says, the honest working man don't do no good
a-grumblin', but when he's got his famerly to feed," [old Cripps was a
widower, and his family consisted of the landlord of the Cockchafer],
"and on'y this here shillin' to do it with--"

Stephen was _very_ green.  He almost cried at the sight of this
destitute, tottering, honest old man, and before the latter could get
farther in his lament another shilling was in his palsied old hand, and
the grey old forelock was enduring another tug.

It was well for Stephen that Mr Cripps junior turned up at this
juncture, or the entire five shillings might have made its way into the
old man's pouch.

Mr Cripps junior had the rod.  He had had a rare job, he said, to get
it, for his friend had only yesterday had an offer of 3 pounds 15
shillings, and was all but taking it.  However, here it was, and for
only 3 pounds 10 shillings tell Mr Loman; such a bargain as he wouldn't
often make in his life, and he could get him the fly-book for a
sovereign if he liked.  And Mr Cripps would charge him nothing for his
trouble.

After this Mr Cripps junior and the boy got quite friendly.  The former
was greatly interested in hearing about Saint Dominic's, especially when
he understood Stephen was a new boy.  Cripps could remember the day when
_he_ was a new boy, and had to fight three boys in three hours the first
afternoon.  He was awfully fond of cricket when he was a boy.  Was
Stephen?

"Oh, yes," said Stephen; "I like it more than anything."

"Ah, you should have seen the way we played.  Bless me!  I'd a bat, my
boy, that could tip the balls clean over the school-house.  You've got a
bat, of course, or else--"

"No, I haven't," said Stephen.  "I shall get one as soon as I can."

"Well, that _is_ lucky!  Look here, young gentleman," continued Cripps
confidentially; "I've taken a fancy to you.  It's best to be plain and
speak out.  I've taken a fancy to you, and you shall have that bat.
It's just your size, and the finest bit of willow you ever set eyes on.
I'll wager you'll make top score every time you use it.  You shall have
it.  Never mind about the stumpy--"

"Stumpy!" ejaculated Stephen; "I don't want stumps, only a bat."

"What I meant to say was, never mind about the price.  You can give me
what you like for it.  I wish I could make you a present of it.  My eye,
it's a prime bat!  Spliced!  Yes.  Treble-cane, as I'm a poor man.  I'll
send it up to you, see if I don't, and you can pay when you like."

And so he chattered on, in a way which quite charmed Stephen, and made
him rejoice in his new friend, and still more at the prospect of the
bat.

"If it's awfully dear," he said, at parting, with a sort of sigh, "I
couldn't afford it.  My pocket-money's nearly all gone."

He did not say how.

"Oh, never mind, not if you don't pay at all," replied the genial
Cripps.  "You'll be having more tin soon, I bet."

"Not till June," said Stephen.

"Well, leave it till June--no matter.  But you may as well have the use
of the bat now.  Good-day, Master Green--"

"Greenfield, Stephen Greenfield," said Stephen.

"Good-day, and give my respects to Mr Loman, and I hope I shall see you
both again."

Stephen hoped so too, and went off, highly elated, with Loman's rod
under his arm.

Loman pulled rather a long face at hearing the price, and pulled a still
longer face when Stephen told him about the bat.  He read his fag a long
lecture about getting into debt and pledging his pocket-money in
advance.

That evening Stephen was solemnly tossed up for by the Guinea-pigs and
Tadpoles.  "Heads, Guinea-pigs; tails, Tadpoles."  It turned up heads,
and from that time forward Greenfield junior was a Guinea-pig.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE "DOMINICAN," NUMBER ONE.

The eventful day had come at last.  Anthony and his confederates had
worked hard, evening after evening, in the secrecy of their studies, and
the first number of the _Dominican_ was ready for publication.  The big
frame had been smuggled in, and the big sheet was now safely lodged
behind the glass, with its eight broad columns of clearly-written
manuscript all ready to astonish Saint Dominic's.  Two nails had
surreptitiously been driven into the wall outside the Fifth Form room,
on which the precious document was to be suspended, and Tony only waited
for "lights out" to creep down and, with the aid of Ricketts and
Bullinger, fix it in position.  Everything succeeded well.  The secret
had been kept most carefully, and when, next morning, Saint Dominic's
woke up and swarmed down the passage past the Fifth Form class-room, the
sight of a huge frame, with the words _The Dominican_ staring out from
it, and several yards of writing underneath, fairly startled them.
Master Paul, the fag who had been deputed to the no easy task of
preserving the structure from injury, had a hard time of it, there was
such a hustling and crowding in front of it whenever classes were not
going on.  The little boys squeezed in front; the bigger boys read over
their heads; the Sixth examined it from the back of the crowd, and the
Fifth Form from various positions watched with complacency the effect of
this venture.

At first it was looked upon as a curiosity, then as a joke; then
gradually it dawned on Saint Dominic's that it was a Fifth Form
production, and finally it appeared in its true light as a school
newspaper.

Loman, attracted by the crowd of boys, strolled down the passage to the
place and joined the group, just as a small boy was reading aloud the
following descriptive extract from:

"Our Special Correspondent in Guinea-pig Land.

"Last night the ceremony of admitting a new member into the ancient and
honourable craft of Guinea-pigs was celebrated with the usual mysteries.
The event took place in the fourth junior class-room.  The Guinea-pigs
assembled in force, with blackened faces and false whiskers.  The lights
being put out, Brother Bilke proposed, and Brother Smudge seconded, the
election of the new aspirant, and the motion being put to the
Guinea-pigs, was received with a unanimous grunt.  The Guinea-pig elect
was then admitted.  He was classically attired in a pair of slippers and
a collar, and the ceremony of initiation at once commenced.  The
candidate was stretched across the lowest desk, face downwards, and in
this position greeted with the flat side of a cricket-bat by the junior
brother present.  He was then advanced to the next desk, where a similar
compliment was paid by the next youngest; and so on to the senior
brother present.  Half way through the ceremony the new member expressed
a desire to withdraw his candidature, but this motion was negatived by a
large majority.  When our reporter left, the ceremony was being repeated
with the round side of the bat.  We understand the new Guinea-pig is
keeping his bed to-day after the exciting ceremony of initiation."

This was capital fun, and greatly appreciated by all--even by Stephen,
who knew it was intended to represent his own experience, which,
mercifully, had not been nearly so sore as pictured.

But the next extract was not quite as pleasing.

"Cricket Notice.

"The Alphabet Match will be played on Saturday.  The following are the
two elevens [and here the list followed].  Of these twenty-two players,
it is worthy of mention that fourteen are from the Fifth, and only eight
from the Sixth.  What is our Sixth coming to?"

This was not at all gratifying to the Sixth Form fellows present.  It
was unfortunately true, but they did not at all fancy such prominence
being given to the fact.  The next extract was still more pointed.

"Sixth Form Debating Society.

"The usual meeting of the Sixth Form Debating Society was held last
week, the Doctor in the chair.  A sprinkling of lads from the Fifth, in
their Sunday coats and collars, was present, by kind permission.  The
subject for discussion was, `That the present Sixth is degenerate.'  In
the absence of any member of the Sixth to open the discussion, Master
Bramble, captain of the Tadpoles, kindly undertook the task.  He had no
hesitation in asserting that the Sixth were degenerate.  They had fallen
off in cricket since he could remember, and in intellect, he was sorry
to say, the falling off was still worse.  If they would take his advice,
they would avoid the playground during the present season, and by all
means withdraw their candidate for the Nightingale Scholarship, as he
was certain to be beaten by boys in a lower form.  As to behaviour, he
could point to virtuous behaviour among the Tadpoles, quite equal to
that of the monitors.  He didn't wish to ask questions, but would like
to know what they all found so attractive in Maltby.  Then, too, they
all oiled their hair.  No previous Sixth had ever been guilty of this
effeminacy, or of wearing lavender kid gloves on Sundays.  He repeated,
`What were we coming to?'"

"Mr R-g-h opened in the negative.  He denied all the charges made by
the young gentleman who had last spoken.  He undertook to get up an
eleven to beat any eleven the Tadpoles could put into the field; and as
to intellect, why, didn't the Tadpoles, some of them, get their sums
done by the Sixth?  Besides, even if their intellect was weak, couldn't
they use cribs?  He didn't use them himself, but he knew one or two who
did.  He didn't understand the objection to the hair-oil; he used it to
make the hair sit down on his head.  [Raleigh, it should be said, had a
most irrepressible bunch of curls on his head.]  He wore kid gloves on
Sunday because he had had a pair given him by his great-aunt Jane Ann.
He maintained the Sixth was not degenerate.

"Mr L-m-n followed on the same side.  He thought it the greatest
liberty of any one to discuss the Sixth.  He was a Sixth Form fellow,
and a monitor, and if he wasn't looked up to he ought to be, and he
intended to be.  He was in the cricket eleven, and he was intellectual--
very, very much so.  He was going in for the Nightingale Scholarship,
and had no doubt in his own mind as to the result.  He hardly understood
his friend's reference to Maltby.  Why shouldn't he go there and take
his fag too if he chose?  He didn't see what right the Fifth had to fags
at all.  He had a fag, but then he was in the Sixth.  His fag admired
him, and he never told him not to.  The Sixth _could not_ be degenerate
so long as _he_ was in it."

"Other speakers followed, including Mr W-r-n, who maintained that
Michael Angelo was a greater musician than Queen Anne.  He was here
called to order, and reminded that Michael Angelo had nothing to do with
the degeneracy of the Sixth.  He begged leave to explain--

"At this point our reporter fell asleep."

The laughter which greeted the reading of this extract was by no means
shared by the Sixth Form boys present, who, had the next selection been
in a similar strain, would have quitted the scene and taken their chance
of satisfying their curiosity as to the rest of the contents of the
paper at a more convenient season.

But the next lucubration was the unfortunate Stephen's examination
paper, with the answers thereto embellished, and in many cases bodily
supplied, by the fertile Anthony.  The luckless Stephen, who was wedged
up in the front row of readers, could have sunk into the earth on
meeting once more that hateful paper face to face, and feeling himself
an object of ridicule to the whole school.  For the wonderful answers
which now appeared were hardly any of them his own composition, and he
did not even get credit for the few correct things he had said.  Shouts
of laughter greeted the reading, during which he dared not lift his eyes
from the ground.  But the answer to Question 6, "What is a minus?" was
more than human flesh and blood could endure.

"What is a Minus?"

"`Minus' is derived from two English words, `my,' meaning my, and `nus,'
which is the London way of pronouncing `nurse.'  My nurse is a dear
creature; I love her still, especially now she doesn't wash my face.  I
hated having my face washed.  My nurse's name is Mrs Blake, but I
always call her my own Noodle-oodle-oo.  I do love her so!  How I would
like to hug her!  She sewed the strings of my little flannel vest on in
front just before I came here because she knew I couldn't tie them
behind by myself--"

"She didn't!" shouted Stephen, in a voice trembling with indignation.

Poor boy!  The laughter which greeted this simple exclamation was enough
to finish up any one, and, with a bursting heart, and a face crimson
with confusion, he struggled out of the crowd and ran as fast as his
legs would take him to his own class-room.

But if he imagined in his misery that the whole school was going to
spend the entire day jeering at him, and him alone, he was greatly
mistaken, for once out of sight Stephen soon passed out of mind in
presence of the next elegant extract read out for the benefit of the
assembled audience.  This was no other than Simon's "Love-Ballad."

Simon, it should be known, was one of the dullest boys in Saint
Dominic's, and it was a standing marvel how he ever came to be in the
Fifth, for he was both a dunce and an idiot.  But he had one ambition
and one idea, which was that he could write poetry; and the following
touching ballad from his pen he offered to the _Dominican_, and the
_Dominican_ showed its appreciation of real talent by inserting it:--

  "A Love-Ballad.

  "I wish I was a buttercup,
  Upon the mountain top,
  That you might sweetly pick me up,
  And sweetly let me drop.
  I wish I was a little worm,
  All rigling in the sun,
  That I myself towards thee might turn
  When thou along didst come.
  Oh, I wish I was a doormat, sweet,
  All prostrate on the floor,
  If only thou wouldst wipe thy feet,
  On me, what could I want more?"

  ["Rigling" is possibly "wriggling".]

Simon, who, with true poet's instinct, was standing among the crowd
listening to his own poem, was somewhat perplexed by the manner in which
his masterpiece was received.  That every one was delighted there could
be no doubt.  But he had an impression he had meant the ballad to be
pathetic.  Saint Dominic's, however, had taken it up another way, and
appeared to regard it as facetious.  At any rate his fame was made, and
looking as if a laurel wreath already encircled his brow, he modestly
retired, feeling no further interest, now his own piece was ended.

Oliver's poem on the Tadpoles, with its marvellous rhymes, fell
comparatively flat after this; and Bullinger's first chapter of the
History of Saint Dominic's failed to rivet the attention of the
audience, which, however, became suddenly and painfully absorbed in the
"Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse," from the pen of Wraysford.  We must
inflict a few passages from this document on the reader, as the paper
was the cause of some trouble hereafter.

"Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.

"Monday.--Up early and took a good breakfast in one of the desks where
there was a jam sandwich and several toffee-drops.  The Sixth seem to
like jam sandwiches and toffee-drops, there are some of them in nearly
every desk.  The desk I was in had a packet of cigarettes in one corner.
They were labelled `Mild.'  I wonder why the Sixth like their
cigarettes mild.  In the same desk were one or two books written by a
man called Bohn; they seemed queer books, for they had Latin and Greek
names outside, but all the reading inside was English.  It is sad to see
the quarrelling that goes on in this room.  You would not suppose, to
see these monitors walking grandly up and down the passages striking
terror into the hearts of all the small boys, that they could possibly
condescend to quarrel over the possession of an inkpot or the ownership
of an acid-drop found among the cinders.  Alas! it is very sad.  They
don't seem anything like the Sixth of old days.  I shall emigrate if
this goes on.

"Wednesday.--A great row to-day when the Doctor was out of the room.
The two senior monitors engaged in a game of marbles--knuckle down--in
the course of which one player accused the other of cheating.  There was
nearly a fight, only neither seemed exactly to like to begin, and both
appeared relieved when the Doctor came in and confiscated the marbles."

And so the diary went on, in a strain highly offensive to the Sixth and
equally delighting to the lower forms.  After this the Sixth withdrew,
not caring to face further taunts of the kind, and leaving a free field
to the rest of Saint Dominic's, who perused this wonderful broadside to
the end with unflagging interest.  Some of the advertisements with which
Tony had filled up the gaps caused considerable mirth--such as this: "A
gentleman about to clear out his desk, begs to give notice that he will
Sell by Auction to-morrow after `Lights out,' all those rare and
valuable articles, to wit:--one and a half gross best cherry-stones,
last year's, in excellent condition.  About twelve assorted bread
crusts, warranted dry and hard--one with a covering of fossilised
sardine.  Six quires of valuable manuscript notes on various subjects,
comprising Latin, Greek, Mathematics, French, and Crambo.  One apple,
well seasoned, and embellished with a brilliant green fur of two years'
growth.  And many other miscellaneous treasures, such as slate pencils,
nutshells, an antique necktie, several defunct silkworms, a noble
three-bladed knife (deficient of the blades), and half a pound of putty.
No reserve price.  Must be cleared out at whatever sacrifice."

And this was another:--

"This is to give notice, that whereas certain parties calling themselves
Guinea-pigs have infringed on our patent rights, we, the Tadpoles of
Saint Dominic's, have been and are from time immemorial entitled to the
exclusive privilege of appearing in public with dirty faces, uncombed
hair, and inky fingers.  We have also the sole right of making beasts of
ourselves on every possible occasion; and we hereby declare that it is
our intention to institute proceedings against all parties, of whatever
name, who shall hereafter trespass on these our inalienable rights.  By
order, B. Smudgeface and T. Blacknose, Secretaries."

This final onslaught broke up the party.  The aggrieved Tadpoles rushed
to their quarters and fumed and raged themselves into a state bordering
on, madness; and vowed revenge till they were hoarse.

It was a curious fact, nevertheless, that at prayers that evening there
were more clean faces among the Tadpoles than had been seen there since
the formation of that ancient and honourable fraternity.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A QUARREL AND A CRICKET MATCH.

The first number of the _Dominican_ had undoubtedly caused a sensation;
and it would have created far more sensation but for the fact that the
Alphabet Match was to be played on the following day.  But even this
counter-attraction could not wholly divert the mind of Saint Dominic's
from this new literary marvel; and a skirmish took place on the very
afternoon of its appearance.

Pembury and his friends had quite expected that the Sixth would attempt
a high-handed blow at their paper, and they were not disappointed.  For
no sooner had Loman and his peers stalked away from the scene of their
indignation, and found themselves in the retirement of their own room,
than they fell to talking in terms the reverse of pleasant about the
event of the morning.  The least important of their number was specially
wroth.

"There's a great row out in the passage to-day," said Raleigh, who was
blissfully ignorant of the whole matter; "why can't some of you monitors
keep a little better order?  The Doctor will be wanting to know what
it's all about!"

"All very well," said Raikes, one of the monitors; "but if the Fifth
will stick their tomfoolery out in the passage, there's sure to be a
row."

"What tomfoolery?  Some of you are for ever grumbling at the Fifth."

"And so would you if you saw the complimentary remarks they make about
you in this precious newspaper of theirs."

"Oh, the _Dominican_?  I must have a look at it by and by; but meanwhile
something had better be done to stop that row, or we shall catch it
ourselves."

And so saying, the captain left these injured youths to their own
counsels, which it is to be feared were moved more by dislike for the
_Dominican_ than by a burning desire for the good order of the school.

However, they must do something; and there would be nothing inconsistent
with their dignity in demanding the withdrawal of the obnoxious
broadside on account of the noise it caused.  This would be a safe move,
and might be checkmate.  Loman was deputed to wait upon the Fifth with
the demand of the monitors, and lost no time in carrying out this
welcome task.  Class was just over, and the Fifth were just about to
clear out of their room when Loman entered.  It was not often that a
Sixth Form fellow penetrated into their camp, and had they not guessed
his mission they might have resented the intrusion.

"Oh, you fellows," began Loman, feeling not quite so confident now as he
had felt five minutes ago, "we can't have that thing of yours hanging
out in the passage like that.  It makes a crowd--too much row.  Whose is
it?"

"Not mine," said Wraysford, laughing; "ask Bully--perhaps it's his."

"Not a bit of it," said Bullinger; "it's yours, isn't it, Simon?"

"Only part," said the poet of the "Love-Ballad", "and I presented that
to the paper."

"Suppose it was mine?" said Oliver, with a drawl.

"Then," said Loman, losing his temper, "all I can say is, the sooner you
clear it away the better."

"Oh! all right; only it's not mine."

"Look here," said Loman, "I'm not going to fool about with you.  You may
think it all very funny, but I'll report it to the Doctor, and then
you'll look foolish."

"How nice!  So pleasant it will be to look for once like what you look
always," observed Pembury, gnawing the top of his crutch.

At that moment there was a loud shout of laughter in the passage
outside, confirming the monitor's complaint.  Wraysford walked hastily
to the door.

"The next time there's a row like that outside our door," called he to
the group outside, "we'll--what do you mean by it, you young
blackguard?"

So saying, he caught Master Bramble, who happened to be the nearest
offender within reach, by the collar of his coat, and lugged him bodily
into the class-room.

"There, now!  Do you know this gentleman?  He's a monitor.  Have a good
look at him.  He's been complaining of the row you are making, and quite
rightly.  Take that, and tell all the little Pigs outside that if they
don't hold their noise they will find themselves, every man jack of
them, _mentioned by name_ in the next number!"

So saying, with a gentle cuff he handed the ill-starred Master Bramble
out again to his fellows, and from that time there was scarcely a sound
audible from the passage.

"Good-bye," said Pembury, kissing his hand to Loman, who all this time
had been standing in the middle of the room, in a white heat, and
perplexed what to do or say next.

"You aren't going to live here, are you?" asked Bullinger.

"Any one got a toffee-drop?" drily inquired Oliver.  To his surprise,
and to the surprise of every one, Loman wheeled round towards the last
speaker, and without a word struck him a blow on the mouth with his
hand.

He saw he had made a mistake, and looked ashamed the moment the deed was
done.  All eyes turned to Oliver, whose face was crimson with a sudden
flush of pain and anger.  He sprang to his feet, and Braddy, the bully,
was already beginning to gloat over the prospect of a fight, when, to
every one's amazement, Oliver coolly put his hands back into his
pockets, and walking up to Loman said, quietly, "Hadn't you better go?"

Loman stared at him in astonishment.  He had at least expected to be
knocked down, and this, behaviour was quite incomprehensible.

He turned on his heel and quitted the room without a word; and somehow
or other from that time the Fifth heard no more protests from the
monitors on the subject of the _Dominican_.

But Oliver's conduct, much as it had astonished the person chiefly
concerned, had astonished the Fifth still more.  For the first time in
the history of their class, as far as they could recollect, a blow
struck had not been returned, and they could not tell what to make of
it.

The blow had been a cowardly one, and certainly unmerited, and by all
schoolboy tradition one fairly demanding a return.  Could it be possible
their man was lacking in courage?  The idea was a shock to most present,
who, although Oliver was never very popular among them, as has been
said, had never before suspected his pluck.  In fact, it was an awkward
moment for all, and it was quite a relief when Simon broke silence by
asking Oliver, "Why didn't you knock him down, I say?"

"Because I did not choose, if you want to know," replied Oliver,
shortly.

"Oh!  I beg your pardon," replied Simon, rather taken aback by this
brusque answer.

This was not satisfactory.  Had the offender been a Guinea-pig, one
could have understood the thing; but when it was a Sixth Form fellow--a
good match in every respect, as well as a rival--the Fifth were offended
at their man for drawing back as he had done.

"I suppose you _will_ fight him?" said Ricketts, in a voice which
implied that there was no doubt about it.

"Do you?" replied Oliver, briefly.

The boy's manner was certainly not winsome, and, when once put out, it
was evident he took no trouble to conceal the fact.  He refused to
answer any further questions on the subject, and presently quitted the
room, leaving more than half his class-fellows convinced that, after
all, he _was_ a coward.

An angry discussion followed his departure.

"He ought to be made to fight, whether he likes or not," said Braddy the
bully.

"Some one ought to pay Loman out," suggested Ricketts, "if Greenfield
doesn't."

"A nice name we shall get, all of us," said Bullinger, "when it gets
abroad all over the school."

"It's a shame, because one fellow funks, for the whole Form to be
disgraced; that's what I say," said some one else.

There were, however, two boys who did not join in this general cry of
indignation against Oliver, and they were Wraysford and Pembury.  The
latter was always whimsical in his opinions, and no one was surprised to
see him come out on the wrong side.  As for Wraysford, he always backed
his friend up, whether others thought him right or wrong.  These two
scouted the idea of Oliver being a coward; the one with his usual weapon
of ridicule, the other with all the warmth of friendship.

"Who calls him a coward?" exclaimed Wraysford, glaring at the last
speaker.

Wraysford was not a coward, and looked so ready to avenge his friend by
hard knocks, that the boy who had insinuated that Greenfield was afraid
withdrew his charge as mildly as he could.  "I only meant, it looks as
if he didn't like to fight," he said.

"And what business of yours is it what it looks like?" demanded
Wraysford.

"Come, old man," said Pembury; "don't eat him up!  I fancy Greenfield
might screw up courage to pull _his_ nose, whoever else he lets off, eh?
It's my private opinion, though, Oliver knew what he was about."

"Of course he did," sneered Braddy; "he knew jolly well what he was
about."

"Dear me!  Is that you, Mr Braddy?  I had not noticed you here, or I
should not have ventured to speak on a matter having to do with pluck
and heroism.  I'm glad you agree with me, though, although I didn't say
he knew _jolly_ well what he was about.  That is an expression of your
own."

Braddy, who as usual felt and looked extinguished when Pembury made fun
of him, retired sulkily, and the editor of the _Dominican_ thereupon
turned his attack on another quarter.  And so the dispute went on,
neither party being convinced, and all satisfied only on one point--that
a cloud had arisen to mar the hitherto peaceful horizon of Fifth Form
existence.

The cricket match of the following day, however, served to divert the
thoughts of all parties for a time.

As it was only the prelude to a much more important match shortly to
follow, I shall not attempt to describe it fully here, as the reader
will probably be far more interested in the incidents of Sixth versus
School Match when it comes off.

The Alphabet Match was, to tell the truth, not nearly as interesting an
affair as it promised to be, for from the very first the N's to Z's had
the best of it.  Stephen, who with a company of fellow-Tadpoles and
Guinea-pigs was perched on the palings, looking on, felt his heart sink
within him as first one and then another of his brother's side lost
their wickets without runs.  For once he and Bramble were in sympathy,
and he and Paul were at difference.  The row these small boys kicked up,
by the way, was one of the most notable features of the whole match.
Every one of them yelled for his own side.  There had, indeed, been a
question whether every Guinea-pig, whatever his private initial, ought
not to yell for the G's, and every Tadpole for the T's; but it was
eventually decided that each should yell "on his own hook," and the
effect was certainly far more diverting.

The first four men of the A to M went out for two runs between them, and
Stephen and Bramble sat in gloomy despair.  The next man in knocked down
his wicket before he had played a single ball.  It was frightful, and
the jeers of the Z's were hateful to hear.

But Stephen brightened as he perceived that the next batsman was his
brother.  "Now they'll pick up!" said he.

"No they won't!  Greenfield senior skies his balls too much for my
taste," cheeringly replied the small Bramble.

But Stephen was right.  For the first time that afternoon the A's made a
stand.  Oliver's partner at the wickets was Callonby, of the Sixth, a
steady, plodding player, who hardly ever hit out, and got all his runs
(if he got any) from the slips.  This afternoon he hardly scored at all,
but kept his wicket carefully while Oliver did the hitting.

Things were looking up.  The telegraph went up from 2 to 20.  Wraysford,
who had hitherto been bowling with Ricketts against his friend, gave up
the ball to Raikes, and the field generally woke up to the importance of
getting rid of this daring player.

Stephen's throat was too hoarse to roar any more, so he resigned that
duty to Bramble, and looked on in delighted silence.  The score crept
up, till suddenly Callonby tipped a ball into cover-slip's hand and was
caught, to the great delight of the Z's, who guessed that, once a
separation had been effected, the survivor would soon be disposed of.

The next man in was Loman.  He was better as a bowler than a batsman;
but he followed Callonby's tactics and played a steady block, leaving
the boy he had struck yesterday to do the hitting.

Oliver was certainly playing in fine form, and for a moment his
class-fellows forgot their resentment against him in applauding his
play.  The score was at 35, and the new coalition promised to be as
formidable as the last, when Oliver cut a ball past point.

"Run! no! yes, run!" he shouted.  Loman started, then hesitated, then
started again--but it was too late.  Before he could get across, the
ball was up and he was run out.  He was furious, and it certainly was
hard lines for him, although there would have been time enough for the
run had he not pulled up in the middle.  Forgetful of all the rules of
cricket, he turned round to Oliver and shouted, "You are a fool!" as he
left the wicket.

Stephen luckily was too much engrossed in watching the telegraph to hear
or notice this remark; which, however, was not lost on the Fifth
generally, who experienced a return of their former discontent when they
observed that Oliver (though he must have heard it) took not the
slightest notice of the offensive expression.

The match passed off without further incident.  The Z's won in the end
by two wickets, after a closer match than it had promised to be at
first, and Stephen was comforted for the reverse by feeling sure that
his brother at any rate had played his best, and would certainly get his
place in the School Eleven.



CHAPTER NINE.

A ROD IN PICKLE.

Loman, who had arrived at the same conclusion respecting Oliver's
bravery as the majority in the Fifth, did not allow his conscience to
trouble him as to his share of the morning's business.  He never had
liked Oliver, and lately especially he had come to dislike him.  He was
therefore glad to have made him smart; and now, since the blunder in the
cricket match, he felt greatly inclined to repeat the blow, particularly
as there did not seem much to fear if he did so.

He was quick, too, to see that Oliver had lost favour with his comrades,
and had no hesitation in availing himself of every opportunity of
widening the breach.  He affected to be sorry for the poor fellow, and
to feel that he had been too hard on him, and so on, in a manner which,
while it offended the Fifth, as applied to one of their set, exasperated
them all the more against Oliver.  And so matters went on, getting more
and more unsatisfactory.

Loman, however, had other things to think of than his rival's cowardice,
and foremost among these was his new fishing-rod--or rather, the rod
which he coveted for his own.  Until the day after the Alphabet Match he
had not even had time to examine his treasure.  Three pounds ten was an
appalling figure to pay for a rod; "But then," thought Loman, "if it's
really a good one, and worth half as much again, it would be a pity to
miss such a bargain;" and every one knew the Crippses, father and son,
were authorities on all matters pertaining to the piscatorial art.
Loman, too, was never badly off for pocket-money, and could easily raise
the amount, he felt sure, when he represented the case at home.  So he
took the rod out of its canvas bag, and began to put it together.

Now, a boy's study is hardly the place in which to flourish a
fishing-rod, and Loman found that with the butt down in one bottom
corner of the room, the top joint would have to be put on up in the
opposite top corner.  When this complicated operation was over, there
was no room to move it from its position, still less to judge of its
weight and spring, or attach the winch and line.  Happy thought! the
window!  He would have any amount of scope there.  So, taking it to
pieces, and putting it together again in this new direction, he had the
satisfaction of testing it at its full length.  He was pleased with the
rod, on the whole.  He attached the line, with a fly at the end, in
order to give it a thorough trial, and gave a scientific "cast" into an
imaginary pool.  It was a splendid rod, just right for him; how he
wished he was up above Gusset Weir at that moment!  Why, he could--

Here he attempted to draw up the rod.  There was an ugly tug and a crack
as he did so, and he found, to his disgust, that the hook, having
nothing else to catch, had caught the ivy on the wall, and, what was
worse, that the top joint of the rod had either snapped or cracked in
its inability to bring this weighty catch to shore.  It was a long time
before Loman was able to disengage his line, and bring the rod in again
at the window.  The top joint was cracked.  It looked all right as he
held it, but when he tried to bend it it had lost its spring, and the
crack showed only too plainly.  Another misfortune still was in store.
The reel in winding up suddenly stuck.  Loman, fancying it had only
caught temporarily, tried to force it, and in so doing the spring broke,
and the handle turned uselessly round and round in his hand.  This _was_
a streak of bad luck, and no mistake!  The rod was not his, and what was
worse, it was (so Cripps said) a rod of extraordinary excellence and
value.  Loman had his doubts now about this.  A first-rate top-piece
would bend nearly double and then not break, and a reel that broke at
the least pressure could hardly be of the best kind.  Still, Cripps
thought a lot of it, and Loman had undoubtedly himself alone to blame
for the accidents which had occurred.  As it was, the rod was now
useless.  He knew there was no place in Maltby where he could get it
repaired, and it was hardly to be expected that Cripps would take it
back.

What was to be done?  Either he must pay 3 pounds 10 shillings for a rod
of no value, or--

He slowly took the rod to pieces and put it back into the canvas bag.
The top joint after all did not look amiss; and, yes, there was a
_little_ bit of elasticity in it.  Perhaps the crack was only his fancy;
or perhaps the crack was there when he got it.  As to the reel, it
looked as if it _ought_ to work, and perhaps it would if he only knew
the way.  Ah! suppose he just sent the rod back to Cripps with a message
that he found he did not require it?  He would not say he had not used
it, but if Cripps chose to imagine he received it back just as he sent
it, well, what harm?  Cripps would be sure to sell it to some one else,
or else put it by (he had said he possessed a rod of his own).  If he,
Loman, had felt quite certain that he had damaged the rod himself, of
course he would not think of such a thing; but he was not at all certain
the thing was not defective to begin with.  In any case it was an
inferior rod--that he had no doubt about--and Cripps was not acting
honestly by trying to pass it off on him as one of the best make.  Yes,
it would serve Cripps right, and be a lesson to him, and he was sure,
yes, quite sure now, it had been damaged to begin with.

And so the boy argued with himself and coquetted with the tempter.
Before the afternoon was over he felt (as he imagined) quite comfortable
in his own mind over the affair.  The rod was tied up again in its bag
exactly as it had been before, and only wanted an opportunity to be
returned to Mr Cripps.

After that Loman settled down to an evening's study.  But things were
against him again.  Comfortable as his conscience was, that top joint
would not let him alone.  It seemed to get into his hand in place of the
pen, and to point out the words in the lexicon in place of his finger.
He tried not to mind it, but it annoyed him, and, what was worse,
interfered with his work.  So, shutting up his books, and imagining a
change of air might be beneficial, he went off to Callonby's study,
there to gossip for an hour or two, and finally rid himself of his
tormentor.

Stephen, meanwhile, had had Mr Cripps on his mind too, for that
afternoon his bat had come home.  It was addressed to "Mr Greenfield,
Saint Dominic's," and of course taken to Oliver, who wondered much to
receive a small size cricket-bat in a parcel.  Master Paul, however, who
was in attendance, was able to clear up the mystery.

"Oh! that's your young brother's, I expect; he said he had got a bat
coming."

"All I can say is, he must be more flush of cash than I am, to go in for
a thing like this.  Send him here, Paul."

So Paul vanished, and presently Stephen put in an appearance, blushing,
and anxious-looking.

"Is this yours?" asked the elder brother.

"Yes; did Mr Cripps send it?"

"Mr Cripps the lock-keeper?"

"No, his son.  He said he would get it for me.  I say, is that a good
bat, Oliver?"

"Nothing out of the way.  But, I say, young 'un, how much have you given
for it?"

"Not anything yet.  Mr Cripps said I could pay in June, when I get my
next pocket-money."

"What on earth has he to do with when you get your pocket-money?"
demanded Oliver.  "Who is this young Cripps?  He's a cad, isn't he?"

"He seemed a very nice man," said Stephen.

"Well, look here! the less you have to do with men like him the better.
What is the price of the bat?"

"I don't know; it's one Mr Cripps had himself when he was a boy.  He
says it's a beauty!  I say, it looks as good as new, Oliver."

"You young muff!" said the elder brother; "I expect the fellow's
swindling you.  Find out what he wants for it at once, and pay him; I'm
not going to let you run into debt."

"But I can't; I've only two shillings left," said Stephen, dejectedly.

"Why, whatever have you done with the five shillings you had last week?"

Stephen blushed, and then faltered, "I spent sixpence on stamps and
sixpence on--on brandy-balls!"

"I thought so.  And what did you do with the rest?"

"Oh!  I--I--that is--I--gave them away."

"Gave them away!  Who to--to Bramble?"

"No," said Stephen, laughing at the idea; "I gave them to a poor old
man!"

"Where?--when?  Upon my word, Stephen, you _are_ a jackass--who to?"

And then Stephen confessed, and the elder brother rated him soundly for
his folly, till the little fellow felt quite miserable and ashamed of
himself.  In the end, Oliver insisted on Stephen finding out at once
what the price of the bat was, and promised he would lend his brother
the money for it.  In return for this, Stephen promised to make no more
purchases of this kind without first consulting Oliver, and at this
juncture Wraysford turned up, and Stephen beat a retreat with his bat
over his shoulder.

The two friends had not been alone together since _the fracas_ in the
Fifth two days before, and both now appeared glad of an opportunity of
talking over that and subsequent events.

"I suppose you know a lot of the fellows are very sore at you for not
thrashing Loman?" said Wraysford.

"I guessed they would be.  Are you riled, too, Wray?"

"Not I!  I know what _I_ should have done myself, but I suppose you know
your own business best."

"I was greatly tempted to let out," said Oliver, "but the fact is--I
know you'll jeer, Wray--the fact is, I've been trying feebly to turn
over a new leaf this term."

Wraysford said "Oh!" and looked uncomfortable.

"And one of the things I wanted to keep out of was losing my temper,
which you know is not a good one."

"Not at all," said Wraysford, meaning quite the opposite to what he
said.

"Well, if you'll believe me, I've lost my temper oftener in trying to
keep this resolution than I ever remember to have done before.  But on
Friday it came over me just as I was going to thrash Loman.  That's why
I didn't."

Wraysford looked greatly relieved when this confession was over.  "You
are a rum fellow, Noll," said he, after a pause, "and of course it is
all right; but the fellows don't know your reason, and think you showed
the white feather."

"Let them think!" shouted Oliver, in a voice so loud and angry that
Master Paul came to the door and asked what he wanted.

"What do I care what they think?" continued Oliver, forgetting all about
his temper; "they can think what they like, but they had better let me
alone.  I'd like to knock all their heads together! so I would!"

"Steady, old man!" said Wraysford, good-humouredly; "I quite agree with
you.  But I say, Noll, I think it's a pity you don't put yourself right
with them and the school generally, somehow.  Everybody heard Loman call
you a fool yesterday, and you know our fellows are so clannish that they
think, for the credit of the Fifth, something ought to be done."

"Let them send Braddy to thrash him, then; I don't intend to fight to
please _them_!"

"Oh! that's all right.  And if they all knew what you've told me they
would understand it; but as it is, they don't."

"They'll find out some day, most likely," growled Oliver; "I'm not going
to bother any more about it.  I say, Wray, do you know anything of
Cripps's son?"

"Yes.  Don't you know he keeps a dirty public-house in Maltby?--a
regular cad, they say.  The fishing-fellows have seen him up at the Weir
now and then."

"I don't know how he came across him, but my young brother has just been
buying a bat from him, and I don't much fancy it."

"No, the youngster won't get any good with that fellow; you had better
tell him," said Wraysford.

"So I have, and he won't do it again."

Shortly after this Pembury hobbled in on his way to bed.

"You're a pretty fellow," said he to Oliver; "not one of our fellows
cares a rush about the _Dominican_ since you made yourself into the
latest sensation."

"Oh, don't let us have that up again," implored Oliver.

"All very well, but what is to become of the _Dominican_?"

"Oh, have a special extra number about me.  Call me a coward, and a
fool, and a Tadpole, any mortal thing you like, only shut up about the
affair now!"

Pembury looked concerned.

"Allow me to feel your pulse," said he to Oliver.

"Feel away," said Oliver, glad of any diversion.

"Hum!  As I feared--feverish.  Oliver, my boy, you are not well.
Wandering a bit in your mind, too; get to bed.  Be better soon.  Able to
talk like an ordinary rational animal then, and not like an animated
tom-cat.  Good-bye!"

And so saying he departed, leaving the friends too much amused to be
angry at his rudeness.

The two friends did a steady evening's work after this, and the thought
of the Nightingale Scholarship drove away for the time all less pleasant
recollections.

They slept, after it all, far more soundly than Loman, whose dreams were
disturbed by that everlasting top joint all the night long.

The reader will no doubt have already decided in his own mind whether
Oliver Greenfield did rightly or wrongly in putting his hands into his
pockets instead of using them to knock down Loman.  It certainly did not
seem to have done him much good at the time.  He had lost the esteem of
his comrades, he had lost the very temper he had been trying to keep--
twenty times since the event--and no one gave him credit for anything
but "the better part of valour" in the whole affair.

And yet that one effort of self-restraint was not altogether an unmanly
act.  At least, so thought Wraysford that night, as he lay meditating
upon his friend's troubles, and found himself liking him none the less
for this latest singular piece of eccentricity.



CHAPTER TEN.

THE FOURTH JUNIOR AT HOME.

Stephen, before he had been a fortnight in the school, found himself
very much at home at Saint Dominic's.  He was not one of those
exuberant, irrepressible boys who take their class-fellows by storm, and
rise to the top of the tree almost as soon as they touch the bottom.
Stephen, as the reader knows, was not a very clever boy, or a very
dashing boy, and yet he somehow managed to get his footing among his
comrades in the Fourth Junior, and particularly among his fellow
Guinea-pigs.

He had fought Master Bramble six times in three days during his second
week, and was engaged to fight him again every Tuesday, Thursday, and
Friday during the term.  He had also taken the chair at one indignation
meeting against the monitors, and spoken in favour of a resolution at
another.  He had distributed brandy-balls in a most handsome manner to
his particular adherents, and he had been the means of carrying away no
less than two blankets from the next dormitory.  This was pretty good
for a fortnight.  Add to this that he had remained steadily at the
bottom of his class during the entire period, and that once he had
received an "impot" (or imposition) from Mr Rastle, and it will easily
be understood that he soon gained favour among his fellows.

This last cause of celebrity, however, was one which did not please
Stephen.  He had come to Saint Dominic's with a great quantity of good
resolutions, the chief of which was that he would work hard and keep out
of mischief, and it grieved him much to find that in neither aim was he
succeeding.

The first evening or two he had worked very diligently at preparation.
He had taken pains with his fractions, and looked out every word in his
Caesar.  He had got Oliver to look over his French, and Loman had
volunteered to correct the spelling of his "theme;" and yet he stuck at
the bottom of the class.  Other boys went up and down.  Some openly
boasted that they had had their lessons done for them, and others that
they had not done them at all.  A merry time they had of it; but
Stephen, down at the bottom, was in dismal dumps.  He could not get up,
and he could not get down, and all his honest hard work went for
nothing.

And so, not content to give that system a longer trial, he grew more lax
in his work.  He filched the answers to his sums out of the "Key," and
copied his Caesar out of the "crib."  It was much easier, and the result
was the same.  He did not get up, and he could not get down.

Oliver catechised him now and then as to his progress, and received
vague answers in reply, and Loman never remembered a fag that pestered
him less with lessons.  Stephen was, in fact, settling down into the
slough of idleness, and would have become an accomplished dunce in time,
had not Mr Rastle come to the rescue.  That gentleman caught the new
boy in an idle mood, wandering aimlessly down the passage one afternoon.

"Ah, Greenfield, is that you?  Nothing to do, eh?  Come and have tea
with me, will you, in my room?"

Stephen, who had bounded as if shot on hearing the master's unexpected
voice behind him, turned round and blushed very red, and said "Thank
you," and then looked like a criminal just summoned to the gallows.

"That's right, come along;" and the master took the lad by the arm and
marched him off to his room.

Here the sight of muffins and red-currant jam, in addition to the
ordinary attractions of a tea-table, somewhat revived Stephen's drooping
spirits.

"Make yourself comfortable, my boy, while the tea is brewing," said Mr
Rastle, cheerily.  "Have you been playing any cricket since you came?"

"Only a little, sir," said Stephen.

"Well, if you only turn out as good a bat as your brother--how well he
played in the Alphabet Match!"

Stephen was reviving fast now, and embarked on a lively chat about his
favourite sport, by the end of which the tea was brewed, and he and Mr
Rastle sitting "cheek by jowl" at the table, with the muffins and jam
between them.

Presently Mr Rastle steered the talk round to Stephen's home, a topic
even more delightful than cricket.  The boy launched out into a full
account of the old house and his mother, till the tears very nearly
stood in his eyes and the muffins very nearly stuck in his throat.  Mr
Rastle listened to it all with a sympathetic smile, throwing in
questions now and then which it charmed the boy to answer.

"And how do you like Saint Dominic's?" presently inquired the master.
"I suppose you've made plenty of friends by this time?"

"Oh yes, sir.  It's not as slow as it was at first."

"That's right.  You'll soon get to feel at home.  And how do you think
you are getting on in class?"

Stephen was astonished at this question.  If any one knew how he was
getting on in class Mr Rastle did, and, alas!  Mr Rastle must know
well enough that Stephen was getting on badly.

"Not very well, I'm afraid, sir, thank you," replied the boy, not
feeling exactly comfortable.

"Not?  That's a pity.  Are the lessons too hard for you?" kindly
inquired Mr Rastle.

"No, I don't think so--that is--no, they're not, sir."

"Ah, your Latin exercise I thought was very fair in parts to-day."

Stephen stared at his master, and the master looked very pleasantly at
Stephen.

"I copied it off Raddleston," said the boy, in a trembling voice, and
mentally resigning himself to his fate.

"Ah!" said Mr Rastle, laughing; "it's a funny thing, now, Greenfield, I
knew that myself.  No two boys could possibly have translated `nobody'
into `_nullus corpus_' without making common cause!"

Stephen was desperately perplexed.  He had expected a regular row on the
head of his confession, and here was his master cracking jokes about the
affair!

"I'm very sorry I did it.  I won't do it again," said he.  "That's
right, my boy; Raddleston isn't infallible.  Much better do it yourself.
I venture to say, now, you can tell me what the Latin for `nobody' is
without a dictionary."

"_Nemo_," promptly replied Stephen.

"Of course! and therefore if you had done the exercise yourself you
wouldn't have made that horrid--that fearful mistake!"

Stephen said, "Yes, sir," and meditated.

"Come now," said Mr Rastle, cheerily, "I'm not going to scold you.  But
if you take my advice you will try and do the next exercise by yourself.
Of course you can't expect to be perfect all at once, but if you always
copy off Raddleston, do you see, you'll _never_ get on at all."

"I'll try, sir," said Stephen, meaning what he said.

"I know you will, my boy.  It's not easy work to begin with, but it's
easier far in the long run.  Try, and if you have difficulties, as you
are sure to have, come to me.  I'm always here in the evenings, and
we'll hammer it out between us.  School will not be without its
temptations, and you will find it hard always to do your duty.  Yet you
have, I hope, learnt the power of prayer; and surely the Saviour is able
not only to forgive us our sins, but also to keep us from falling.  At
school, my boy, as elsewhere, it is a safe rule, whenever one is in
doubt, to avoid everything, no matter who may be the tempter, of which
one cannot fearlessly speak to one's father or mother, and above all to
our Heavenly Father.  Don't be afraid of Him--He will always be ready to
help you and to guide you with His Holy Spirit.  Have another cup of
tea?"

This little talk, much as he missed at the time its deeper meaning,
saved Stephen from becoming a dunce.  He still blundered and boggled
over his lessons, and still kept pretty near to the bottom form in his
class, but he felt that his master had an interest in him, and that
acted like magic to his soul.  He declined Master Raddleston's
professional assistance for the future, and did the best he could by
himself.  He now and then, though hesitatingly, availed himself of Mr
Rastle's offer, and took his difficulties to head-quarters; and he
always, when he did so, found the master ready and glad to help, and not
only that, but to explain as he went along, and clear the way of future
obstacles of the same sort.

And so things looked up with Stephen.  He wrote jubilant letters home;
he experienced all the joys of an easy conscience, and he felt that he
had a friend at court.

But as long as he was a member of the honourable fraternity of
Guinea-pigs, Stephen Greenfield was not likely to be dull at Saint
Dominic's.

The politics of the lower school were rather intricate.  The Guinea-pigs
were not exactly the enemies of the Tadpoles, but the rivals.  They were
always jangling among themselves, it was true; and when Stephen, for the
second time in one week, had hit Bramble in the eye, there was such
jubilation among the Guinea-pigs that any one might have supposed the
two clans were at daggers drawn.  But it was not so--at least, not
always--for though they fell out among themselves, they united their
forces against the common enemy--the monitors!

Monitors, in the opinion of these young republicans, were an invention
of the Evil One, invented for the sole purpose of interfering with them.
But for the monitors they could carry out their long-cherished scheme
of a pitched battle on the big staircase, for asserting their right to
go down the left side, when they chose, and up on the right.  As it was,
the monitors insisted that they should go up on the left and come down
on the right.  It was intolerable tyranny!  And but for the monitors
their comb-and-paper musical society might give daily recitals in the
top corridor and so delight all Saint Dominic's.  What right had the
monitors to forbid the performance and confiscate the combs?  Was it to
be endured?  And but for the monitors, once more, they might perfect
themselves in the art of pea-shooting.  Was such a thing ever heard of,
as that fellows should be compelled to shoot peas at the wall in the
privacy of their own studies, instead of at one another in the passages?
It was a shame--it was a scandal--it was a crime!

On burning questions such as these, Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles sunk all
petty differences, and thought and felt as one man; and not the least
ardent among them was Stephen.

"Come on, quick!  Greenfield junior," squeaked the voice of Bramble, one
afternoon, as he and Stephen met on the staircase.

Stephen had fought Bramble yesterday at four o'clock, and was to fight
him again to-morrow at half-past twelve, but at the call of common
danger he forgot the feud and tore up the stairs, two steps at a time,
beside his chronic enemy.

"What's the row?" he gasped, as they flew along.

"Row?  Why, what do you think?  Young Bellerby has been doctored for
tying a string across the passage!"

"Had up before the Doctor?  My eye, Bramble!"

"It is your eye indeed!  One of the monitors tripped over it, and got in
a rage, and there's Bellerby now catching it in the Black Hole.  Come on
to the meeting; quick!"

The two rushed on, joined by one and another of their fellows who had
heard the terrible news.  The party rushed pellmell into the Fourth
Junior class-room, where were already assembled a score or more youths,
shouting, and stamping, and howling like madmen.  At the sight of
Bramble, the acknowledged leader of all malcontents, they quieted down
for a moment to hear what he had to say.

"Here's a go!" classically began that hero.

At this the clamour, swelled twofold by the new additions, rose louder
than ever.  It _was_ a go!

"I wish it had been _me_!" again yelled Bramble; "I have let them know."

Once more the shouts rose high and loud in approval of this noble
sentiment.

"_I'd_ have kicked their legs!" once more howled Bramble, as soon as he
could make himself heard.

"So would we; kicked their legs!"

"They ought to be hanged!" screamed Bramble.

"_I'll_ not fag any more for Wren!" bellowed Bramble.

"I'll not fag any more for Greenfield senior!" thundered Paul.

"I'll not fag any more for Loman!" shrieked Stephen.

"Why don't some of you put poison in their teas?" cried one.

"Or blow them up when they're in bed with gunpowder?"

"Or flay them alive?"

"Or boil them in tar?"

"Or throw them into the lions' den?"

"Those who say we won't stand it any longer," shouted Bramble, jumping
up on to a form, "hold up your hands!"

A perfect forest of inky hands arose, and a shout with them that almost
shook the ceiling.

At that moment the door opened, and Wren appeared.  The effect was
magical; every one became suddenly quiet, and looked another way.

"The next time there's a noise like that," said the monitor, "the whole
class will be detained one hour," and, so saying, departed.

After that the indignation meeting was kept up in whispers.  Now and
then the feelings of the assembly broke out into words, but the noise
was instantly checked.

"If young Bellerby has been flogged," said Bramble, in a most sepulchral
undertone, "I've a good mind to fight every one of them!"

"Yes, every one of them," whispered the multitude.

"They're all as bad as each other!" gasped Bramble.

"_We'll_ let them know," muttered the audience.

"I'll tell you what I've a good mind to--to--ur--ur--I've a good mind
to--ugh!"

Again the door opened.  This time it was Callonby.

"Where's young Raddleston?--What _are_ you young beggars up to?--is
Raddleston here?"

"Yes," mildly answered the voice of Master Raddleston, who a moment ago
had nearly broken a blood-vessel in his endeavours to scream in a
whisper.

"Come here, then."

The fag meekly obeyed.

"Oh, and Greenfield junior," said Callonby, as he was turning to depart,
"Loman wants to know when you are going to get his tea; you're to go at
once, he says."

Stephen obeyed, and was very humble in explaining to Loman that he had
forgotten (which was the case) the time.  The meeting in the Fourth
class-room lasted most of the afternoon; but as oratory in whispers is
tedious, and constant repetition of the same sentiments, however
patriotic, is monotonous, it flagged considerably in spirit towards the
end, and degenerated into one of the usual wrangles between Guinea-pigs
and Tadpoles, in the midst of which Master Bramble left the chair, and
went off in the meekest manner possible to get Wren to help him with his
sums for next day.

Stephen meanwhile was engaged in doing a little piece of business for
Loman, of which more must be said in a following chapter.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

IN THE TOILS.

The afternoon of the famous "indignation meeting" in the Fourth Junior
was the afternoon of the week which Mr Cripps the younger, putting
aside for a season the anxieties and responsibilities of his "public"
duties in Maltby, usually devoted to the pursuit of the "gentle craft,"
at his worthy father's cottage by Gusset Weir.  Loman, who was aware of
this circumstance, and on whose spirit that restless top joint had
continued to prey ever since the evening of the misadventure a week ago,
determined to avail himself of the opportunity of returning the unlucky
fishing-rod into the hands from which he had received it.

He therefore instructed Stephen to take it up to the lock-house with a
note to the effect that having changed his mind in the matter since
speaking to Cripps, he found he should not require the rod, and
therefore returned it, with many thanks for Mr Cripps's trouble.

Stephen, little suspecting the questionable nature of his errand,
undertook the commission, and duly delivered both rod and letter into
the hands of Mr Cripps, who greatly astonished him by swearing very
violently at the contents of the letter.  "Well," said he, when he had
exhausted his vocabulary (not a small one) of expletives--"well, of all
the grinning jackanapeses, this is the coolest go!  Do you take me for a
fool?"

Stephen, to whom this question appeared to be directly applied,
disclaimed any idea of the kind, and added, "I don't know what you
mean."

"Don't you, my young master?  All right!  Tell Mr Loman I'll wait upon
him one fine day, see if I don't!  Here's me, given up a whole blessed
day to serve him, and a pot of money out of my pocket, and here he goes!
not a penny for my pains!  Chucks the thing back on my 'ands as cool as
a coocumber, all because he's changed his mind.  I'll let him have a bit
of my mind, tell him, Mr Gentleman Schoolboy, see if I don't.  I ain't
a-going to be robbed, no! not by all the blessed monkeys that ever wrote
on slates!  _I'll_ wait upon him, see if I don't!"

Stephen, to whom the whole of this oration, which was garnished with
words that we can hardly set down in print, or degrade ourselves by
suggesting, was about as intelligible as if it had been Hebrew, thought
it better to make no reply, and sorrowed inwardly to find that such a
nice man as Mr Cripps should possess so short a temper.  But the
landlord of the Cockchafer soon recovered from his temporary annoyance,
and even proceeded to apologise to Stephen for the warmth of his
language.

"You'll excuse me, young gentleman," said he, "but I'm a plain-spoken
man, and I was--there, I won't deny it--I was a bit put out about this
here rod first go off.  You'll excuse me--of course I don't mean no
offence to you or Mister Loman neither, who's one of the nicest young
gentlemen I ever met.  Of course if you'd a' paid seventy bob out of
your own pocket it would give _you_ a turn; leastways, if you was a
struggling, honest working man, like me."

"That's it," snivelled, old Mr Cripps, who had entered during this last
speech; "that's it, Benny, my boy, honest Partisans, that's what we is,
who knows what it are to be in want of a shillin' to buy a clo' or two
for the little childer."

What particular little "childer" Mr Cripps senior and his son were
specially interested in no one knew, for neither of them was blessed
with any.  However, it was one of old Mr Cripps's heart-moving phrases,
and no one was rude enough to ask questions.

Stephen did not, on the present occasion, feel moved to respond to the
old man's lament, and Cripps junior, with more adroitness than filial
affection, hustled the old gentleman out of the door.

"Never mind him," said he to Stephen.  "He's a silly old man, and always
pretends he's starvin'.  If you believe me, he's a thousand pounds
stowed away somewheres.  I on'y wish," added he, with a sigh, "he'd give
me a taste of it, for its 'ard, up-'ill work makin' ends meet,
particular when a man's deceived by parties.  No matter.  I'll pull
through; you see!"

Stephen once more did not feel called upon to pursue this line of
conversation, and therefore changed the subject.

"Oh, Mr Cripps, how much is that bat?"

"Bat!  Bless me if I hadn't nearly forgot all about it.  Ain't it a
beauty, now?"

"Yes, pretty well," said Stephen, whose friends had one and all abused
the bat, and who was himself a little disappointed in his expectations.

"Pretty well!  I like that.  You must be a funny cricketer, young
gentleman, to call that bat only pretty well.  I suppose you want me to
take _that_ back, too?" and here Mr Cripps looked very fierce.

"Oh, no," said Stephen, hurriedly.  "I only want to know what I am to
pay for it."

"Oh, come now, we needn't mind about that.  That'll keep, you know.  As
if I wanted the money.  Ha, ha!"

Even a green boy like Stephen could not fail to wonder why, if Mr
Cripps was as hard up as he had just described himself, he should now be
so anxious to represent himself as not in want of money.

"Please, I want to know the price."

"As if I was a-going to name prices to a young gentleman like you!
Please yourself about it.  I shall not be disappointed if you gives me
only eighteenpence, and if _you_ thinks twelve bob is handsome, well,
let it be.  _I_ can struggle on somehow."

This was uncomfortable for Stephen, who, too green, fortunately, to
comprehend the drift of Mr Cripps's gentle hints, again asked that he
would name a price.

This time Mr Cripps answered more precisely.

"Well, that there bat is worth a guinea, if you want to know, but I'll
say a sovereign for cash down."

Stephen whistled a long-drawn whistle of dismay.

"A sovereign!  I can't pay all that!  I thought it would be about seven
shillings!"

"Did you?  You may think what you like, but that's my price, and you are
lucky to get it at that."

"I shall have to send it back.  I can't afford so much," said Stephen,
despondingly.

"Not if I know it!  I'll have none of your second-hand bats, if I know
it.  Come, young gentleman, I may be a poor man, but I'm not a fool, and
you'll find it out if I've any of your nonsense.  Do you suppose I've
nothing to do but wait on jackanapeses like you and your mates?  No
error!  There you are.  That'll do, and if you don't like it--well, the
governor shall know about it!"

Stephen was dreadfully uncomfortable.  Though, to his knowledge, he had
done nothing wrong, he felt terribly guilty at the bare notion of the
Doctor being informed of his transactions with Mr Cripps, besides
greatly in awe of the vague threats held out by that gentleman.  He did
not venture on further argument, but, bidding a hasty farewell, returned
as fast as he could to Saint Dominic's, wondering whatever Oliver would
say, and sorely repenting the day when first he was tempted to think of
the unlucky bat.

He made a clean breast of it to his brother that evening, who, of
course, called him an ass, and everything else complimentary, and was
deservedly angry.  However, Stephen had reason to consider himself lucky
to possess an elder brother at the school who had a little more
shrewdness than himself.  Oliver was determined the debt should be paid
at once, without even waiting to write home, and by borrowing ten
shillings from Wraysford, and adding to it the residue of his own
pocket-money, the sovereign was raised and dispatched that very night to
Mr Cripps; after which Oliver commanded his brother to sit down and
write a full confession of his folly home, and ask for the money,
promising never to make such a fool of himself again.  This task the
small boy, with much shame and trembling at heart, accomplished; and in
due time an answer came from his mother which not only relieved his mind
but paid off his debts to Oliver and Wraysford, and once for all closed
the business of the treble-cane splice bat.

It would have been well for Loman if he could have got out of his
difficulties as easily and as satisfactorily.

Ever since he had gathered from Stephen Mr Cripps's wrath on receiving
the returned rod, he had been haunted by a dread lest the landlord of
the Cockchafer should march up to Saint Dominic's, and possibly make an
exposure of the unhappy business before the Doctor and the whole school.
He therefore, after long hesitation and misgiving, determined himself
to call at the Cockchafer, and try in some way to settle matters.  One
thing reassured him.  If Cripps had discovered the crack or the fracture
in the rod, he would have heard of it long before now; and if he had
not, then the longer the time the less chance was there of the damage
being laid at his door.  So he let three weeks elapse, and then went to
Maltby.  The Cockchafer was a small, unpretentious tavern, frequented
chiefly by carriers and tradesmen, and, I regret to say, not wholly
unknown to some of the boys of Saint Dominic's, who were foolish enough
to persuade themselves that skittles, and billiards, and beer were
luxuries worth the risk incurred by breaking one of the rules of the
school.  No boy was permitted to enter any place of refreshment except a
confectioner's in Maltby under the penalty of a severe punishment, which
might, in a bad case, mean expulsion.  Loman, therefore, a monitor and a
Sixth Form boy, had to take more than ordinary precautions to reach the
Cockchafer unobserved, which he succeeded in doing, and to his
satisfaction--as well as to his trepidation--found Mr Cripps the
younger at home.

"Ho, he! my young shaver," was that worthy's greeting, "here you are at
last."

This was not encouraging to begin with.  It sounded very much as if Mr
Cripps had been looking forward to this visit.  However, Loman put as
bold a face as he could on to it, and replied, "Hullo, Cripps, how are
you?  It's a long time since I saw you; jolly day, isn't it?"

"Jolly!" replied Mr Cripps, looking very gloomy, and drawing a glass of
beer for the young gentleman before he ordered it.  Loman did not like
it at all.  There was something about Cripps's manner that made him feel
very uncomfortable.

"Oh, Cripps," he presently began, in as off-hand a manner as he could
assume under the depressing circumstances--"Oh, Cripps, about that rod,
by the way.  I hope you didn't mind my sending it back.  The fact is,"
(and here followed a lie which till that moment had not been in the
speaker's mind to tell)--"the fact is, I find I'm to get a present of a
rod this summer at home, or else of course I would have kept it."

Mr Cripps said nothing, but began polishing up a pewter pot with a
napkin.

"I hope you got it back all right," continued Loman, who felt as if he
must say something.  "They are such fragile things, you know.  I thought
I'd just leave it in the bag and not touch it, but send it straight
back, for fear it should be damaged."

There was a queer smile about Mr Cripps's mouth as he asked, "Then you
didn't have a look at it even?"

"Well, no, I thought I would--I thought I wouldn't run any risk."

Loman was amazed at himself.  He had suddenly made up his mind to tell
one lie, but here they were following one after another, as if he had
told nothing but lies all his life!  Alas, there was no drawing back
either!

"The fact is," he began again, speaking for the sake of speaking, and
not even knowing what he was going to say--"the fact is--" Here the
street door opened, and there entered hurriedly a boy whom Loman, to his
confusion and consternation, recognised as Simon of the Fifth, the
author of the "Love-Ballad."  What could the monitor say for himself to
explain his presence in this prohibited house?

"Hullo, Loman, I say, is that you?" remarked Simon.

"Oh, Simon, how are you?" faltered the wretched Loman; "I've just popped
in to speak to Cripps about a fishing-rod.  You'd better not come in;
you might get into trouble."

"Oh, never mind.  You won't tell of me, and I won't tell of you.  Glass
of the usual, please, Cripps.  I say, Loman, was that the fishing-rod
you were switching about out of your window that afternoon three weeks
ago?"

Loman turned red and white by turns, and wished the earth would swallow
him!  And to think of this fellow, the biggest donkey in Saint
Dominic's, blurting out the very thing which of all things he had
striven to keep concealed!

Mr Cripps's mouth worked up into a still more ugly smile.

"I was below in the garden, you know, and could not make out what you
were up to.  You nearly had my eye out with that hook.  I say, what a
smash you gave it when it caught in the ivy.  Was it broken right off,
or only cracked, eh?  Cripps will mend it for you, won't you, Cripps?"

Neither Mr Cripps nor Loman spoke a word.  The latter saw that
concealment was no longer possible; and bitterly he rued the day when
first he heard the name of Cripps.

That worthy, seeing the game to have come beautifully into his own
hands, was not slow to take advantage of it.  He beckoned Loman into the
inner parlour, whither the boy tremblingly followed, leaving Simon to
finish his glass of "the usual" undisturbed.

I need not repeat the painful conversation that ensued between the
sharper and the wretched boy.  It was no use for the latter to deny or
explain.  He was at the mercy of the man, and poor mercy it was.
Cripps, with many oaths and threats, explained to Loman that he could,
if he chose, have him up before a magistrate for fraud, and that he
would do so for a very little.  Loman might choose for himself between a
complete exposure, involving his disgrace for life, or paying the price
of the rod down and 20 besides, and he might consider himself lucky more
was not demanded.

The boy, driven to desperation between terror and shame, implored mercy,
and protested with tears in his eyes that he would do anything, if only
Cripps did not expose him.

"You know what it is, then," replied Cripps.

"But how am I to get the 20 pounds?  I daren't ask for it at home, and
there's no one here will lend it me.  Oh, Cripps, what shall I do?" and
the boy actually caught Mr Cripps's hand in his own as he put the
question.

"Well, look here," said Mr Cripps, unbending a little, "that 20 pounds
I must have, there's no mistake about it; but I don't want to be too
hard on you, and I can put you up to raising the wind."

"Oh, can you?" gasped Loman, eager to clutch at the faintest straw of
hope.  "I'll do anything."

"Very good; then it's just this: I've just got a straight tip about the
Derby that I know for certain no one else has got--that is, that Sir
Patrick won't win, favourite and all as he is.  Now there's a friend of
mine I can introduce you to, who's just wanting to put a twenty on the
horse, if he can find any one to take it.  It wouldn't do for me to make
the wager, or he'd smell a rat; but if you put your money _against_ the
horse, you're bound to win, and all safe.  What do you say?"

"I don't know anything about betting," groaned Loman.  "Are you quite
sure I'd win?"

"Certain.  If you lose I'll only ask 10 pounds of you, there! that's as
good as giving you 10 pounds myself on the horse, eh?"

"Well," said Loman, "I suppose I must.  Where is he?"

"Wait here a minute, and I'll bring him round."

Loman waited, racked by a sense of ignominy and terror.  Yet this seemed
his only hope.  Could he but get this 20 pounds and pay off Cripps he
would be happy.  Oh, how he repented listening to that first temptation
to deceive!

In due time Mr Cripps returned with his friend, who was very civil on
hearing Loman's desire to bet against Sir Patrick.

"Make it a 50 pounds note while you are about it," said he.

"No, 20 pounds is all I want to go for," replied Loman.

"Twenty then, all serene, sir," said the gentleman, booking the bet.
"What'll you take to drink?"

"Nothing, thank you," said Loman, hurriedly rising to leave.

"Good-day, sir," said Cripps, holding out his hand.

Loman looked at the hand and then at Mr Cripps's face.  There was the
same ugly leer about the latter, into which a spark of anger was infused
as the boy still held back from the proffered hand.

With an inward groan Loman gave the hand a spiritless grasp, and then
hurried back miserable and conscience-stricken to Saint Dominic's.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE "DOMINICAN" AGAIN.

The circumstances which had attended the publication of the first number
of the _Dominican_ had been such as to throw a damper over the future
success of that valuable paper.  It was most uncomfortably connected in
the minds of the Fifth with the cowardice of Oliver Greenfield, and with
the stigma which his conduct had cast upon the whole Form, and they one
and all experienced a great diminution of interest in its future.

The Fifth were far more intent on vindicating their reputation with the
Sixth--and, indeed, with the rest of the school.  They sought every
opportunity of bringing on a collision with the monitors.  One or two of
their number went, so far as to pick quarrels with members of the rival
class, in hopes of a fight.  But in this they were not successful.  The
Sixth chose to look upon this display of feeling among their juniors as
a temporary aberration of mind, and were by no means to be tempted into
hostilities.  They asserted their authority wherever they could enforce
it, and sacrificed it whenever it seemed more discreet to do so.  Only
one thing evoked a temporary display of vexation from them, and that was
when Ricketts and Braddy appeared one day, arm-in-arm, in the passages
with _tall hats_ on their heads.  Now, tall hats on week-days were the
exclusive privilege of the Sixth at Saint Dominic's, and, worn by them
during school hours, served as the badge of monitorship.  This action on
the part of the Fifth, therefore, was as good as a usurpation of
monitorial rights, and that the Sixth were not disposed to stand.
However, Raleigh, the captain, when appealed to, pooh-poohed the matter.
"Let them be," said he; "what do you want to make a row about it for?
If the boys do mistake them for monitors, so much the less row in the
passages."

Raleigh was always a man of peace--though it was rumoured he could, if
he chose, thrash any two Dominicans going--and the monitors were much
disgusted to find that he did not authorise them to interfere with the
Fifth in the matter.  But the Fifth _were_ interfered with in another
quarter, and in a way which caused them to drop their chimney-pots
completely.  One afternoon the entire Fourth Junior appeared in the
corridors in their Sunday tiles!  In their Sunday tiles they slid down
the banisters; in their Sunday tiles they played leapfrog; in their
Sunday tiles they executed a monster tug-of-war in the bottom corridor!
Stephen and Bramble fought their usual battle in top hats, and Master
Paul insisted on wearing the same decoration while washing up Oliver's
tea-things.  It was a splendid hit, and for once in a way Guinea-pigs
and Tadpoles scored one, for the Fifth appeared next day in their
ordinary "boilers," and the dignity of the monitors was vindicated.

But the blood was up between Fifth and Sixth, and each Form looked
forward to the match, Sixth _versus_ School, with redoubled interest.

"Were not these boys fools?" some one asks.

To be sure they were, sir.  But what of that? they were none the less
boys, and most of them fine young fellows, too, with all their nonsense.

However, as has been said, all this came out of the circumstances which
attended the bringing out of the first number of the _Dominican_, and
there seemed but a poor look-out for Number 2, which was now nearly due,
in consequence.

"What on earth am I to do?" asked Pembury of Tom Senior one day; "I've
not got a single contribution yet.  There's you making out you're too
busy, and Rick the same.  It's all humbug, I know!  What are you busy at
I'd like to know?  I never saw you busy yet."

"Upon my word, old man," said Tom, "I'm awfully sorry, but I've got a
tremendous lot to do.  I'm going to try for the French prize; I am,
really."

"And you'll get it, too; rather!  Wasn't it you who translated `I know
the way to write' into `_Je non le chemin a writer_' eh?  Oh, stick to
French by all means, Tom; it's in your line!  But you might just as well
write for Number 2."

"I really can't this time," said Tom.

Ricketts had an excuse very similar.  Bullinger had hurt his foot, he
said, and could not possibly write; and Braddy had begun to study
fossils, he said, and was bound to devote all his spare time to them.
To all of whom Master Pembury gave a piece of his mind.

"Wray, old man," said he, that evening, "you and Noll and I shall have
to do the whole thing between us, that's all about it."

"Awfully sorry!" said Wraysford; "you'll have to let me off this time.
I'm working like nails for the Nightingale."

"Bother the Nightingale, I say!  What is it to the _Dominican_?  Come, I
say, old man, that won't do! you aren't going to leave me in the lurch
like all the rest?"

But Wraysford was; he would gladly have helped if he could, but he
really must not this time; perhaps he would for the next.

Oliver was as bad; he declared the things he had written before--even
with Pembury's assistance--had taken him such ages to do, that he wasn't
going in for the next number.  He was very sorry to disappoint, and all
that; but if Tony was in for a scholarship next Michaelmas he would
understand the reason.  Why not let the thing drop this month?

This, however, by no means met Tony's views.  A pretty figure he would
cut if it were to be said he couldn't keep up a paper for two numbers
running!  No! his mind was made up.  Number 2 _should_ come out, even if
he wrote every word of it himself!  And with that determination he
hobbled off to his study.  Here he met Simon waiting for him.

"Oh," said the poet; "I only brought this, if you'll put it in.  I think
it's not bad.  I could make it longer if you like.  I find poetry comes
so easily, you know!"

Tony glanced over the paper and grinned.  "Thanks, awfully!  This will
do capitally; it would spoil it to make it any longer.  You're a brick,
Simon!  I wish _I_ could write poetry."

"Oh, never mind.  I could do some more bits about other things, you
know, if you like."

Pembury said he didn't think he should require any more "bits," but was
awfully obliged by this one, which was first-rate, a recommendation
which sent Simon away happy to his study, there immediately to compose
the opening stanza of his famous epic, "The Sole's Allegery--a sacred
Poem."

With one contribution in hand, Tony locked his door and sat down to
write.  There was something out of the common about Pembury.  With the
body of a <DW36> he had the heart of a lion, and difficulties only made
it more dauntless.  Any one else would have thought twice, indeed,
before undertaking the task he was now setting himself to do, and
ninety-nine out of every hundred would have abandoned it before it was
half done.  But Tony was indomitable.  Every night that week he locked
his study-door, and threats and kicks and entreaties would not open it
even to his dearest friends.  And slowly the huge white sheet before him
showed the signs of his diligence.  The great long columns, one after
another, filled up; paragraph followed paragraph, and article article.
He coolly continued the "History of Saint Dominic's" begun last month by
Bullinger, and the "Reports of the Sixth Form Debates" commenced by Tom
Senior.  And the "Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse" went on just as if
Wraysford had never abandoned it; and the poem on the Guinea-pigs,
promised in Number 1, by the author of "To a Tadpole," duly appeared
also.  Besides this, there were the continuations of Tony's own
articles, and his "Personal Notes," and "Squeaks from Tadpoleopolis,"
and advertisements just as usual; until, in due time, the last column
was filled up, the sheet triumphantly fixed in its frame, and as
triumphantly hung up on its own particular nails on the wall outside the
Fifth Form door.

It was a feat to be proud of, and Tony was justly and pardonably proud.
It was at least a gratification next morning to see not only that the
school generally took unabated interest in the _Dominican_, but that he
had fairly astonished his own class-fellows.  Their admiration of the
editor was unbounded and undisguised.  Their consciences had all, more
or less, reproached them for backing out of their responsibilities in
the way they had; and now it quite touched them to see how,
notwithstanding, Anthony had by his own labour made up for their defect,
and sustained the reputation of the Fifth before all the school.

The crush outside the door was greater than ever this time, and Master
Paul, who again acted as policeman, was obliged to summon Stephen to his
assistance in watching to see that no damage came to the precious
document.

The account of the Alphabet Match was very graphic, and written quite in
the usual absurd "sporting style," greatly to the amusement of most of
those who had taken part in it.  Here is a specimen:--

"At 4.30, sharp, the leather was taken into custody by `Gamey' Raikes,
at the wash-house end, who tried what his artful `yorkers' could do in
the way of dissolving partnership.  But Teddy Loman kept his willow
straight up, and said `Not at home' to every poser, leaving Noll to do
all the smacking.  This pretty business might have gone on till
to-morrow week had the men's upper stories been as `O.K.' as their
timbers, but they messed about over a pretty snick of Noll's, and, after
popping the question three times, Teddy got home just in time to see his
two bails tumble out of their groove.  Teddy didn't like this, and
bowled his partner a wide compliment, which Noll, like a sensible man,
didn't walk out to, and Teddy was astonished to find his party could get
on without him;" and so on.

This version of the incident was by no means pleasant to Loman, but to
every one else it was highly diverting, and it actually made one or two
of the Fifth think that Oliver, after all, had not done such a very
discreditable thing in taking that angry word in silence.  If only he
had shown more spirit about the blow, they could have forgiven the rest.

Then followed more from the "Sixth Form Mouse":--

"The Sixth held a Cabinet Council to-day to discuss who should go out
for nuts.  The choice fell on Callonby.  I wonder why the Sixth are so
fond of nuts.  Why, monkeys eat nuts.  Perhaps that is the reason.  What
a popular writer Mr Bohn is with the Sixth! they even read him at
lesson time!  I was quite sorry when the Doctor had to bone Wren's Bohn.
I wonder, by the way, why that bird found it so hard to translate the
simplest sentence without his Bohn!  The Doctor really shouldn't--I hope
he will restore to Wren his backbone by giving him back his Bohn.  Hum!
I heard some one smiling.  I'll go."

The Sixth, a good many of them, were imprudent enough to look very
guilty at the reading of this extract, a circumstance which appeared to
afford keenest delight to the Fifth.  But as Simon's poem followed, they
had other food for thought at the moment.  The poem was entitled--

  A Revverie.

  I.

  I walked me in the garden, all in the garden fair,
  And mused upon my hindmost sole all in the open air.
  When lo!  I heard above my head a sound all like a wisk,
  I stepped me aside thereat out of the way so brisk.

  [Hindmost sole, possibly "inmost soul"; wisk, possibly "whisk."]

  II.

  I looked me up, and there behold! and lo! a window broad,
  And out thereof I did dizzern a gallant fishing-rod,
  All sporting in the breaze untill the hook in ivy caught,
  And then the little lad he tried to pull it harder than he ought.

  III.

  It broke, alas! and so messeems fades life's perplecksing dreems,
  And vanish like that fishing-rod all in the dark messeems.
  I wonder if my perplecksing dreems will vanish like the rod in the
  dark,
  And I shall rise and rise and rise and rise all like a lark.

  IV.

  Oh wood I was a lark, a lark all lofty in the sky,
  I do not know what I should do to quench my blazing eye.
  I'd look me down on Dominic's, and think of the days when I was young,
  Or would I was an infant meek all sucking of my thumb.

Again Simon, who had watched with intense interest the reception of his
poem, was perplexed to notice the amusement it had caused.  Even Pembury
had mistaken its "inmost soul," for he had placed it in the column
devoted to "Facetiae."  Nor could Simon understand why, for the next
week, every one he met had his thumb in his mouth.  It was very queer--
one of life's mysteries--and he had thoughts of embodying the fact in
his "Sole's Allegery," which was now rapidly approaching completion.

After this bubbling up of pure verse there followed a few remarks about
Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, which had the effect of highly incensing those
young gentlemen.  The paragraph was entitled--

"Market Intelligence.

"Half a dozen mixed Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were offered for sale by
auction on the centre landing yesterday.  There was only a small
attendance.  The auctioneer said he couldn't honestly recommend the lot,
but they must be got rid of at any cost.  He had scrubbed their faces
and combed their hair for the occasion, but couldn't guarantee that
state of things to last.  But they might turn out to be of use as
substitutes in case worms should become scarce; and, any way, by boiling
down their fingers and collars, many gallons of valuable ink could be
obtained.  The first bid was a farthing, which seemed to be far beyond
the expectation of the salesman, who at once knocked the lot down.  The
sale was such a success that it is proposed to knock down several more
lots in a like manner."

The rage of the Fourth Junior on reading this paragraph was something
awful to witness.  Bramble, feeling he must kick somebody on the legs,
kicked Stephen, who, forgetting that he was on police duty, seized
Bramble by the hair of his head and rushed off with him to the
"meeting," closely followed by Paul and the whole swarm.  That meeting
lasted from three to five.  What awful threats were uttered, and what
awful vows taken, no one knew.  At five o'clock Stephen's fight with
Bramble came off as usual, and all that evening Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles
did nothing but make paper darts.  It was certain a crisis had come in
their history.  The "dogs of war" were let loose!  They would be
revenged on somebody!  So they at once began to be revenged on one
another, till it should be possible to unite their forces against the
common foe.

But the remainder of the crowd stayed on to read one more extract from
the _Dominican_.  Under the title of "Reviews of Books," Anthony had
reviewed in style the last number of the _Sixth Form Magazine_ as
follows:--

"This book appears to be the praiseworthy attempt of some ambitious
little boys to enter the field of letters.  We are always pleased to
encourage juvenile talent, but we would suggest that our young friends
might have done better had they kept to their picture-books a little
longer before launching out into literature on their own account.  In
the words of the poet we might say--

  "Babies, wait a little longer,
  Till the little wings are stronger,
  Then you'll fly away."

"Nevertherless, we would refer to one or two of these interesting
attempts.  Take, for example, the essay on the `Character of Julius
Caesar,' by one who signs himself Raleigh.  This is very well written.
Pains have been taken about the formation of the letters, and some of
the capitals are specially worthy of praise.  For one so young, we
rarely saw the capital D so well done.  Dr Smith, were he alive, would
be pleased to see his remarks on Caesar so well and accurately copied
out.  Master Wren gives us some verse--a translation out of Horace.  We
wonder if Mr Wren is any relation to the late Jenny Wren who married
Mr Cock Robin.  We should imagine from these verses that Mr Wren must
be well acquainted with _Robbin_.  Take one more, Master Loman's `A
Funny Story.'  We are sorry to find Master Loman tells stories.  Boys
shouldn't tell stories; it's not right.  But Master Loman unfortunately
does tell stories, and this is one.  He calls it `A Funny Story.'  That
is a story to begin with, for it is not funny.  We don't know what
Master Loman thinks funny; perhaps he calls being run out at cricket
funny, or hitting another boy in the mouth when he's looking another
way.  In any case, we can't make out why he calls this story funny.  The
only funny thing about it is its title, and his spelling `attach'
`attatch.'  The last is really funny.  It shows how partial Mr Loman is
to _tea_.  If this funny story is the result of his partiality to tea,
we are afraid it was very weak stuff."

Loman, who had already been made dreadfully uncomfortable by Simon's
poem, made no secret of his rage over this number of the _Dominican_.
He was one of those vain fellows who cannot see a jest where it is
levelled at themselves.  The rest of the Sixth had the sense, whatever
they felt, to laugh at Anthony's hard hits.  But not so Loman; he lost
his temper completely.  He ordered the _Dominican_ to be taken down; he
threatened to report the whole Fifth to the Doctor.  He would not allow
the junior boys to stand and read it.  In short, he made a regular ass
of himself.

Undoubtedly Anthony had put a great deal of venom into his pen.  Still,
by taking all the poison and none of the humour to himself Loman made a
great mistake, and displayed a most unfortunate amount of weakness.

He shut himself up in his study in a fume; he boxed Stephen's ears for
nothing at all, and would see no one for the rest of the evening.  He
knew well he could not have given his enemies a greater crow over him
than such conduct, and yet he could not command his vanity to act
otherwise.

But that evening, just before tea-time, something happened which gave
Loman more to think about than the _Dominican_.  A letter marked
"Immediate" came to him by the post.  It was from Cripps, to say that,
after all, Sir Patrick _had_ won the Derby!



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

COMPANY AT THE COCKCHAFER.

Cripps's letter was as follows:

"Hon. Sir,--This comes hoping you are well.  You may like to know Sir
Patrick won.  The tip was all out.  Honourable Sir,--My friend would
like his ten pounds sharp, as he's a poor man.  Please call in on
Saturday afternoon.  Your very humble servant, Ben Cripps."

This letter was startling enough to drive fifty _Dominicans_ out of
Loman's head, and for a long time he could hardly realise how bad the
news it contained was.

He had reckoned to a dead certainty on winning the bet which Cripps had
advised him to make with his friend.  Not that Loman knew anything about
racing matters, but Cripps had been so confident, and it seemed so safe
to bet against this one particular horse, that the idea of events
turning out otherwise had never once entered his head.

He went to the door and shouted for Stephen, who presently appeared with
a paper dart in his hand.

"Greenfield," said Loman, "cut down at once to Maltby and bring me a
newspaper."

Stephen stared.

"I've got my lessons to do," he said.

"Leave them here, I'll do them," replied Loman; "look sharp."

Still Stephen hesitated.

"We aren't allowed out after seven without leave," he faltered, longing
to get back to the war preparations in the Fourth Junior.

"I know that, and I give you leave--there!" said Loman, with all the
monitorial dignity he could assume.  This quite disarmed Stephen.  Of
course a monitor could do no wrong, and it was no use objecting on that
score.

Still he was fain to find some other excuse.

"I say, will it do in the morning?" he began.

Loman's only reply was a book shied at his fag's head--quite explicit
enough for all practical purposes.  So Stephen hauled down his colours
and prepared to start.

"Look sharp back," said Loman, "and don't let any one see you going out.
Look here, you can get yourself some brandy-balls with this."

Stephen was not philosopher enough to argue with himself why, if he had
leave to go out, he ought to avoid being seen going out.  He pocketed
Loman's extra penny complacently, and giving one last longing look in
the direction of the Fourth Junior, slipped quietly out of the school
and made the best of his way down to Maltby.

It was not easy at that time of day to get a paper.  Stephen tried half
a dozen stationers' shops, but they were all sold out.  They were
evidently more sought after than brandy-balls, of which he had no
difficulty in securing a pennyworth at an early stage of his pilgrimage.
The man in the sweet-shop told him his only chance of getting a paper
was at the railway station.

So to the station he strolled, with a brandy-ball in each cheek.  Alas!
the stall was closed for the day.

Stephen did not like to be beaten, but there was nothing for it now but
to give up this "paper-chase," and return to Loman with a report of his
ill-success.

As he trotted back up High Street, looking about everywhere but in the
direction in which he was going (as is the habit of small boys), and
wondering in his heart whether his funds could possibly stand the strain
of another pennyworth of brandy-balls, he suddenly found himself in
sharp collision with a man who expressed himself on the subject of
clumsy boys generally in no very measured terms.

Stephen looked up and saw Mr Cripps the younger standing before him.

"Why!" exclaimed that worthy, giving over his irascible expletives, and
adopting an air of unfeigned pleasure, "why, if it ain't young Master
Greenhorn.  Ha, ha!  How do, my young bantam?  Pretty bobbish, eh?"

Stephen did not know exactly what was meant by "bobbish," but replied
that he was quite well, and sorry he had trodden on Mr Cripps's toes.

"Never mind," said Mr Cripps, magnanimously, "you're a light weight.
And so you're taking a dander down town, are you? looking for lollipops,
eh?"

Stephen blushed very red at this.  However had Mr Cripps guessed about
the brandy-balls?

"I came to get a paper for Loman," he said, "but they're all sold out."

"No, are they?  I wonder what Mr Loman wants with a paper, now?"

"He said it was very important, and I was to be sure to get one of
to-day's," said Stephen.  "Do you know where I can get one?"

"Of course.  Come along with me; I've got one at home you can have.  And
so he said it was very important, did he?  That's queer.  There's
nothing in to-day's paper at all.  Only something about a low
horse-race.  He don't want it for that, I guess; eh?"

"Oh, no, I shouldn't think," said Stephen, trotting along beside his
amiable acquaintance.

Mr Cripps was certainly a very friendly man, and as he conducted
Stephen to the Cockchafer, Stephen felt quite a liking for him, and
couldn't understand why Oliver and Wraysford both ran him down.

True, Mr Cripps did use some words which didn't seem exactly proper,
but that Stephen put down to the habit of men in that part.  The man
seemed to take such an interest in boys generally, and in Stephen in
particular, and was so interested and amused to hear all about the
Guinea-pigs, and the _Dominican_, and the Sixth _versus_ School, that
Stephen felt quite drawn out to him.  And then he told Stephen such a
lot of funny stories, and treated him with such evident consideration,
that the small boy felt quite flattered and delighted.

So they reached the Cockchafer.  Here Stephen, whose former visits had
all been to the lock-house, pulled up.

"I say," said he, "is this a public-house?"

"Getting on that way," said Mr Cripps.

"We aren't allowed to go in public-houses," said Stephen, "it's one of
the rules."

"Ah, quite right too; not a good thing for boys at all.  We'll go in by
the private door into my house," said Mr Cripps.

Stephen was not quite comfortable at this evasion, but followed Mr
Cripps by the side door into his bar parlour.

"You won't forget the paper," he said, "please.  I've got to be back in
school directly."

"I'll have a look for it.  Now, I guess you like ginger-beer, don't
you?"

Stephen was particularly partial to ginger-beer, as it happened, and
said so.

"That's the style," said Mr Cripps, producing a bottle.  "Walk into
that while I go and get the paper."

Stephen did walk into it with great relish, and began to think Mr
Cripps quite a gentleman.  He was certain, even if that bat had been a
poor one, it was quite worth the money paid for it, and Oliver was
unjust in calling Cripps hard names.

The landlord very soon returned with the paper.

"Here you are, young governor.  Now don't hurry away.  It's lonely here
all by myself, and I like a young gentleman like you to talk to.  I knew
a nice little boy once, just your age, that used to come and see me
regular once a week and play bagatelle with me.  He was a good player at
it too!"

"Could he get clear-board twice running with two balls?" asked Stephen,
half jealous of the fame of this unknown rival.

"Eh!--no, scarcely that.  He wasn't quite such a dab as that."

"I can do it," said Stephen with a superior smile.

"You?  Not a bit of you!" said Mr Cripps, incredulously.

"Yes, I can," reiterated Stephen, delighted to have astonished his host.

"I must see it before I can believe that," said Mr Cripps.  "Suppose
you show me on my board."

Stephen promptly accepted the challenge, and forgetting in his
excitement all about school rules or Loman's orders accompanied Cripps
to the bagatelle-room, with its sanded floor, smelling of stale tobacco
and beer-dregs.  His first attempt, greatly to Mr Cripps's glee, was
unsuccessful.

"I knew you couldn't," exclaimed that worthy.

"I know I can do it," said Stephen, excitedly.  "Let's try again."

After a few more trials he made the two clear-boards, and Mr Cripps was
duly astonished and impressed.

"That's what I call smart play," said he.  "Now, if I was a betting man,
I'd wager a sixpence you couldn't do it again."

"Yes, I can, but I won't bet," said Stephen.  He did do it again, and
Mr Cripps said it was a good job for him the young swell didn't bet, or
he would have lost his sixpence.  Stephen was triumphant.

How long he would have gone on showing off his prowess to the admiring
landlord of the Cockchafer, and how far he might have advanced in the
art of public-house bagatelle, I cannot say, but the sudden striking of
a clock and the entry of visitors into the room reminded him where he
was.

"I must go back now," he said, hurriedly.

"Must you?  Well, come again soon.  I've a great fancy to learn that
there stoke.  I'm a born fool at bagatelle.  What do you say to another
ginger-beer before you go?"

Stephen said "Thank you," and then taking the newspaper in his hand bade
Cripps good-bye.

"Good-bye, my fine young fellow.  You're one of the right sort, you are.
No stuck-up nonsense about you.  That's why I fancy you.  Bye-bye.  My
love to Mr Loman."

Stephen hurried back to Saint Dominic's as fast as his legs would carry
him.  He was not quite comfortable about his evening's proceedings,
although he was not aware of having done anything wicked.  Loman, a
monitor, had given him leave to go down to Maltby, so that was hardly a
crime; and as to the Cockchafer--well, he had only been in the private
part of the house, and not the public bar, and surely there had been no
harm in drinking ginger-beer and playing bagatelle, especially when he
had distinctly refused to bet on the latter.  But, explain it as he
would, Stephen felt uncomfortable enough to determine him to say as
little as possible about his expedition.

He found Loman impatiently awaiting him.

"Wherever have you been to all this time?" he demanded.

"The papers were all sold out," said Stephen.  "I tried seven places."

Loman had eagerly caught up and opened the paper while Stephen nervously
made this explanation, and he took no further heed of his fag, who
presently, seeing he was no longer wanted, and relieved to get out of
reach of questions, prudently retired.

A glance sufficed to confirm the bad news about the Derby.  Sir Patrick
had won, and it was a fact therefore that Loman owed Cripps and his
friend between them thirty pounds, without the least possibility of
paying them.

One thing was certain.  He must see Cripps on Saturday, and trust to his
luck (though that of late had not been very trustworthy) to pull him
through, somehow.

Alas! what a spirit this, in which to meet difficulties!  Loman had yet
to learn that it is one thing to regret, and another thing to repent;
that it is one thing to call one's self a fool, and another thing,
quite, to cease to be one.

But, as he said to himself, he must go through with it now, and the
first step took him deeper than ever into the mire.

For the coming Saturday was the day of the great cricket match, Sixth
versus School, from which a Dominican would as soon think of deserting
as of emigrating.

But Loman must desert if he was to keep his appointment, and he managed
the proceeding with his now characteristic untruthfulness; a practice he
would have scorned only a few months ago.  How easy the first wrong
step!  What a long weary road when one, with aching heart, attempts to
retrace the way!  And at present Loman had made no serious effort in
that direction.

On the Friday morning, greatly to the astonishment of all his
class-fellows, he appeared in his place with his arm in a sling.

"Hullo, Loman!" said Wren, the first whom he encountered, "what's the
row with you?"

"Sprained my wrist," said Loman, to whom, alas!--so easy is the downward
path when once entered on--a lie had become an easy thing to utter.

"How did you manage that?" exclaimed Callonby.  "Mind you get it right
by to-morrow, or we _shall_ be in a fix."

This little piece of flattery pleased Loman, who said, "I'm afraid I
shan't be able to play."

"What!  Who's that won't be able to play?" said Raleigh, coming up in
unwonted excitement.

"Loman; he's sprained his wrist."

"Have you shown it to Dr Splints?" said Raleigh.

"No," said Loman, beginning to feel uncomfortable.  "It's hardly bad
enough for that."

"Then it's hardly bad enough to prevent your playing," said Raleigh,
drily.

Loman did not like this.  He and Raleigh never got on well together, and
it was evident the captain was more angry than sympathetic now.

"Whatever shall we do for bowlers?" said some one.

"I'm awfully sorry," said Loman, wishing he was anywhere but where he
was; "but how am I to help?"

"Whatever induced you to sprain your wrist?" said Wren.  "You might just
as well have put it off till Monday."

"Just fancy how foolish we shall look if those young beggars beat us, as
they are almost sure to do," said Winter.

Loman was quickly losing his temper, for all this was, or seemed to be,
addressed pointedly to him.

"What's the use of talking like that?" he retorted.  "You ass, you! as
if I could help."

"Shouldn't wonder if you could help," replied Winter.

"Perhaps," suggested some one, "it was the _Dominican_ put him out of
joint.  It certainly did give him a rap over the knuckles."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Loman, angrily, and half drawing his
supposed sprained hand out of the sling.

"Shut up, you fellows," interposed Raleigh, authoritatively.  "Baynes
will play in the eleven to-morrow instead of Loman, so there's an end of
the matter."

Loman was sorely mortified.  He had expected his defection would create
quite a sensation, and that his class-fellows would be inconsolable at
his accident.  Instead of that, he had only contrived to quarrel with
nearly all of them, alienating their sympathy; and in the end he was to
be quietly superseded by Baynes, and the match was to go on as if he had
never been heard of at Saint Dominic's.

"Never mind; I'm bound to go and see Cripps.  Besides," said he to
himself, "they'll miss me to-morrow, whatever they say to-day."

Next day, just when the great match was beginning, and the entire school
was hanging breathless on the issue of every ball, Loman quietly slipped
out of Saint Dominic's, and walked rapidly and nervously down to the
Cockchafer in Maltby.

"What _shall_ I say to Cripps?" was the wild question he kept asking
himself as he went along; and the answer had not come by the time he
found himself standing within that worthy's respectable premises.

Mr Cripps was in his usual good humour.

"Why, it's Mr Loman! so it is!" he exclaimed, in a rapture.  "Now who
_would_ have thought of seeing _you_ here?"

Loman was perplexed.

"Why, you told me to come this afternoon," said he.

"Did I?  Ah, I dare say!  Never mind.  Very kind of a young gentleman
like you to come and see the likes of me.  What'll you take?"

Loman did not know what to make of this at all.

"I came to see you about that--that horse you told me to bet against,"
he said.

"I remember.  What's his name?  Sir Patrick, wasn't it?  My friend told
me that he'd had the best of that.  What was it?  Ten bob?"

This affected ignorance of the whole matter in hand was utterly
bewildering to Loman, who had fully expected that, instead of having to
explain himself, he would have the matter pretty plainly explained to
him by his sportive acquaintance.

"No, ten pounds.  That was what I was to pay if the horse won; and,
Cripps, I can't pay it, or the twenty pounds either, to you."

Cripps whistled.

"That's a go and no mistake!" he said.  "Afraid it won't do, mister."

"You told me Sir Patrick was sure not to win," said Loman.

"Ah, there was several of us took in over that there horse," coolly said
Mr Cripps.  "I lost a shilling myself over him.  Nice to be you, flush
of cash, and able to pay straight down."

"I can't pay," said Loman.

"Ah, but the governor can, I'll wager," insinuated Cripps.

"He would never do it!  It's no use asking him," said Loman.

Cripps whistled again.

"That's awkward.  And my friend wants his money, too, and so do I."

"I really can't pay," said Loman.  "I say, Cripps, let us off that
twenty pounds.  I really didn't mean about that rod."

Mr Cripps fired up in righteous indignation.

"Ah, I dare say, mister.  You'll come and snivel now, will you?  But you
were ready enough to cheat a honest man when you saw a chance.  No, I'll
have my twenty or else there'll be a rumpus.  Make no mistake of that!"

The bare idea of a "rumpus" cowed Loman at once.  Anything but that.

"Come, now," said Cripps, encouragingly, "I'll wager you can raise the
wind somewheres."

"I wish I knew how.  I see no chance whatever, unless--" and here a
brilliant idea suddenly struck him--"unless I get the Nightingale.  Of
course; I say, Cripps, will you wait till September?"

"What!  Three months!  And how do you suppose I'm to find bread to eat
till then?" exclaimed Mr Cripps.

"Oh, do!" said Loman.  "I'm certain to be able to pay then.  I forgot
all about the Nightingale."

"The Nightingale?  It must be an uncommon spicy bird to fetch in thirty
pound!"

"It's not a bird," said Loman, laughing; "it's a scholarship."

"A what?"

"A scholarship.  I'm in for an exam, you know, and whoever's first gets
fifty-pounds a year for three years."

"But suppose you ain't first? what then?"

"Oh, but I'm _sure_ to be.  I've only got Fifth Form fellows against me,
and I'm certain to beat them!"

"Well," said Mr Cripps, "I don't so much care about your nightingales
and cock-sparrows and scholarships, and all them traps, but I'd like to
oblige you."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Loman, delighted, and feeling already as if the
debt was paid.  "And you'll get your friend to wait too, won't you?"

"Can't do that.  I shall have to square up with him and look to you for
the lot, and most likely drop into the workhouse for my pains."

"Oh, no.  You can be quite certain of getting the money."

"Well, blessed if I ain't a easy-going cove," said Mr Cripps, with a
grin.  "It ain't every one as 'ud wait three months on your poll-parrot
scholarships, or whatever you call 'em.  Come, business is business.
Give us your promise on a piece of paper--if you must impose upon me."
Loman, only too delighted, wrote at Mr Cripps's dictation a promise to
pay the thirty pounds, together with five pounds interest, in September,
and quitted the Cockchafer with as light a heart as if he had actually
paid off every penny of the debt.

"Of course I'm safe to get it!  Why ever didn't I think of that before?
Won't I just work the rest of the term!  Nothing like having an object
when you're grinding."

With this philosophical reflection he re-entered Saint Dominic's, and
unobserved rejoined the spectators in the cricket-field, just in time to
witness a very exciting finish to a fiercely contested encounter.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

SIXTH VERSUS SCHOOL.

Never had a Sixth versus School Match been looked forward to with more
excitement at Saint Dominic's than the present one.  Party feeling had
been running high all the term, intensified on the one hand by the
unpopularity of some of the monitors, and on the other by the defiant
attitude of the Fifth and the tone of their organ, the _Dominican_.

The lower school naturally looked on with interest at this rivalry
between the two head forms, the result of which, as might have been
expected, was the reverse of beneficial for the discipline of the school
generally.  If the big boys set a bad example and disregard rules, what
can one expect of the little ones?

So far, anything like conflict had been avoided.  The Fifth had
"cheeked" the Sixth, and the Sixth had snubbed the Fifth; but with the
exception of Loman's assault on Oliver, which had not led to a fight,
the war had been strictly one of words.  Now, however, the opposing
forces were to be ranged face to face at cricket; and to the junior
school the opportunity seemed a grand one for a display of partisanship
one side or the other.

The School Eleven, on this occasion, moreover, consisted exclusively of
Fifth Form boys--a most unusual circumstance, and one which seemed to be
the result quite as much of management as of accident.  At least so said
the disappointed heroes of the Fourth.

The match was, in fact--whatever it was formally styled--a match between
the Sixth and the Fifth, and the partisans of either side looked upon it
as a decisive event in the respective glories of the two top forms.

And now the day had come.  All Saint Dominic's trooped out to the
meadows, and there was a rush of small boys as usual for the front
benches.  Stephen found himself along with his trusty ally, Paul, and
his equally trusty enemy, Bramble, and some ten other Guinea-pigs and
Tadpoles, wedged like sardines upon a form that would comfortably hold
six, eagerly canvassing the prospects of the struggle.

"The Sixth are going to win in a single innings, if you fellows want to
know," announced Bramble, with all the authority of one who knows.

"Not a bit of it," replied Paul.  "The Fifth are safe to win, I tell
you."

"But they've got no decent bowlers," said Raddleston.

"Never mind," said Stephen.  "Loman's not going to play for the Sixth.
He's sprained his wrist."

"Hip, hip, hurrah?" yelled Paul, "that _is_ jolly!  They are sure to be
licked now.  Are you sure he's out of it?"

"Yes.  Look at him there with his arm in a sling."

And Stephen pointed to where Loman stood in his ordinary clothes talking
to some of his fellows.

"Well, that _is_ a piece of luck!" said Paul.  "Who's to take his
place?"

"Baynes, they say.  He's no use, though."

"Don't you be too cock-sure, you two," growled Bramble.  "I say we shall
beat you even if Loman don't play.  Got any brandy-balls left,
Greenfield?"

Similar speculations and hopes were being exchanged all round the field,
and when at last the Fifth went out to field, and Callonby and Wren went
in to bat for the Sixth, you might have heard a cat sneeze, so
breathless was the excitement.

Amid solemn silence the first few balls were bowled.  The third ball of
the first over came straight on to Wren's bat, who played it neatly back
to the bowler.  It was not a run, only a simple block; but it was the
first play of the match, and so quite enough to loosen the tongues of
all the small boys, who yelled, and howled, and cheered as frantically
as if a six had been run or a wicket taken.  And the ice once broken,
every ball and every hit were marked and applauded as if empires
depended on them.

It was in the midst of this gradually rising excitement that Loman
slipped quietly and unobserved from the scene, and betook himself to the
errand on which we accompanied him in the preceding chapter.

The two Sixth men went quickly to work, and at the end of the second
over had scored eight.  Then Callonby, in stepping back to "draw" one of
Wraysford's balls, knocked down his wicket.

How the small boys yelled at this!

But the sight of Raleigh going in second soon silenced them.

"They mean hard work by sending in the captain now," said Paul.  "I
don't like that!"

"No more do I," said Stephen.  "He always knocks Oliver's bowling
about."

"Oh, bother; is your brother bowling?" said Master Paul, quite
unconscious of wounding any one's feelings.  "It's a pity they've got no
one better."

Stephen  up at this, and wondered what made Paul such a horrid
boy.

"Better look-out for your eyes," said Bramble, cheerily.  "The captain
always knocks up this way, over square-leg's head."

There was a general buzz of youngsters round the field, as the hero of
the school walked up to the wicket, and coolly turned to face Oliver's
bowling.

The scorer in the tent hurriedly sharpened his pencil.  The big fellows,
who had been standing up to watch the opening overs, sat down on the
grass and made themselves comfortable.  Something was going to happen,
evidently.  The captain was in, and meant business.

Oliver gripped the ball hard in his hand, and walked back to the end of
his run.  "Play!" cried the umpire, and amid dead silence the ball shot
from the bowler's hand.

Next moment there rose a shout loud enough to deafen all Saint
Dominic's.  The ball was flying fifty feet up in the air, and Raleigh
was slowly walking, bat in hand, back to the tent he had only a moment
ago quitted!

The captain had been clean bowled, first ball!

Who shall describe the excitement, the yelling, the cheering, the
consternation that followed?  Paul got up and danced a hornpipe on the
bench; Bramble kicked the boy nearest to him.  "Well bowled, sir!"
shouted some.  "Hard lines!" screamed others.  "Hurrah for the Fifth!"

"You'll beat them yet, Sixth!" such were a few of the shouts audible
above the general clamour.

As for Stephen, he was wild with joy.  He was a staunch partisan of the
Fifth in any case, but that was nothing to the fact that it was _his_
brother, his own brother and nobody else's, who had bowled that eventful
ball, and who was at that moment the hero of Saint Dominic's.  Stephen
felt as proud and elated as if he had bowled the ball himself, and could
afford to be absolutely patronising to those around him, on the head of
this achievement.

"That wasn't a bad ball of Oliver's," he said to Paul.  "He can bowl
very well when he tries."

"It was a beastly fluke!" roared Bramble, determined to see no merit in
the exploit.

"Shut up and don't make a row," said Stephen, with a bland smile of
forgiveness.

Bramble promised his adversary to shut _him_ up, and after a little more
discussion and altercation and jubilation, the excitement subsided, and
another man went in.  All this while the Fifth were in ecstasies.  They
controlled their feelings, however, contenting themselves with clapping
Oliver on the back till he was nearly dead, and speculating on the
chances of beating their adversaries in a single innings.

But they had not won the match yet.

Winter was next man in, and he and Wren fell to work very speedily in a
decidedly business-like way.  No big hits were made, but the score
crawled up by ones and twos steadily, and the longer they were at it the
steadier they played.  Loud cheers announced the posting of thirty on
the signal-board, but still the score went on.  Now it was a slip, now a
bye, now a quiet cut.

"Bravo! well played!" cried Raleigh and his men frequently.  The
captain, by the way, was in excellent spirits, despite his misfortune.

Thirty-five, forty!  The Fifth began to look hot and puzzled.  The
batsmen were evidently far too much at home with the bowling.  A change
must be made, even though it be to put on only a second-rate bowler.

Tom Senior was put on.  He was nothing like as good a bowler as either
Wraysford, or Oliver, or Ricketts.  He bowled a very ordinary slow lob,
without either twist or shoot, and was usually knocked about
plentifully; and this appeared likely to be his fate now, for Wren got
hold of his first ball, and knocked it right over into the scorer's tent
for five.  The Fifth groaned, and could have torn the wretched Tom to
pieces.  But the next ball was more lucky; Winter hit it, indeed, but he
hit it up, sky-high, over the bowler's head, and before it reached the
ground Bullinger was safe underneath it.  It was with a sigh of relief
that the Fifth saw this awkward partnership broken up.  The score was at
forty-eight for three wickets; quite enough too!

After this the innings progressed more evenly.  Men came in and went out
more as usual, each contributing his three or four, and one or two their
ten or twelve.  Among the latter was Baynes, who, at the last moment, it
will be remembered, had been put into the eleven to replace Loman.  By
careful play he managed to put together ten, greatly to his own delight,
and not a little to the surprise of his friends.

In due time the last wicket of the Sixth fell, to a total of eighty-four
runs.

The small boys on the bench had had leisure to abate their ardour by
this time.  Bramble had recovered his spirits, and Paul and Stephen
looked a little blue as they saw the total signalled.

"Eighty-four's a lot," said Stephen.

Paul nodded glumly.

"Ya, ha!  How do you like it, Guinea-pigs?" jeered Bramble.  "I hope
_you'll_ get half as much.  _I_ knew how it would be."

The two friends listened to these taunts in silent sorrow, and wished
the next innings would begin.

It did presently, and not very brilliantly either.  The Fifth only
managed to score fifty-one, and to this total Wraysford was the only
player who made anything like good scoring.  Oliver got out for six,
Ricketts for nine, and Tom Senior and Braddy both for a "duck's-egg."
Altogether it was a meagre performance, and things looked very gloomy
for the Fifth when, for a second time, their adversaries took the
wickets.

Things never turn out at cricket as one expects, however, and the second
innings of the Sixth was no exception to the rule.  They only made
thirty-six runs.  Stephen and Paul were hoarse with yelling, as first
one wicket, then another, went down for scarcely a run.  Raleigh and
Baynes seemed the only two who could stand up at all to the bowling of
Oliver and Wraysford, but even their efforts could not keep the wickets
up for long.

Every one saw now that the final innings would be a desperate struggle.
The Fifth wanted sixty-nine to be equal and seventy to win, and the
question was, Would they do it in time?

Stephen and his confederate felt the weight of this question so
oppressive that they left the irritating company of Mr Bramble, and
walked off and joined themselves to a group of Fourth Form fellows, who
were watching the match with sulky interest, evidently sore that they
had none of their men in the School Eleven.

"They'll never do it, and serve them right!" said one.  "Why didn't they
put Mansfield in the eleven, or Banks?  They're far more use than Fisher
or Braddy."

"For all that, it'll be a sell if the Sixth lick," said another.

"I wouldn't much care.  If we are going to be sat upon by those Fifth
snobs every time an eleven is made up, it's quite time we did go in with
the Sixth."

"Jolly for the Sixth!" retorted the other; whereupon Stephen laughed,
and had his ears boxed for being cheeky.  The Fourth Senior could not
stand "cheek."

But Saint Dominic's generally was "sweet" on the Fifth, and hoped they
would win.  When, therefore, Tom Senior and Bullinger went in first and
began to score there was great rejoicing.

But the Fourth Form fellows, among whom Stephen now was, refused to
cheer for any one; criticism was more in their line.

"Did you ever see a fellow hit across wickets more horribly than
Senior?" said one.

"Just look at that!" cried another.  "That Bullinger's a downright muff
not to get that last ball to leg!  I could have got it easily."

"Well, with that bowling, it's a disgrace if they _don't_ score; that's
all I can say," remarked a third.

And so these Fourth Form grandees went on, much to Stephen's wrath, who,
when Oliver went in, removed somewhere else, so as to be out of ear-shot
of any offensive remarks.

Oliver, however, played so well that even the Fourth Form critics could
hardly run him down.  He survived all the other wickets of his side,
and, though not making a brilliant score, did what was almost as
useful--played steadily, and gradually demoralised the bowling of the
enemy.

As the game went on the excitement increased rapidly; and when at length
the ninth wicket went down for sixty-one, and the last man in appeared,
with nine to win, the eagerness on both sides scarcely knew bounds.
Every ball, every piece of fielding, was cheered by one side, and every
hit and every piece of play was as vehemently cheered by the other.  If
Raleigh and Wren had been nervous bowlers, they would undoubtedly have
been disconcerted by the dead silence, followed by terrific applause,
amid which every ball--even a wide--was delivered.  But happily they
were not.

It was at this critical juncture that Loman reappeared on the scene,
much consoled to have the interview with Cripps over, and quite ready
now to hear every one lament his absence from the match.

The last man in was Webster, a small Fifth boy, who in the last innings
had signalised himself by making a duck's-egg.  The Fifth scarcely dared
hope he would stay in long enough for the nine runs required to be made,
and looked on now almost pale with anxiety.

"Now," said Pembury, near whom Loman, as well as our two Guinea-pigs,
found themselves, "it all depends on Oliver, and I back Oliver to do it,
don't you, Loamy?"

Loman, who since the last _Dominican_ had not been on speaking terms
with Pembury, did not vouchsafe a reply, "I do!" said Stephen, boldly.

"Do you, really?" replied Pembury, looking round at the boy.  "Perhaps
you back yourself to talk when you're not spoken to, eh, Mr Greenhorn?"

"Bravo! bravo!  Well run, sir!  Bravo, Fifth!" was the cry as Oliver,
following up the first ball of the over, pilfered a bye from the
long-stop.

"Didn't I tell you!" exclaimed Pembury, delighted; "he'll save us; he's
got down to that end on purpose to take the bowling.  Do you twig,
Loamy?  And he'll stick to that end till the last ball of the over, and
then he'll run an odd number, and get up to the other end.  Do you
comprehend?"

"You seem to know all about it," growled Loman, who saw the force of
Pembury's observations, but greatly disliked it all the same.

"Do I, really?" replied the lame boy; "how odd that is, now--
particularly without a crib!"

Loman was fast losing patience--a fact which seemed to have anything but
a damping effect on the editor of the _Dominican_.  But another hit or
two by Oliver created a momentary diversion.  It was quite clear that
Pembury's version of Oliver's tactics was a correct one.  He could
easily have run three, but preferred to sacrifice a run rather than
leave the incompetent and flurried Webster to face the bowling.

"Six to win!" cried Stephen; "I'm _certain_ Oliver will do it!"

"Yes, Oliver was always a plodding old blockhead!" drily observed
Pembury, who seemed to enjoy the small boy's indignation whenever any
one spoke disrespectfully of his big brother.

"He's not a blockhead!" retorted Stephen, fiercely.

"Go it!  Come and kick my legs, young 'un; there's no one near but
Loamy, and he can't hurt."

"Look here, you lame little wretch!" exclaimed Loman, in a passion; "if
I have any more of your impudence I'll box your ears!"

"I thought your wrist was sprained?" artlessly observed Pembury.  "Here,
young Paul, let's get behind you, there's a good fellow, I _am_ in such
a funk!"

Whether Loman would have carried out his threat or not is doubtful, but
at that moment a terrific shout greeted another hit by Oliver--the best
he had made during the match--for which he ran four.  One to tie, two to
win! will they do it?

It was a critical moment for Saint Dominic's.  Had the two batsmen been
playing for their lives they could not have been more anxiously watched;
even Pembury became silent.

And now the last ball of the over is bowled in dead silence.  Onlookers
can even hear the whizz with which it leaves Wren's hand.

It is almost wide, but Oliver steps out to it and just touches it.
Webster is half across the wickets already--ready for a bye.  Oliver
calls to him to come on, and runs.  It is a desperate shave--too
desperate for good play.  But who cares for that when that run has
pulled the two sides level, and when, best of all, Oliver has got up to
the proper end for the next over?

Equal!  What a shout greets the announcement!  But it dies away
suddenly, and a new anxious silence ensues.  The game is saved, but not
won; another run is wanted.

No one says a word, but the Fifth everywhere look on with a confidence
which is far more eloquent than words.

Raleigh is the bowler from the lower end, and the Sixth send out their
hearts to him.  He may save them yet!

He runs, in his usual unconcerned manner, up to the wicket and delivers
the ball.  It is one which there is but one way of playing--among the
slips.

Oliver understands it evidently, and, to the joy of the Fifth, plays it.
But why does their cheer drop suddenly, and why in a moment is it
drowned, over and over and over again, by the cheers of the Sixth and
their partisans, as the crowd suddenly breaks into the field, and the
ball shoots high up in the air?

A catch!  Baynes, the odd man, had missed a chance a few overs back from
standing too deep.  This time he had crept in close, and saved the Sixth
by one of the neatest low-catches that had ever been seen in a Dominican
match.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A LOWER SCHOOL FESTIVAL.

"I tell you what, Wray," said Oliver one evening about a week after the
match, "I heartily wish this term was over."

"Why, that's just what I heard your young brother say.  He is going to
learn the bicycle, he says, in the holidays."

"Oh, it's not the holidays I want," said Oliver.  "But somehow things
have gone all wrong.  I've been off my luck completely this term."

"Off your luck!--You great discontented, ungrateful bear.  Haven't you
got the English prize?  Aren't you in the School Eleven? and didn't you
make top score in the match with the Sixth last Saturday?  Whatever do
you mean by `off your luck'?"

"Oh, it's not that, you know," said Oliver, pulling a quill pen to bits.
"What I mean is--oh, bother!--a fellow can't explain it."

"So it seems," laughed Wraysford; "but I wish a fellow could, for I've
not a notion what you're driving at."

"Well, I mean I'm not doing much good.  There's that young brother of
mine, for instance.  What good have I been to him?  There have I let him
go and do just what he likes, and not looked after him a bit ever since
he came here."

"And I wager he's got on all the better for not being tied up to your
apron strings.  He's a fine honest little chap, is young Greenfield."

"Oh, I dare say; but somehow I don't seem to know as much of him now as
I used to do before he came here."

"That's Loman's fault, I bet you anything," exclaimed Wraysford.  "I'm
sure he won't do the kid any good.  But Rastle was saying only yesterday
how well Stephen was getting on in class."

"Was he?  It's little thanks to me if he is," said Oliver, gloomily.

"And what else have you got to grumble about?" asked his friend.

"Why, you know how I'm out with the Fifth over that affair with Loman.
They all set me down as a coward, and I'm not that."

"Of course you aren't," warmly replied the other.  "But, Noll, you told
me a little while ago you didn't care a snap what they thought."

"No more I do, in a way.  But it's very uncomfortable."

"Why don't you tell them straight out why you didn't let out at Loman?
They are sure to respect your motive."

"Yes, and set me down as posing as a martyr or a saint!  No!  I'd sooner
pass as a coward than set up as a saint when I'm not one.  Why, Wray, if
you'll believe me, I've been a worse Christian since I began to try to
be one, than I ever was before.  I'm for ever losing my temper, and--"

"Shut up that tune, now," interposed Wraysford, hurriedly.  "If you are
beginning at that again, I'll go.  As if you didn't know you were the
best fellow in the school!"

"I'm not the best, _or_ anything like," said Oliver, warmly; "I hate
your saying so--I wish almost I had never told you anything about it."

"Well, I don't know," said Wraysford, walking to the window and looking
out.  "Ever since you told me of it, I've been trying myself in a mild
way to go straight.  But it's desperate hard work."

"Desperate hard work even if you try in more than a mild way," said
Oliver.

Both were silent for a little, and then Oliver, hurriedly changing the
subject, said, "And then, to proceed with my growl, I'm certain to come
a howler over the Nightingale."

Wraysford turned from the window with a laugh.

"I suppose you expect me to sympathise with you about that, eh?  The
bigger the howler the better for me!  I only wish you were a true
prophet, Noll, in that particular."

"Why, of course you'll beat me--and if you don't Loman will.  I hear
he's grinding away like nuts."

"Is he, though?" said Wraysford.

"Yes, and he's going to get a `coach' in the holidays too."

"More likely a dog-cart.  Anyhow, I dare say he will run us close.  But
he's such a shifty fellow, there's no knowing whether he will stay out."

Just at that moment a terrific row came up from below.

"Whatever's up down there?"

"Only the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles.  By the way," said Wraysford,
"they've got a grand `supper,' as they call it, on to-night to celebrate
their cricket match.  Suppose we go and see the fun?"

"All right!" said Oliver.  "Who won the match?"

"Why, what a question!  Do you suppose a match between Guinea-pigs and
Tadpoles _ever_ came to an end?  They had a free fight at the end of the
first innings.  The Tadpole umpire gave one of his own men `not out'
when he hit his wicket, and they made a personal question of it, and
fell out.  Your young brother, I hear, greatly distinguished himself in
the argument."

"Well, it doesn't seem to interfere with their spirits now, to judge of
the row they are making.  Just listen!"

By this time they had reached the door of the Fourth Junior room, whence
proceeded a noise such as one often hears in a certain popular
department of the Zoological Gardens.  Amid the tumult and hubbub the
two friends had not much difficulty in slipping in unobserved and
seating themselves comfortably in an obscure corner of the festive
apartment, behind a pyramid of piled-up chairs and forms.

The Junior "cricket feast" was an institution in Saint Dominic's, and
was an occasion when any one who had nerves to be excruciated or
ear-drums to be broken took care to keep out of the way.  In place of
the usual desks and forms, a long table ran down the room, round which
some fifty or sixty urchins sat, regaling themselves with what was left
of a vast spread of plum-cake, buns, and ginger-beer.  How these
banquets were provided was always a mystery to outsiders.  Some said a
levy of threepence a head was made; others, that every boy was bound in
honour to contribute something eatable to the feast; and others averred
that every boy had to bring his own bag and bottle, and no more.  Be
that as it might, the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles at present assembled
looked uncommonly tight about the jackets after it all, and not one had
the appearance of actual starvation written on his lineaments.

The animal part of the feast, however, was now over, and the
intellectual was beginning.  The tremendous noise which had brought
Oliver and Wraysford on to the scene had indeed been but the applause
which followed the chairman's opening song--a musical effort which was
imperatively encored by a large and enthusiastic audience.

The chairman, by the way, was no other than our friend Bramble, who by
reason of seniority--he had been two years in the Fourth Junior, and
showed no signs of rising higher all his life--claimed to preside on all
such occasions.  He sat up at the top end in stately glory, higher than
the rest by the thickness of a Liddell and Scott, which was placed on
his chair to lift him up to the required elevation, blushingly receiving
the applause with which his song was greeted, and modestly volunteering
to sing it again if the fellows liked.

The fellows did like.  Mr Bramble mounted once more on to the seat of
his chair, and saying, "Look-out for the chorus!" began one of the
time-honoured Dominican cricket songs.  It consisted of about twelve
verses altogether, but three will be quite enough for the reader.

  "There was a little lad,
  (Well bowled!)
  And a little bat he had;
  (Well bowled!)
  He skipped up to the wicket,
  And thought he'd play some cricket,
  But he didn't, for he was--
  Well bowled!

  "He thought he'd make a score
  (So bold),
  And lead-off with a four
  (So bold);
  So he walked out to a twister,
  But somehow sort of missed her,
  And she bailed him, for he was
  Too bold.

  "Now all ye little boys
  (So bold),
  Who like to make a noise
  (So bold),
  Take warning by young Walker,
  Keep your bat down to a yorker,
  Or, don't you see? you'll be--
  Well bowled!"

The virtue of the pathetic ballad was in the chorus, which was usually
not sung, but spoken, and so presented a noble opportunity for variety
of tone and expression, which was greedily seized upon by the riotous
young gentlemen into whose mouths it was entrusted.  By the time the sad
adventures of Master Walker had been rehearsed in all their twelve
verses, the meeting was so hoarse that to the two elder boys it seemed
as if the proceedings must necessarily come abruptly to a close for want
of voice.

But no!  If the meeting was for the moment incapable of song, speech was
yet possible and behold there arose Master Paul in his place to propose
a toast.

Now Master Paul was a Guinea-pig, and accounted a mighty man in his
tribe.  Any one might have supposed that the purpose for which he had
now risen was to propose in complimentary terms the health of his
gallant opponents the Tadpoles.  This, however, was far from his
intention.  His modesty had another theme.  "Ladies and gentlemen," he
began.  There were no ladies present, but that didn't matter.
Tremendous cheers greeted this opening.  "You all know me; I am one of
yourselves."  Paul had borrowed this expression from the speech of a
Radical orator, which had appeared recently in the papers.  Every one
knew it was borrowed, for he had asked about twenty of his friends
during the last week whether that wouldn't be "a showy lead-off for his
cricket feast jaw?"

The quotation was, however, now greeted as vociferously as if it had
been strictly original, and shouts of "So you are!"

"Bravo, Paul!" for a while drowned the orator's voice.  When silence was
restored his eloquence took a new and unexpected departure.  "Jemmy
Welch, I'll punch your head when we get outside, see if I don't!"  Jemmy
Welch was a Guinea-pig who had just made a particularly good shot at the
speaker's nose with a piece of plum-cake.  "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I
shall not detain you with a speech (loud cheers from all, and `Jolly
good job!' from Bramble).  I shall go on speaking just as long as I
choose, Bramble, so now!  (Cheers.)  I've as much right to speak as you
have.  (Applause.)  You're only a stuck-up duffer.  (Terrific cheers,
and a fight down at the end of the table.)  I beg to drink the health of
the Guinea-pigs.  (Loud Guinea-pig cheers.)  We licked the old Tadpoles
in the match.  (`No you didn't!'  `That's a cram!' and groans from the
Tadpoles.)  I say we did!  Your umpire was a cheat--they always are!  We
beat you hollow, didn't we, Stee Greenfield?"

"Yes, rather!" shouted Stephen, snatching a piece of cake away from a
Tadpole and shying it to a Guinea-pig.

"That's eight matches we've won," proceeded Paul; "and--all right,
Spicer!  I saw you do it this time!  See if I don't pay you for it!"
whereat the speaker hurriedly quitted his seat and, amid howls and
yells, proceeded to "pay out" Spicer.

Meanwhile Stephen heard his name suddenly called upon for a song, an
invitation he promptly obeyed.  But as the clamour was at the time
deafening, and the attention of the audience was wholly monopolised by
the commercial transactions taking place between Paul and Spicer, the
effect of the performance was somewhat lost.  Oliver certainly did see
his young brother mount up on the table, turn very red in the face, open
his mouth and shut it, smile in one part, look sorrowful in another, and
wave his hand above his head in another.  But that was the only
intimation he had of a musical performance proceeding.  Words and tune
were utterly inaudible by any one except the singer himself--even if
_he_ heard them.

This was getting monotonous, and the two visitors were thinking of
withdrawing, when the door suddenly opened, and a dead silence
prevailed.  The new-comer was the dirtiest and most ferocious-looking of
all the boys in the lower school, who rushed into the room breathless,
and in what would have been a white heat had his face been clean enough
to show it.  "What do you think?" he gasped, catching hold of the back
of a chair for support; "Tony Pembury's kept me all this while brushing
his clothes!  I told him it was cricket feast, but he didn't care!  What
do you think of that?  Of course, you've finished all the grub; I knew
you would!"

This last plaintive wail of disappointment was drowned in the clamour of
execration which greeted the boy's announcement.  Lesser feuds were
instantly forgotten in presence of this great insult.  The most sacred
traditions of Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were being trampled upon by the
tyrants of the upper school!  Not even on cricket feast night was a fag
to be let off fagging!

It was enough!  The last straw breaks the camel's back, and the young
Dominicans had now reached the point of desperation.

It was long before silence enough could be restored, and then the
redoubtable Spicer yelled out, "Let's strike!"

The cry was taken up with yells of enthusiasm--"Strike!  No more
fagging!"

"Any boy who fags after this," screamed Bramble, "will be cut dead!
Those who promise hold up your hands--mind, it's a promise!"

There was no mistaking the temper of the meeting, every hand in the room
was held up.

"Mind now, no giving in!" cried Paul.  "Let's stick all together.
Greenfield senior shall _kill_ me before I do anything more for him!"

"Poor fellow!" whispered Oliver, laughing; "what a lot of martyrdoms
he'll have to put up with!"

"And Pembury shall kill me," squealed the last comer, who had comforted
himself with several crusts of plum-cakes and the dregs of about a dozen
bottles of ginger-beer.  And every one protested their willingness to
die in the good cause.

At this stage Oliver and Wraysford withdrew unobserved.  "I'm afraid
we've been eavesdropping," said Oliver.  "Anyhow, I don't mean to take
advantage of what I've heard."

"What a young ruffian your brother is!" said Wraysford; "he looked
tremendously in earnest!"

"Yes, he always is.  You'll find he'll keep his word far better than
most of them."

"If he does, I'm afraid Loman will make it unpleasant for him," said
Wraysford.

"Very likely."

"Then you'll have to interfere."

"Why, what a bloodthirsty chap you are, Wray!  You are longing for me to
quarrel with Loman.  I'll wait till young Stephen asks me to."

"Do you think he will?  He's a proud little chap."

Oliver laughed.  "It'll serve him right if he does get a lesson.  Did
ever you see such a lot of young cannibals as those youngsters?  Are you
coming to have supper with me?"

The nine o'clock bell soon rang, and, as usual, Oliver went to his door
and shouted for Paul.

No Paul came.

He shouted again and again, but the fag did not appear.  "They mean
business," he said.  "What shall I do?  Paul!"

This time there came a reply down the passage--"Shan't come!"

"Ho, he!" said Oliver; "this is serious; they are sticking to their
strike with a vengeance!  I suppose I must go and look for my fag, eh,
Wray?  Discipline must be maintained."

So saying, Oliver stepped out into the passage and strolled off in the
direction from which the rebel's voice had proceeded.  The passages were
empty; only in the Fourth Junior room was there a sound of clamour.

Oliver went to the door; it was shut.  He pushed; it was fortified.  He
kicked on it; a defiant howl greeted him from the inside.  He called
aloud on his fag; another "Shan't come!" was his only answer.

It was getting past a joke, and Oliver's temper was, as we have seen not
of the longest.  He kicked again, angrily, and ordered Paul to appear.

The same answer was given, accompanied with the same yell, and Oliver's
temper went faster than ever.  He forgot he was making himself
ridiculous; he forgot he was only affording a triumph to those whom he
desired to punish; he forgot the good resolutions which had held him
back on a former occasion, and, giving way to sudden rage, kicked
desperately at the door once more.

This time his forcible appeal had some effect.  The lower panel of the
door gave way before the blow and crashed inwards, leaving a breach
large enough to admit a football.

It was an unlucky piece of success for Oliver, for next moment he felt
his foot grabbed by half a dozen small hands within and held firmly,
rendering him unable to stir from his ridiculous position.  In vain he
struggled and raged; he was a tight prisoner, at the mercy of his
captors.

It was all he could do to stand on his one foot, clinging wildly to the
handle of the door.  In this dignified attitude Wraysford presently
found his friend, and in such a state of passion and fury as he had
never before seen him.

To rap the array of inky knuckles inside with a ruler, and so disengage
the captive foot, was the work of a minute.  Oliver stood for a moment
facing the door and trembling with anger, but Wraysford, taking him
gently by the arm, said, "Come along, old boy!"

There was something in his voice and look which brought a sudden flush
into the pale face of the angry Oliver.  Without a word, he turned from
the door and accompanied his friend back to the study.  There were no
long talks, no lectures, no remorseful confessions that evening.  The
two talked perhaps less than usual, and when they did it was about
ordinary school topics.

No reference was made either then or for a long while afterwards to the
events of the evening.  And yet Oliver and Wraysford, somehow, seemed
more than ever drawn together, and to understand one another better
after this than had ever been the case before.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

GUINEA-PIGS AND TADPOLES ON STRIKE.

If anything had been required to make the "strike" of the Guinea-pigs
and Tadpoles a serious matter, the "affair of Greenfield senior's right
foot" undoubtedly had that effect.  The _eclat_ which that heroic
exploit lent to the mutiny was simply marvellous.  The story was told
with fifty exaggerations all over the school.  One report said that the
whole body of the monitors had besieged the Fourth Junior door, and had
been repulsed with heavy slaughter.  Another declared that Oliver had
been captured by the fags, and branded on the soles of his feet with a G
and a T, to commemorate the emancipation of the Guinea-pigs and
Tadpoles; and a third veracious narrative went so far as to say that the
Upper Fifth and several members of the Sixth had humbly come and begged
forgiveness for their past misdeeds, and were henceforth to become the
fags of their late victims.

True or untrue as these stories were, any amount of glory accompanied
the beginning of the strike, and there was sufficient sense of common
danger to unite the youngsters in very close bonds.  You rarely caught a
Guinea-pig or a Tadpole alone now; they walked about in dozens, and were
very wide awake.  They assembled on every possible occasion in their
room, and fortified their door with chairs and desks, and their zeal
with fiery orations and excited conjurations.  One wretched youth who
the first evening had been weak enough to poke his master's fire, was
expelled ignominiously from the community, and for a week afterwards
lived the life of an outcast in Saint Dominic's.  The youngsters were in
earnest, and no mistake.  Stephen Greenfield, as was only natural, did
not altogether find cause for exultation over the event which led to the
strike.  For a whole day he was very angry on his brother's account, and
threatened to stand aloof from the revolution altogether; but when it
was explained to him this would lead to a general "smash-up" of the
strike, and when it was further explained that the fellows who caught
hold of his big brother's right foot couldn't possibly be expected to
know to whom that foot belonged, he relented, and entered as
enthusiastically as any one into the business.  Indeed, if all the
rebels had been like Stephen, the fags at Saint Dominic's would be on
strike to this day.  He contemplated martyrdom with the utmost
equanimity, and the Inquisition itself never saw a more determined
victim.

The morning after the famous "cricket feast" gave him his first
opportunity of sacrificing himself for the good of his country.  Loman
met him in the passage after first-class.

"Why didn't you turn up and get my breakfast, you idle young vagabond?"
inquired the Sixth Form boy, half good-humouredly, and little guessing
what was in the wind.  "I'm not idle," said Stephen.

"Then what do you mean by not doing your work?"

"It's not my work."

Loman opened his eyes in amazement, and stared at this bold young hero
as if he had dropped from the clouds.  "What!" he cried; "what do you
say?"

"It's not my work," repeated Stephen, blushing, but very determined.

"Look here, young fellow," said Loman, when he was sure that he had
really heard correctly, "don't you play any of your little games with
me, or you'll be sorry for it."

Stephen said nothing, and waited with a tremor for what was to follow.

Loman was hardly a bully naturally.  It was always easier for him to be
civil than to be angry, especially with small boys, but this cool
defiance on the part of his fag was too much for any one's civility, and
Loman began to be angry.

"What do you mean by it?" he said, catching the boy by the arm.

Stephen wrenched away his arm and stood dogged and silent.

Nothing could have irritated Loman more.  To be defied and resisted by a
youngster like this was an experience quite new to him.

"Just come to my room," said he, gripping his fag angrily by the
shoulder.  "We'll see who's master of us two!"

Stephen was forced to submit, and allowed himself to be dragged to the
study.

"Now!" said Loman shutting the door.

"Now!" said Stephen, as boldly as he could, and wondering what on earth
was to become of him.

"Are you going to do what you're told, or not?" demanded Loman.

"Not what _you_ tell me," replied Stephen, promptly, but not exactly
cheerfully.

"Oh!" said Loman, his face becoming crimson, "you're quite sure?"

"Yes," said Stephen.

"Then take that!" said Loman.

It was a sharp box on the ears, suddenly administered.  Stephen recoiled
a moment, but only a moment.  He had expected something a good deal
worse.  If that was all, he would brave it out yet.

"Don't you hit me!" he said, defiantly.

Loman could not stand to be defied.  His vanity was his weak point, and
nothing offended his vanity so much as to find any one as determined as
himself.

He took up a ruler, and in his passion flung it at the luckless
Stephen's head.  It struck him hard on the cheek.  The blood flushed to
the boy's face as he stood a moment half-stunned and smarting with the
pain, confronting his adversary.  Then he rushed blindly in and flung
himself upon the bully.

Of course it was no match.  The small boy was at the mercy of the big
one.  The latter was indeed taken aback for a moment at the fury of his
young assailant, impotent as it was, but that was all.  He might have
defended himself with a single hand; he might have carried the boy under
one arm out into the passage.  But the evil spirit had been roused
within him, and that spirit knew no mercy.  He struck out and fought his
little foeman as if he had been one of his own size and strength.  For
every wild, feeble blow Stephen aimed, Loman aimed a hard and straight
blow back.  If Stephen wavered, Loman followed in as he would in a
professional boxing match, and when at last the small boy gave up,
exhausted, bleeding, and scarcely able to stand, his foe administered a
parting blow, which, if he had struck no other, would have stamped him
as a coward for ever.

"Now!" exclaimed Loman, looking down on his victim, "will you do what
you're told now, eh?"

It was a critical moment for poor Stephen.  After all, was the "strike"
worth all this hardship?  A single word would have saved him; whereas if
he again defied his enemy, it was all up with him.

He did waver a moment; and lucky for him he did.  For just then the door
opened, and Simon entered.  Stephen saw his chance.  Slipping to the
open door, he mustered up energy to cry as loud as he could, "No, I
won't;" and with that made good his escape into the passage, as done up
as a small boy well could be without being quite floored.

A dozen eager friends were at hand to aid in stopping the bleeding of
their hero's nose, and to apply raw steak to his black eye.  The story
of his desperate encounter flew on the wings of fame all over the
school, and the glory and pride of the youngsters reached its climax
when, that afternoon, Stephen with his face all on one side, his eye a
bright green and yellow, and his under lip about twice its ordinary
thickness, took his accustomed place in the arithmetic class of the
Fourth Junior.

"Why, Greenfield," exclaimed Mr Rastle, when in due time the young
hero's turn came to stand up and answer a question, "what have you been
doing to yourself?"

"Nothing, sir," remarked Stephen, mildly.

"How did you come by that black eye?" asked the master.

"Fighting, sir," said Stephen, rather pompously.

"Ah! what did you say forty-eight sixths was equal to?"

This was Mr Rastle's way.  He very rarely hauled a boy over the coals
before the whole class.

But after the lesson he beckoned Stephen into his study.

"I'm afraid you got the worst of that fight," he said.

Stephen, who by this time knew Mr Rastle too well to be afraid of him,
and too well, also, not to be quite frank with him, answered meekly,
"The fellow was bigger than me."

"I should guess that by the state of your face.  Now, I don't want to
know what the fight was about, though I dare say you'd like to tell me
[Stephen was boiling to tell him].  You small boys have such peculiar
reasons for fighting, you know, no one can understand them."

"But this was because--"

"Hush!  Didn't I tell you I won't hear what it was about, sir!" said Mr
Rastle, sharply.  "Did you shake hands afterwards?"

"No, I didn't, _and I won't_!" exclaimed Stephen, forgetting, in his
indignation, to whom he was speaking.

"Then," said Mr Rastle, quietly, "write me out one hundred lines of
Caesar, Greenfield; and when you have recollected how to behave
yourself, we will talk more about this.  You can go."

Mr Rastle _was_ a queer man; he never took things as one expected.
When Stephen expected him to be furious he was as mild as a lamb.  There
was no making him out.

But this was certain: Stephen left his room a good deal more crestfallen
than he entered it.  He had hoped to win Mr Rastle's sympathy and
admiration by an account of his grievances, and, instead of that, he was
sent off in disgrace, with an imposition for being rude, and feeling
anything but a hero.

Even the applause of his friends failed to console him quite.  Besides,
his head ached badly, and the bruise on his cheek, which he had scarcely
felt among his other wounds, now began to swell and grow painful.
Altogether, he was in the wars.

He was groaning over his imposition late that evening in the class-room,
feeling in dreadful dumps, and wishing he had never come to Saint
Dominic's, when a hand laid on his shoulder made him start.  He looked
up and saw Mr Rastle.

"Greenfield," said the master, kindly, "how much of your imposition have
you done?"

"Seventy lines, sir."

"Hum!  That will do this time.  You had better get to bed."

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Stephen, moved far more by Mr Rastle's kind tone
than by his letting him off thirty lines of the Caesar, "I'm so sorry I
was rude to you."

"Well, I was sorry, too; so we'll say no more about that.  Why, what a
crack you must have got on your cheek!"

"Yes, sir; that was the ruler did that."

"The ruler!  Then it wasn't a fair fight?  Now don't begin telling me
all about it.  I dare say you were very heroic, and stood up against
terrible odds.  But you've a very black eye and a very sore cheek now,
so you had better get to bed as fast as you can."

And certainly the pale, bruised, upturned face of the boy did not look
very bright at that moment.

Stephen Greenfield went off to bed that night in a perturbed state of
mind and body.  He had stuck loyally to his promise not to fag, and he
had earned the universal admiration of his comrades.  But, on the other
hand, he had been awfully knocked about, and, almost as bad, he had been
effectively snubbed by Mr Rastle.  He did not exactly know what to
think of it all.  Had he done a fine deed or a foolish one? and what
ought he to do to-morrow?

Like a sensible little man, he went sound asleep over these questions,
and forgot all about them till the morrow.

When he woke Stephen was like a giant refreshed.  His eye was certainly
a rather more brilliant yellow than the day before, and his cheek still
wore a dull red flush.  But somehow he felt none of the misgivings and
dumps that had oppressed him the night before.  He was full of hope
again and full of courage.  The Guinea-pigs should never charge _him_
with treachery and desertion, and what he had gone through already in
the "good cause" he would go through again.

With this determination he dressed and went down to school.  Loman,
whose summons he expected every moment to hear, did not put him to the
necessity of a renewed struggle.  From all quarters, too, encouraging
reports came in from the various insurgents.  Paul announced that
Greenfield senior took it "like a lamb"; Bramble recounted how his
"<DW65>-driver," as he was pleased to call Wren, had chased him twice
round the playground and over the top of the cricket-shed without being
able to capture him; and most of the others had exploits equally heroic
to boast of.  Things were looking up in the Fourth Junior.

They spent a merry morning, these young rebels, wondering in whispers
over their lessons what this and that Sixth or Fifth Form fellow had
done without them.  With great glee they imagined Raleigh blacking his
own boots and Pembury boiling his own eggs, and the very idea of such
wonders quite frightened them.  At that rate Saint Dominic's would come
to a standstill altogether.

"Serve 'em right!" said Bramble; "they want a lesson.  I wish I'd two
fellows to strike against instead of one!"

"One's enough if he strikes you back," said Stephen, with a rueful grin.

Master Bramble evinced his sympathy by laughing aloud.  "I say, you look
just like a clown; doesn't he, Padger, with his eye all sorts of colours
and his cheek like a house on fire?"

"All very well," said Stephen; "I wish you'd got my cheek."

"Bramby's got cheek enough of his own, I guess," put in Paul; whereat
Master Bramble fired up, and a quarrel became imminent.

However, Stephen prevented it by calling back attention to his own
picturesque countenance.  "I don't mind the eye, that don't hurt; but I
can tell you, you fellows, my cheek's awful!"

"I always said you'd got an awful cheek of your own, young Greenfield,"
said Bramble, laughing, as if _he_ was the inventor of the joke.
Stephen glowered at him.

"Well, you said so yourself," put in Bramble, a little mildly, for since
Stephen's exploit yesterday that young hero had advanced a good deal in
the respect of his fellows.  "But, I say, why don't you stick some
lotion or something on it?  It'll never get right if you don't, will it,
Padger?"

Padger suggested that young Greenfield might possibly have to have his
cheek cut off if he didn't look-out, and Paul said the sooner he
"stashed his cheek" the better.

The result of this friendly and witty conference was that Stephen took
it into his head to cure his cheek, and to that end applied for leave
from Mr Rastle to go down that afternoon to Maltby to get something
from the chemist.

Mr Rastle gave him leave, and told him the best sort of lotion to ask
for, and so, as soon as afternoon school was over, our young champion
sallied boldly forth on his errand.  He felt very self-satisfied and
forgiving to all the world as he walked along.  There was no doubt about
it, he was a hero.  Every one seemed to take an interest in his black
eye and sore cheek, from Mr Rastle downwards.  Very likely that fight
of his with Loman yesterday would be recorded as long as Saint Dominic's
remained, as the event which saved the lower school from the tyranny of
the upper!

His way to the chemist's lay past the turning up to the Cockchafer, and
the idea occurred to him to turn in on the way back and talk over the
event of the hour with Mr Cripps, whom he had not seen since the
bagatelle-lesson a week ago.  He was sure that good gentleman would
sympathise with him, and most likely praise him; and in any case it
would be only civil, after promising to come and see him sometimes, to
look in.

The only thing was that the Cockchafer, whatever one might say about it,
was a public-house.  The private door at the side hardly sufficed to
satisfy Stephen that he was not breaking rules by going in.  He would
not have entered by the public door for worlds, and the thought did
occur to him, Was there very much difference after all between one door
and the other?  However, he had not answered the question before he
found himself inside, shaking hands with Mr Cripps.

That gentleman was of course delighted, and profuse in his gratitude to
the "young swell" for looking him up.  He listened with profound
interest and sympathy to his story, and made some very fierce remarks
about what he would do to "that there" Loman if he got hold of him.
Then the subject of bagatelle happened to come up, and presently Stephen
was again delighting and astonishing the good gentleman by his skill in
that game.  Then in due time it came out that the boy's mother had
bought him a bicycle, and he was going to learn in the holidays, a
resolution Mr Cripps highly approved of, and was certain a clever young
fellow like him would learn in no time, which greatly pleased Stephen.

Before parting, Mr Cripps insisted on lending his young friend a
lantern for his bicycle, when he rode it in the dark.  It was a
specially good one, he said, and the young gentleman could easily return
it to him after the holidays, and so on.

Altogether it was a delightful visit, and Stephen wondered more than
ever how some of the fellows could think ill of Mr Cripps.

"Oh, I say," said the boy, at parting; "don't do what you said you would
to Loman.  I'm not afraid of him, you know."

"I'd like to knock his ugly head off for him!" cried Mr Cripps,
indignantly.

"No, don't; please don't!  I'd rather not.  I dare say he's sorry for
it."

"I'll see he is!" growled Mr Cripps.

"Besides, I've forgiven him," said Stephen, "and oughtn't to have told
tales of him; so mind you don't do it, Mr Cripps, will you?"

"I'll see," said Mr Cripps.  "Good-bye for the present, young
gentleman, and come again soon."

And so, at peace with all the world, and particularly with himself,
Stephen strolled back to Saint Dominic's, whistling merrily.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE DOCTOR AMONG THE GUINEA-PIGS.

The _Dominican_ appeared once more before the holidays, and, as might
have been expected (besides its usual articles at the expense of the
Sixth Form), made itself particularly merry over the rebellion of the
Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles.

Pembury was not the fellow to give quarter in his own particular line of
attack; and it must be confessed he had the proud satisfaction of making
his unfortunate young victims smart.

The "leading article" of the present number bore the suggestive title,
"Thank Goodness!" and began as follows:

"Thank goodness, we are at last rid of the pest which has made Saint
Dominic's hideous for months past!  At a single blow, with a single clap
of the hands, we have sent Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles packing, and can now
breathe pure air.  No longer shall we have to put up with the plague.
We are to be spared the disgust of seeing them, much more of talking to
them or hearing their hideous voices.  No longer will our morning milk
be burned; no longer will our herrings be grilled to cinders; no longer
will our jam be purloined; no longer will our books and door-handles be
made abominable by contact with their filthy hands!  Thank goodness!
The Doctor never did a more patriotic deed than this!  The small animals
are in future to be kept to their own quarters, and will be forbidden
the liberty they have so long abused of mixing with their betters.  It
is as well for all parties; and if any event could have brightened the
last days of this term, it is this--" and so on.

Before this manifesto, a swarm of youngsters puzzled on the day of
publication with no little bewilderment and fury.  They had refused to
allow any of their number to act as policeman, and had secretly been
making merry over the embarrassment of their late persecutors, and
wondering whatever they would be able to say for their humiliated selves
in the _Dominican_--and lo! here was an article which, if it meant
anything, meant that the heroic rebellion of the juniors was regarded
not with dismay, but with positive triumph, by the very fellows it had
been intended to "squash!"

"What does it mean, Padger?" asked Bramble, who, never much of a
scholar, was quite unable to master the meaning of this.

"It's all a pack of crams," replied Padger, not quite sure of the sense
himself.

"It means," said Stephen, "the fellows say they are jolly glad to get
rid of us."

"Eh?" yelled Bramble; "oh, I say, you fellows, come to the meeting!
Jolly glad!  They aren't a bit glad."

"They say so," said Paul.  "Hold hard, Bramble, let's read the rest."

It was all his friends could do to restrain the ardent Bramble from
summoning a meeting on the spot to denounce the _Dominican_ and all its
"crams."  But they managed to hold him steady while they read on.

"The Doctor never did a more--pat--pat--ri--what do you call it?--
patriotic deed than this!"

"Hullo, I say, look here!" cried Stephen, turning quite yellow; "the
Doctor's in it, they say, Bramble.  `The small animals'--that's you and
Padger--`are to be kept in their own quarters.'  Whew! there's a go."

"What!" shrieked Bramble, "who says so?  The Doctor never said so.  I
shall do what I choose.  He never said so.  Bother the Doctor!  Who's
coming to the meeting, eh?"

But at that moment the grave form of Doctor Senior appeared in the midst
of the group, just in time to hear Master Bramble's last complimentary
shout.

The head master was in the most favourable times an object of terror to
the "guilty-conscienced youth" of the Fourth Junior, and the sight even
of his back often sufficed to quell their tumults.  But here he stood
face to face with his unhappy victims, one of whom had just cried,
"Bother the Doctor!" and all of whom had by word and gesture approved of
the sentiment.  Why would not the pavement yawn and swallow them?  And
which of them would not at that moment have given a thousand pounds (if
he had it) to be standing anywhere but where he was?

"Go to your class-room," said the Doctor, sternly, eyeing the culprits
one by one, "and wait there for me."

They slunk off meekly in obedience to this order, and waited the hour of
vengeance in blank dismay.

Dr Senior did not keep them long in suspense, however.  His slow, firm
step sounded presently down the corridor, and at the sound each wretched
culprit quaked with horror.

Mr Rastle was in the room, and rose as usual to greet his chief; the
boys also, as by custom bound, rose in their places.  "Good morning, Mr
Rastle," said the Doctor.  "Are your boys all here?"

"Yes, sir, we have just called over."

"Ah!  And what class comes on first?"

"English literature, sir."

"Well, Mr Rastle, I will take the class this morning, please--instead
of you."

A groan of horror passed through the ranks of the unhappy Guinea-pigs
and Tadpoles at these words.  Bramble looked wildly about him, if haply
he might escape by a window or lie hid in a desk; while Stephen, Paul,
Padger, and the other ringleaders, gave themselves up for lost, and
mentally bade farewell to joy for ever.

"What have the boys been reading?" inquired Dr Senior of Mr Rastle.

"Grey's _Elegy_, sir.  We have just got through it."

"Oh!  Grey's _Elegy_!" said the Doctor; and then, as if forgetting where
he was, he began repeating to himself,--

  "The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
  The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea."

"The first boy,--what can you tell me about the curfew?"  The first boy
was well up in the curfew, and rattled off a "full, true, and particular
account" of that fine old English institution, much to everybody's
satisfaction.  The Doctor went on repeating two or three verses till he
came to the line,--

  "The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep."

"What does that line mean?" he asked of a boy on the second desk.

The boy scarcely knew what it meant, but the boy below him did, and was
quite eager for the question to be passed on.  It was passed on, and the
genius answered promptly, "Four old men."

"Four rude old men," shouted the next, seeing a chance.

"Four rude old men who used to sleep in church," cried another, ready to
cap all the rest.

The Doctor passed the question on no further; but gravely explained the
meaning of the line, and then proceeded with his repetition in rather a
sadder voice.

Now and again he stopped short and demanded an explanation of some
obscure phrase, the answers to which were now correct, now hazy, now
brilliantly original.  On the whole it was not satisfactory; and when
for a change the Doctor gave up reciting, and made the boys read, the
effect was still worse.  One boy, quite a master of elocution, spoilt
the whole beauty of the lines,--

  "Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
  The short and simple annals of the Poor,--"

by reading "animals" instead of "annals"; while another, of an equally
zoological turn of mind, announced that--

  "On some fond _beast_ the parting soul relies,--"

instead of "breast."

But the climax of this "animal mania" was reached when the wretched
Bramble, finally pitched upon to go on, in spite of all his efforts to
hide, rendered the passage:--

  "Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
  Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn," etcetera, as--

"Happy some hairy-headed swine may say."

This was a little too much.

"That will do, sir," said the Doctor, sternly.  "That will do.  What is
your name, sir?"

"Bramble, please, sir."

"Well, Bramble, how long have you been in this class?"

"Two years, sir."

"And have you been all the while on the bottom desk?"

"Yes, please, sir."

"Sir, it displeases me.  You are a dunce, sir."

And then, to Bramble's utter despair and to the terror of all the other
unprofitable members of the class, the Doctor proceeded to catechise
sharply the unhappy youth on his general knowledge of the subjects
taught during the term.

As might be expected, the exhibition was a miserable one; Bramble was
found wanting in every particular.  The simplest questions could hardly
coax a correct answer out of him, whereas an ordinary inquiry was
hopelessly beyond his powers.  He mixed up William the Conqueror and
William of Orange; he subtracted what ought to be multiplied, and
floundered about between conjunctions and prepositions in a sickening
way.  The Doctor did not spare him.  He went ruthlessly on--exposing the
boy's ignorance, first in one thing, then another.  Bramble stood and
trembled and perspired before him, and wished he was dead, but the
questions still came on.  If he had answered a single thing correctly it
would have been a different matter, but he knew nothing.  I believe he
did know what twice two was, but that was the one question the Doctor
did not ask him.  As to French, Latin, Grammar, and Euclid, the clock on
the wall knew as much of them as Bramble.  It came to an end at last.

"Come here, Bramble," said the Doctor, gravely; "and come here, you, and
you, and you," added he, pointing to Stephen and Paul and four or five
others of the party who had been reading the _Dominican_ that morning.

The luckless youngsters obeyed, and when they stood in a row before the
dreaded Doctor, the bottom form and half of the bottom form but one were
empty.

"Now, you boys," began the head master, very gravely, "I hadn't intended
to examine you to-day; but, from something I heard one of you say, I
felt rather anxious to know how some of you are doing in your studies.
These half-dozen boys I was particularly anxious to know of, because I
heard them talking to-day as if they were the most important boys in the
whole school.  They _are_ the most important; for they are the most
ignorant, and require, and in future will receive, the closest looking
after.  You, little boys," said the Doctor, turning to the row of
abashed culprits, "take a word of warning from me.  Do not be silly as
well as dunces.  Do not think, as long as you know least of any one in
the school you can pretend to rule the school.  I hope some of you have
been led to see to-day you are not as clever as you would like to be.
If you try, and work hard, and stick like men to your lessons, you will
know more than you do now; and when you do know more you will see that
the best way for little boys to get on is not by giving themselves
ridiculous airs, but by doing their duty steadily in class, and living
at peace with one another, and submitting quietly to the discipline of
the school.  Don't let me hear any more of this recent nonsense.  You'll
be going off in a day or two for the holidays.  Take my advice, and
think over what I have said; and next term let me see you in your right
minds, determined to work hard and do your part honestly for the credit
of the good old school.  Go to your places, boys."

And so the Doctor's visitation came to an end.  It made a very deep
impression on the youthful members of the Fourth Junior.  Most of them
felt very much ashamed of themselves; and nearly every one felt his
veneration and admiration for the Doctor greatly heightened.  Only a few
incorrigibles like Bramble professed to make light of the scene through
which they had just passed, and even he, it was evident, was
considerably chastened by his experience.

That evening, after the first bed-bell, Dr Senior requested some of the
masters to meet with him for a few minutes in his study.

"Do any of you know," asked the head master, "anything about this
newspaper, the _Dominican_, which I see hanging outside the Fifth door?"

"I hear a great many boys talking about it," said Mr Jellicott of the
Fifth.  "It is the joint production of several of the boys in my form."

"Indeed!  A Fifth form paper!" said the Doctor.  "Has any one perused
it?"

"I have," said Mr Rastle.  "It seems to me to be cleverly managed,
though perhaps a little personal."

"Ah, only natural with schoolboys," said the Doctor.  "I should like to
see it.  Can you fetch it, Rastle?"

"It is nailed to the wall," said Mr Rastle, smiling, "like Luther's
manifesto; but I can get one of the boys, I dare say, to unfasten it for
you."

"No, do not do that," said the Doctor.  "If the mountain will not come
to Mahomet, you know, Mahomet and his disciples must go to the mountain,
eh, Mr Harrison?  I think we might venture out and peruse it where it
hangs."  So half-stealthily, when the whole school was falling asleep,
Dr Senior and his colleagues stepped out into the passage, and by the
aid of a candle satisfied their curiosity as to the mysterious
_Dominican_.

A good deal of its humour was, of course, lost upon them, as they could
hardly be expected to understand the force of all the allusions it
contained.  But they saw quite enough to enable them to gather the
general tenor of the paper; it amused and it concerned them.

"It shows considerable ability on the part of its editor," said the
Doctor, after the masters had returned to his study, "but I rather fear
its tone may give offence to some of the boys--in the Sixth for
instance."

"I fancy there is a considerable amount of rivalry between the two head
forms," said Mr Harrison.

"If there is," said Mr Jellicott, "this newspaper is hardly likely to
diminish it."

"And it seems equally severe on the juniors," said Mr Rastle.

"Ah," said the Doctor, smiling, "about that `strike.'  I can't
understand that.  Really the politics of your little world, Rastle, are
too intricate for any ordinary mortal.  But I gather the small boys have
a grievance against the big ones?"

"Yes, on the question of fagging, I believe."

"Oh!" said the Doctor.  "I hope that is not coming up.  You know I'm
heretic enough to believe that a certain amount of fagging does not do
harm in a school like ours."

"Certainly not," said Mr Jellicott.  "But these small boys are really
very amusing.  They appear to be regularly organised, and some of them
have quite a martyr spirit about them."

"As I can testify," said Mr Rastle, proceeding to recount the case of
Stephen Greenfield and his sore cheek.  The Doctor listened to it all,
half gravely, half amused, and presently said:

"Well, it is as well the holidays are coming.  Things are sure to calm
down in them; and next term I dare say we shall be all the wiser for the
lessons of this.  Meanwhile I should like to see the editor of this
paper to-morrow.  Who is he, Jellicott?"

"I believe it is Pembury."

"Very well.  Send him to me, will you, to-morrow at ten?  Good-night.
Thank you for your advice!"

Next morning the Doctor talked to Pembury about the _Dominican_.  He
praised the paper generally, and congratulated him on the success of his
efforts.  But he took exception to its personal tone.

"As long as you can keep on the broad round of humour and pure fun,
nothing can please us more than to see you improving your time in a
manner like this.  But you must be very careful to avoid what will give
pain or offence to any section of your schoolfellows.  I was sorry to
see in the present number a good deal that might have been well omitted
of that kind.  Remember this, Pembury, I want all you boys, instead of
separating off one set from another, and making divisions between class
and class, to try to make common cause over the whole school, and unite
all the boys in common cause for the good of Saint Dominic's.  Now your
paper could help not a little in this direction.  Indeed, if it does not
help, it had better not be issued.  There!  I shall not refer to the
matter again unless you give me cause.  I do not want to discourage you
in your undertaking, for it's really an excellent idea, and capitally
carried out.  And _verbum sap_, you know, is quite sufficient."

Anthony, with rather a long face, retired from the Doctor's presence.

A few days later the school broke up for the summer holidays.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A HOLIDAY ADVENTURE.

When a big school like Saint Dominic's is gathered together within the
comparatively narrow compass of four walls, there _is_ some possibility
of ascertaining how it prospers, and what events are interesting it.
But when the same school is scattered to the four winds of heaven during
the holidays, it would require a hundred eyes and more to follow its
movements.

It would be impossible, for instance, at one and the same time to
accompany Raleigh and his sisters up Snowdon, and look on at Bramble
catching crabs on the rocks at Broadstairs; nor, while we follow Dr
Senior among the peaks and passes of Switzerland (and remark, by the
way, what a nice quiet boy Tom Senior is, when he has only his father
and his mother to tempt him into mischief) can we possibly expect to
regard very attentively the doings of Simon, as he gapes about before
the London shop-windows, and jerks off a score or more stanzas of his
"Hart's Earnings," which is now about a quarter done.

So the reader must imagine how most of the boys spent their holidays,
how they enjoyed them, and how they behaved themselves during the
period, and be content to be told only about two groups of
holiday-makers, about whom, as they are destined to figure pretty
conspicuously in next term's doings at Saint Dominic's, it will be
interesting to hear rather more particularly now.

And the first group--if we can call a single person a "group"--is Loman.

Loman began his holidays in anything but cheerful spirits.  No one had
seemed particularly sorry to say good-bye to him at Saint Dominic's, and
a good many had been unmistakably glad.  And he had quite enough on his
mind, apart from this, to make his home-coming far less joyous than it
might have been.  It ought to have been the happiest event possible, for
he was coming home to parents who loved him, friends who were glad to
see him, and a home where every comfort and pleasure was within his
reach.  Few boys, indeed, were more blessed than Loman with all the
advantages of a Christian and happy home; and few boys could have failed
to return to such a home after a long absence without delight.  But to
Loman, these holidays, the surroundings of home afforded very little
pleasure.  His mind was ill at ease.  The burden of debt was upon him,
and the burden of suspense.  He had tried hard to assure himself that
all would come right--that he would certainly win the scholarship, and
so wipe off the debt; but his confidence became less and less
comfortable as time went on.

He dared not tell his troubles to his father, for he feared his
upbraiding; and he would not confess them to his mother, for she, he
knew, would tell all to his father.  He still clung to the hope that all
would come right in the end; and then what would have been gained by
telling his parents all about it?

The one thing was hard work--and Loman came home determined to work.
His parents saw him out of spirits, and were concerned.  They did what
they could to cheer him, but without much success.

"Come, Edward, put away your books to-day," his mother would say; "I
want you to drive me over to Falkham in the pony-chaise."

"I really can't, mother; I must work for the scholarship."

"Nonsense, boy; what is a scholarship compared with your health?
Besides, you'll work all the better if you take some exercise."

But for a week nothing could tempt him out.  Then, instead of
accompanying his father or mother, he would take long solitary rides on
his own pony, brooding all the while over his troubles.

One day, when in the course of one of these expeditions he had taken the
direction of Maltby--which was only fifteen miles distant from his
home--he became suddenly aware of an approaching dog-cart in the road
before him, and a familiar voice crying, "Why, if it ain't young Squire
Loman, riding a bit of very tidy horseflesh too, as I'm a Dutchman!"

It was Cripps.  What evil spirit could have brought him on the scene
now?

"Well, I never reckoned to see you now," said he, in his usual jaunty
manner.  "Fact is, I was just trotting over to see _you_.  I wanted to
try what this here cob was made of, and, thinks I, I may as well kill
two birds with one stone, and look up my young squire while I'm about
it."

"Coming to see me!" exclaimed Loman, horrified.  "I say, Cripps, you
mustn't do that.  My father would be very angry, you know."

"Nice, that is!  As if I wasn't as good company as any one else!"

"Oh! it's not that," said Loman, fearing he had given offence.  "What I
mean is--"

"Oh, I know--about that there rod.  Bless me!  I won't let out on you,
my beauty--leastways, if you come up to scratch.  He'd like to hear the
story, though, the old gentleman, I fancy.  Wouldn't he now?"

"I wouldn't have him know it for worlds.  It'll be all right, Cripps,
indeed it will about the money."

Mr Cripps looked very benignant.

"All right, young swell, I hope it will.  Funny I feel such an interest
in you, 'specially since that young greeny friend of yours put in a word
for you.  He's a real nice sort, he is--he owes you one, and no
mistake."

"What!" said Loman, in surprise; "who do you mean?  Young Greenfield?"

"To be sure.  Regular young chum of mine, he is.  I know all about you,
my master, and no mistake!"

"What--the young sneak?  What has he been saying about me?"

"Eh!--what ain't he been saying!  In course you didn't half murder him,
eh?  In course you ain't a good hand at cheatin' all round up at the
school!  What?  In course you ain't saying nice things agin me all over
the place--and in course some of us wouldn't like to see you get a
reg'lar good hiding, wouldn't we?  Bless you, I knows all about it; but
I'm mum, never fear!"  Loman was furious.

"The young liar!" he exclaimed.  "I did owe him one; I'll pay him when
we get back!"

"Hold hard, young gentleman," said Cripps, coolly.  "To be sure, he
ain't downright sweet on you; but I ain't a-going to have him smashed,
mind, all to bits.  Well, never mind that.  I'll turn back with you,
young gentleman, if I may.  We're only three miles from Maltby, and
maybe you'll honour a poor chap like me by having a look in at the
Cockchafer."

Loman did not know how to say "No," much as he disliked and feared his
host.  He returned with him to Maltby, and there spent an hour in the
Cockchafer.  He was introduced to several of Mr Cripps's low friends,
in whose society he found it easy enough to become low himself.  Cripps,
by a judicious mixture of flattery and sly threats, managed to keep the
boy well in hand, and when at last he rose to go it was with a promise
to return again before the holidays were over--"to prevent Cripps having
the trouble of calling on him," as that virtuous gentleman significantly
put it.

Loman kept his promise, and visited Maltby once or twice, becoming each
time more familiar with Cripps and his low friends, who made a great
deal of him, and flattered him on all possible occasions, so that the
boy presently found himself, as he imagined, quite a young hero at the
Cockchafer.

Meanwhile, naturally, his reading fell behindhand.  His parents, only
too glad to see their boy taking more regular exercise, never suspected
or inquired as to the direction of his frequent solitary rides.  To them
he seemed the same quiet, clever boy they fondly believed him.  Little
guessed they of the troubles that filled his breast or the toils that
were daily enwrapping him!

Thus Loman's holidays came to an end.  The farewell was once more said,
parents and son parted, and on the first day of an eventful term the boy
found himself once more within the walls of Saint Dominic's.

Oliver and Stephen, meanwhile, had been spending a very different sort
of holiday at home.  There was high feast and revelry when the two boys
returned once more to the maternal roof.  Stephen for once in a way had
the satisfaction of finding himself a most unmistakable hero.  He never
tired telling of his adventures and discoursing on the whole manner of
his life since the day he left home for Saint Dominic's.  To his sister
he recounted in all the slang phraseology he had at his command, the
famous cricket matches in which he had borne a part; and she, though it
was exactly like Greek to her, drank in every word with interest.  And
to his mother he narrated his various fights with Bramble, and the
terrific adventures through which he had passed, till the good lady's
hair nearly stood on end, and she began to think a public school was a
terrible place to send a small boy to.

Oliver, of course, had his stories to tell too, only in a more sober
manner.

There was a great scene when, on the first day of the holidays, the
elder brother produced his books and announced that he must study at
least two hours a day in prospect of the Nightingale Scholarship
examination.  But every one knew how much depended on his winning that
scholarship, and in a few years being able to go to the university, so
that the family gave in in the end, and Oliver was allowed his two
hours' study, but not a second more, every day.  Stephen, meanwhile,
taught his sister round-arm bowling, and devoted himself mind and body
to the bicycle.

The two brothers, during these holidays, became very great cronies.  At
school Oliver had seen comparatively little of his young brother, but
now they were daily and hourly thrown together, the brotherly instincts
in each blossomed wonderfully, and a mutual attachment sprang up which
had hardly been there before.

It had been arranged, before breaking-up, that Oliver and Wraysford
should spend the last week of the holiday together in rowing down the
Thames from Oxford to London.

Great was Stephen's joy and pride when one morning, near the appointed
time, Oliver said to him, "Look here, Stee.  How would you like to come
with Wray and me next week?"

"Like! wouldn't I rather!" shouted the small boy in ecstasy.  "Thanks,
Noll, old man!  I say, it will be a spree."  And the youngster became so
riotous over the prospect that his elder brother had to threaten not to
take him at all, and give him a thrashing into the bargain, before he
could be reduced to order.

They were to take a tent with them, and cooking utensils, so as to be
quite independent of inns, and each voyager was to contribute his share
of provender.  Quite a Robinson Crusoe business, even down to the desert
island, for on desert islands the boys had declared they intended every
night to take up their quarters, and, come hail, snow, or lightning,
there to sleep under their waterproof tent.

Mrs Greenfield didn't half like the idea, and became very pathetic on
the subject of ague and rheumatic fever.  But the boys carried the day
by promising faithfully that they would catch neither malady.  The
looked-for day came at last, and to Oxford they went, where the familiar
sight of Wraysford, in boating costume, at the railway station still
further elated their high spirits.  The boat was ready.  The tent, the
provender, the blankets, were snugly stowed away on board.  The weather
was fine, the river was charming, everything promised well; and
punctually that Monday afternoon the three adventurers loosed from their
moorings and turned the nose of their boat towards London.

I wish I could tell the reader all the events of that wonderful voyage:
how they paddled down merrily with the stream; how they found their
desert island covered with nettles, which they had to mow down with
their oars; how the soup-kettle wouldn't act, and the stew-pan leaked;
how grand the potted lobster tasted; how Stephen offered to make tea
with muddy water, and how the paraffin oil of their lanterns leaked all
over their plum-cake and sandwiches; how Stephen was sent up inland to
forage, and came back with wonderful purchases of eggs and milk; how
they started off one day leaving their tent behind them, and had to row
back in a panic to recover it; how it rained one night, and a puddle
formed on the roof of the tent, which presently grew so big that it
overflowed and gave Wraysford a shower-bath; how each morning they all
took headers into the stream, much to the alarm of the sleepy ducks; how
they now and then ran foul of a boat, and now and then were turned off
their camping ground by an indignant keeper!  It was glorious fun.  But
it would take a volume to recount all that happened to them.

They were coming near the end of their cruise.  They had paddled down
past the magnificent woods of Cliveden, and under the pretty bridge of
Maidenhead; they had watched the boys bathing at "Athens," and they had
rowed through the gloomy shadow of Windsor Castle and on past Eton.

Here the river is broken by a string of islands, which in many parts
make the stream narrow; and the river being full of boats and barges,
our three adventurers found themselves called upon to exercise more than
ordinary precautions in keeping their course.  This responsibility
became at last so irksome that Oliver said, "I say, can't we get out of
this rabble anyhow?  Why shouldn't we take the other side of the
islands?"

"I don't know.  It would be a good deal quieter.  I wonder none of the
boats do it."

"Let's try, anyhow.  We can't be far from the lock, and then the river
will be wider.  Take us up inside the next island, Stee, and mind you
don't foul any one while you're about it."

Stephen did as he was bid.  The stream was pretty strong just there, and
the two rowers had to pull pretty hard to get round without drifting on
to the island.

Once out of the main stream, they were delighted to find the course
clear.  Indeed, they had the channel all to themselves.

"What a jolly pace the stream is going at!" said Stephen; "why don't you
drift, you fellows, instead of pulling like that?"

"Good idea for you, young 'un," said Wraysford, pulling in his oar.
Oliver followed his example.

"Keep a look-out ahead," said he to Stephen, "and sing out if any
thing's coming."

Stephen said, "All right," but (careless pilot that he was) began
pulling on his socks and shoes, which he had dispensed with during the
morning.

Thus occupied, and the other two sitting with their backs to the prow,
the unnatural pace at which the boat flew along did not for a moment or
two become apparent.  Suddenly, however, Wraysford started up.

"Get out your oar, Noll--quick!"

"What's the row?" said Oliver, proceeding leisurely to obey the order.

"The weir!  Quick, man, quick, or we shall be on to it!"

They had indeed got into the race leading to the weir, and every moment
the stream, swelled by recent rains, rushed faster.

"Pull your right--hard!" cried Wraysford, backing water while Oliver
flew to his oar.

There was just time, by a tremendous effort, to save themselves; but
Oliver's oar was caught under one of the seats, and before he could
extricate it the precious opportunity was lost.

No one said a word.  Stephen, with pale face, pulled his rudder string;
and Wraysford, with his one oar, tried desperately to arrest the
headlong progress of the boat.

There was a shout from the bank, and a nearer and louder one from the
lock.  They became conscious of a great half-open gate on their right,
and a rush of footsteps beside them.  Then, in far shorter time than it
takes to write it, the boat, side on to the weir, lurched and dashed for
a moment in the troubled water, and the next instant turned over, and
the three boys were struggling in the water.

In an ordinary current such an adventure would have been of little
moment, for the boys could swim.  But in a torrent like this it was an
awful peril.  The swift flood sweeps on and sucks under its prey with
fearful force.  To resist it is impossible--to escape being dashed
against its stony bottom is almost as impossible.

Mercifully for Oliver, he did escape this latter peril, and, being cool
always in the presence of danger, he offered no resistance to the
stream, but struck out hard under the water for as long as his breath
would permit.

When at last, exhausted and unable to swim farther, he rose to the
surface, he was in calm deep water many yards below the weir.  Help was
at hand, or he could never have reached the bank.  As it was, when at
last friendly arms did drag him ashore, he was too exhausted even to
utter his brother's name.

Where was Stephen? and where was Wraysford?

Wraysford had been more fortunate even than Oliver in his first capsize.
He was swept over the weir, indeed, but into a side eddy which brought
him up violently against a projecting branch, to which he clung wildly.
Here he would have been safe, and even able to help himself to shore.
But at the moment when he began to draw himself up from the water on to
the branch, there was something--an arm cast wildly up--in the water
beside him.  In an instant Wraysford quitted his hold and plunged once
more into the rapid.  How, he knew not, but he just reached the hapless
boy.  It was too late to recover the friendly branch.  All he could do
was to cling to Stephen and trust to reaching calm water safely.  Many a
bruise the two received in that terrible passage, but the elder boy
never once quitted his hold of the younger.

At last--it seemed an age--calm water was reached, providentially near
the bank.  Still clinging to one another, they were pulled ashore,
bruised, stunned, but safe.

Thus ended this famous holiday cruise.  The three boys kept their own
secret, and talked little about the adventure, even to one another.

In due time the holidays ended, and the Dominicans reassembled once more
in their venerable Alma Mater.  Need I say there were three within those
walls who, whatever they were before, were now friends bound together by
a bond the closest of all--a bond which had stood the test of life and
death?



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

AN OLD FIRE RE-KINDLED.

Saint Dominic's reassembled after the holidays in an amiable frame of
mind.

The Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, as the Doctor had prophesied, had cooled
down considerably in spirit during the period, and now returned quietly
to work just as if the mighty "strike" had never existed.  Stephen's
regular fights with Bramble recommenced the very first day, so that
everything was quite like old times.

Oliver found that the Fifth, all but one or two, had quite forgotten
their suspicions of his bravery which had spoiled the pleasure of his
last term, and there seemed every prospect of his getting through this
with less risk to his quick temper than before.

As for the Sixth, the Fifth had forgiven them all their offences, and
would have been quite prepared, had it been allowed, to live in peace
with their seniors, and forget all the dissensions of the Summer term.
But it was not allowed, and an event which happened early in the term
served to revive all the old animosities between the two head classes.

At Saint Dominic's, for reasons best known to the all-wise beings who
presided over its management, the principal examinations and "removes"
of the year took place not, as in most schools, at the end of the
Midsummer term, but at the beginning of the Autumn term, about
Michaelmas; consequently now, with the examinations looming in the
distance, everybody who had anything to hope for from hard work settled
down to study like mad.  Cricket was over for the year, and football had
not begun.  Except boating there was not much doing out of doors, and
for that reason the season was favourable for work.  Studies, which used
to be bear-gardens now suddenly assumed an appearance of respectability
and quiet.  Books took the place of boxing-gloves, and pens of
fencing-sticks.  The disorderly idlers who had been in the habit of
invading at will the quarters of the industrious were now given to
understand they must "kick-up their heels" elsewhere.  _They_ might not
want to grind, but others did.

The idlers of the Fifth, to whom this warning was addressed on every
hand, had nothing for it but to obey, and, feeling themselves greatly
ill-used, to retire sadly, to some spot where "they could kick-up a row
to themselves."

Casting about them for such a spot, it happened that Braddy and Ricketts
one day lit almost by accident on an old empty study, which some years
since had been a monitor's room, but was now empty and tenantless.

It at once occurred to these two astute heroes that this would be a
magnificent place for boxing-matches.  In the other studies one was
always banging against the corners of tables, or tripping over fenders,
but here there was absolutely nothing, but four bare walls to interfere
with anybody.

They called in two more friends--Tom Senior and another--who declared it
was a splendid find, and the four thereupon took formal possession of
their new territory, and inaugurated the event by a terrific
eight-handed match.

Nothing could have been more satisfactory.  The room was well out of the
way; the studious ones of the Fifth were spared all annoyance, and the
riotous ones had an asylum to go to.  No one was a bit the worse for the
move; every one, on the contrary, found himself decidedly the better.

"Go and kick-up a row in the monitor's room," became quite a common
objurgation in the Form, among the diligent; as common, in fact, as
"Come along, old man, and have it out in the monitor's room," was among
the idlers.

But, as ill-luck would have it, this delightful retreat happened to be
situated immediately over the study occupied by Wren of the Sixth.  That
worthy hero, seated one afternoon over his books, was startled by a
terrific noise, followed by a vibration, followed by the rattling of all
his tumblers in the cupboard, followed by a dull, heavy thud over his
head, which tempted him to believe either that an earthquake was in
progress, or that one of the chimney-stacks had fallen on to the roof.
When, however, the noise was repeated, and with it were blended laughter
and shouts of "Now then, let him have it!"

"Well parried!"

"Bravo, Bully!" and the like, Wren began to change his mind, and laid
down his pen.  He walked up the stairs to the upper landing, where, at
once, the noise guided him to the old monitor's room.  Then the truth
dawned upon him.  He stayed long enough to get a pretty clear idea of
who the "new lodgers" were, and then prudently retired without
attempting a parley single-handed.

But next morning, when the festive rioters of the Fifth approached once
more the scene of their revels, what was their amazement and rage to
find the door locked, and the following notice, on a piece of school
paper, affixed to the panel--"Monitor's room.  This room is closed by
direction of the monitors."

You might have knocked them over with a feather, so stupefied were they
by this announcement!  They stared at the door, they stared at one
another, and then they broke out into a tempest of rage.

"The blackguards! what do they mean?" exclaimed Braddy, tearing down the
paper and crushing it up in his hands.

"Monitor's room, indeed!" cried Ricketts.  "_We'll_ let them see whose
room it is!"

"Kick open the door, can't you?" said Tom Senior.

They did kick open the door between them.  The lock was a weak one, and
soon gave way.

Once inside, the evicted ones indulged their triumph by an uproar of
more than usual vehemence, longing that it might tempt into their
clutches the daring intruders who had presumed to interfere with their
possession.  No one came.  They had their fling undisturbed.  But before
they quitted their stronghold one of their number, by diligent
searching, had found in the lock of a neighbouring study-door a key
which would fit theirs.  Repairing, therefore, the catch, damaged by
their late forcible entry, they calmly locked the door behind them when
they went, and affixed to it, in the identical place where the other
notice had hung, "Fifth Form.  Private study.  Not to be entered without
permission."

Of course, the news of this interesting adventure soon spread, and for a
day or two the diligent as well as the idle on either side looked on
with increasing interest for the issue of the contest.

For a while the Fifth had the best of it.  They defied the enemy to turn
them out, and procured and fixed an additional lock on the door.  The
Sixth threatened to report the matter to the Doctor, and summoned the
invaders for the last time to capitulate.  The invaders laughed them to
scorn, and protested the room belonged to them, and leave it they would
not for all the monitors in the world.  The monitors retired, and the
Fifth enjoyed their triumph.

But next day the Doctor abruptly entered the Fifth Form room, and said,
"There is an unoccupied room at the end of the top landing, which some
boys in this class have been making use of to the annoyance of other
boys.  This room, please remember, is not to be entered in future
without my permission."

Checkmate with a vengeance for the Fifth!

This event it was which, trivial in itself, re-kindled once more with
redoubled heat the old animosity between the two head Forms at Saint
Dominic's.  Although the original quarrel had been confined to only
half-a-dozen individuals, it became now a party question of intense
interest.  The Sixth, who were the triumphant party, could afford to
treat the matter lightly and smile over it, a demeanour which irritated
the already enraged Fifth past description.  The two Forms cut one
another dead in the passages.  The Fifth would gladly have provoked
their rivals to blows, but, like sensible men, the Sixth kept the right
side of the law, and refused to have anything to do with the challenges
daily hurled at them.

As might be expected, the affair did not long remain a secret from the
rest of the school.  The Fourth Senior, as a body, stood up for the
Sixth, and the Third and Second, on the whole, sided with the Fifth.
But when it came to the junior school--the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles--all
other partisanship was thrown quite into the shade.

The quarrel was one completely after their own hearts.  It had begun in
a row, it had gone on in a row, and, if it ever ended, it would end in a
row.

A meeting was summoned at the earliest opportunity to take the momentous
matter into consideration.

"What I say," said Bramble, "is, it's a jolly good job!"

"What's a jolly good job?" demanded Stephen, who, of course, was red-hot
for the Fifth.

"Why, chucking them out!  I'm glad to see it, ain't you, Padger?"

"They didn't chuck them out!" roared Paul; "they went and sneaked to the
Doctor, that's what they did!"

"I don't care!  I say it's a jolly good job!  Those who say it's a jolly
good job hold up--"

"Shut up your row!" cried Stephen; "you're always sticking yourself up.
I say it's a beastly shame, and I hope the Fifth will let them know it!"

"You're a young idiot, that's what you are!" exclaimed Bramble in a
rage.  "What business have you got at the meeting?  Turn him out!"

"I'll turn _you_ out!" replied the undaunted Stephen; "I've as much
right here as you have.  So there!"

"Turn him out, can't you?" roared Bramble.  "Bah! who goes and swills
ginger-beer down in a public-house in the town, eh?"

This most unexpected turn to the conversation startled Stephen.  He
turned quite pale as he replied, "_I_ did, there!  But I didn't go in at
the public door.  And you've been sneaking!"

"No, I haven't.  Padger told me, didn't you, Padger?  Padger peeped
through the door, and saw you.  Oh, my eye! won't I kick-up a shine
about it!  I'll let out on you, see if I don't.  Bah, public-house boy!
potboy, yah!"

Stephen's only answer to this was a book, accurately shied at the head
of his enemy.

The subsequent proceedings at the meeting were a trifle animated, but
otherwise not interesting to the reader.  The chief result was that the
Guinea-pigs emerged as uncompromising champions for the Fifth, and the
Tadpoles equally strong for the Sixth, while Stephen felt decidedly
uncomfortable as to the consequences of Bramble's discovery of his
secret visits last term to the Cockchafer.

Stephen had in a confidential moment during the holidays told Oliver of
these visits, and of his intimacy with Mr Cripps.  The elder brother
was very angry and astonished when he heard of it.  He set before the
boy, in no measured terms, the risk he was running by breaking one of
the rules of the school; and, more than that, he said Cripps was a
blackguard, and demanded of Stephen a promise, there and then, that he
would never again enter the Cockchafer under any pretext whatever.
Stephen, forced to submit, although not convinced that Cripps was such a
wicked man as his brother made out, promised, but reserved to himself
mentally the right to see Cripps at least once more at the Lock-House,
there to return him the bicycle lantern, which it will be remembered
that kind gentleman had lent the boy before the holidays.  As to the
Cockchafer, he was thoroughly frightened at the thought of having been
seen there, and fully determined, even before Bramble's threat, never
again to cross its threshold.  After all, Stephen knew he had little
enough to fear from that small braggadocio; Bramble had neither the wit
nor the skill to use his discovery to any advantage.  For a day or two
he followed his adversary up and down the passages with cries of
"Potboy!" till everybody was sick of the sound, and felt heartily glad
when, one fine afternoon, Stephen quietly deposited his adversary on his
back on the gravel of the playground.

But to return to the feud between Fifth and Sixth.

Things after a little seemed to quiet down once more.  The exiled
rioters, after a long and disheartening search, found rest for the soles
of their feet in Tom Senior's study, which, though not nearly so
convenient, afforded them asylum during their pugilistic encounters.

The studious ones settled down once more to their work, and the near
approach of the examinations presently absorbed all their attention.

The struggle for the Nightingale Scholarship naturally was regarded with
the most intense interest--not because it was the most important
examination of the year: it was not.  Not because it was worth 50 pounds
a year for three years.  That to most of the school was a minor
consideration.  It was as nothing to the fact that of the three
candidates for the scholarship one was a Sixth Form boy and two Fifth.
If only one of the latter could come out first, the Fifth and their
partisans, all the school over, felt that the insult of the past month
would be wiped out, and the glory of the Form avenged for ever.  And it
must be confessed that the Sixth, however much they professed to ignore
the rivalry of their juniors, were equally anxious for their own man,
and of late Loman had been working hard.  He had worked, so it was
reported, during the holidays, and now, ever since term had begun, he
had remained more or less secluded in his study, or else, with a book
under his arm, had taken walks outside.

Of course, the Sixth Form boy would win!  Who ever heard of a Fifth boy
beating a Sixth?  And yet, in Oliver and Wraysford, the Fifth, every one
admitted, had two strong men.  They would at least make a hard fight for
the prize.  The Sixth only hoped they would not run their man _too_
close, and so make the glory of his certain victory at all doubtful.

Loman was not a favourite even with his own class-fellows, but they
could forgive anything now, provided he made sure of the Nightingale.

"He'll be all right!" said Callonby to Wren one day, when the two
happened to hit on the topic of the hour; "he's a great deal steadier
than he was last term."

"I wish he'd read indoors, then, and not be everlastingly trotting out
with his books."

"Oh!  I don't know; it's much jollier reading out of doors, if you can
do it."

"As long as he _does_ read.  Well, it will be a regular sell if he comes
to grief; the Fifth will be intolerable."

"They're not far short of that now.  Hullo!"  This exclamation was
provoked by the sight of Loman in the playground under their window.  He
was returning from one of his studious rambles, with his book under his
arm, slowly making for the school.

There was nothing in this to astonish the two boys as they looked down.
What did astonish them was that he was walking unsteadily, with a queer,
stupid look on his face, utterly unlike anything his schoolfellows had
ever seen there before.  They watched him cross the playground and enter
the school-house.  Then Wren said, gravely, "It's all up with the
Nightingale, at that rate."

"Looks like it," said the other, and walked away.  Loman was returning
from one of his now frequent visits to the Cockchafer.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

A CRISIS.

The eventful day, which at the beginning of the term had seemed an age
away, slowly but surely drew near.

This was Saturday.  On Monday the examination would be over, and in a
week the competitors would know their fates!

Some of my readers may know the queer sensation one sometimes gets at
the approach of a long-looked-for and hardly-worked-for examination.
For a week or so you have quietly been counting up what you _do_ know.
Now there breaks upon you an awful picture of what you do _not_ know,
and with it the absolute conviction that what you do not know is exactly
what you ought to know, and what you do know is no use at all.  It is
too late to do anything.  You cannot get up in a day what it would take
you a fortnight to go through.  And it is not much good, now you are
sure it is useless, to go over again what you have done.  You begin to
feel a sort of despair, which becomes, as the hours close in, positively
reckless.  What do you care if you do miss?  What's the use of bothering
any more about it?  It cannot be helped; why make yourself miserable?
Only, you would give worlds to have the thing all over.  Such at least
were the sensations which stirred in the breasts of Oliver Greenfield
and Horace Wraysford as they sat somewhat dejectedly over their books in
Oliver's study that Saturday afternoon.

They had both worked hard since the holidays, generally together,
neither concealing from the other what he had read or what he intended
to read.  Very bad rivals were these two, for though each was intent on
winning the scholarship, each felt he would not break his heart if the
other beat him, and that, as every one knows, is a most unheard-of piece
of toleration.  Now, however, each felt he had had enough of it.  Oliver
in particular was very despondent.  He slammed up his books suddenly,
and said, "I give it up; it's not a bit of use going on!"

Wraysford pushed back his chair slowly, and said, not very cheeringly,
"Upon my word I think you're right, Noll."

"I've a good mind," said Oliver, looking very morose, "to scratch, and
leave you and Loman to fight it out."

"Don't be a jackass, Noll," replied Wraysford, half laughing.  "That
_would_ be a sensible thing to do!"

"All very well for you to laugh," said Oliver, his brow clouding.  "You
know you are well up and are going to win."

"I'm no better up than you are," said the other.

"You know you're going to win," repeated Oliver.

"I only wish I did," said Wraysford, with a sigh.

"Why," pursued Oliver, evidently bent on a melancholy tack, "I assure
you, Wray, I've forgotten half even of what I did know.  I was going
over some of those brutal Roman History dates in bed last night, for
instance, and I positively couldn't remember one.  Then I tried the map
of Greece, but I was still worse there; I couldn't remember where one
single place was except Athens and Corinth, and I'm sure I used to be
pretty well up in that."

"I expect you were half asleep at the time," suggested his friend.

"No, I wasn't; I couldn't sleep a wink.  I say, Wray, _wouldn't_ it be
jolly if we only knew now what the questions are going to be on Monday?"

"Why don't you go and ask the Doctor?" said Wraysford, laughing; "he'd
be delighted to tell you."

"What a humbug you are, Wray!  I say, suppose we shut up work now and
have a turn on the river.  I'm certain it will do us more good than
cracking our skulls here."

"Just what I had been thinking.  I'm game, and it can't make much
difference."

"I suppose Loman is grinding up to the last?"

"I suppose so; I was almost in hopes he wouldn't keep it up."

"Never mind, it will all be over on Monday; that's a comfort!  Come
along, old man.  Suppose we get young Stee to cox us up to the lock and
back."

Hue and cry was forthwith made for Stephen, but he was not to be found.
He was out, Paul said; at the post, or somewhere.

"Oh, all right; you can come and cox us yourself, youngster," said
Wraysford.

"Cox you!" exclaimed Paul; "why, ain't the Nightingale exam coming on,
then, on Monday?"

"Of course it is!"

"And you two going out to row!  I say, the Sixth will win it if you
don't look-out!" said Paul, in a very concerned voice.

It was quite a revelation to the two boys to discover how great was the
interest taken by outsiders in the coming event.  Paul was in a great
state of alarm, and was actually inclined to refuse to aid and abet what
he imagined to be a wicked waste of precious opportunity, until, putting
his head into Loman's study, he found that the Sixth Form fellow was
also not at work.

When Oliver and Wraysford appeared in boating flannels in the playground
they created as much sensation as if they had been ghosts.

"You don't mean to say you're going out, you fellows?" exclaimed
Ricketts, one of the idle ones of the Fifth.

"Yes, I do," said Wraysford.

"But the Nightingale, I say?"

"That's not till Monday."

"I know; but aren't you grinding for it?  I say, don't let them beat
you!  Hadn't you better work instead of going out?"

Ricketts, by the way, had not done a stroke of work that he could
possibly help all the term!

All the other Fifth Form fellows they encountered echoed more or less
anxiously the same advice.  But the two friends were obdurate.  Threats,
promises, entreaties, would not put them off their row up the river, and
they went on their way, leaving behind them an unusual gloom on the
spirits of their dearest friends.

The only person who seemed really glad to see them leaving their work
was Bramble.  He, with his friend Padger, and a few other
irreconcilables, were just returning from a rat-catching expedition, and
the sight of the Fifth Form heroes in boating costume filled them with
joy.

"Hullo--my eye--hurrah!" shouted Bramble, taking in the situation in a
moment.  "There they go!  I hope they get drowned; don't you, Padger?"

Padger was understood to assent to this benevolent aspiration.

"Go it.  _You'll_ get the Nightingale!  I thought you would!  Hope you
get drowned, do you hear!  Hurrah for the Sixth!"

At this juncture Master Paul gave chase, and for a few moments Bramble
and his friends were too much engaged to speak; but at last, when the
chase was over, and further reprisals were out of the question, the hero
of the Tadpoles summoned up all his remaining powers to yell:

"Yah boo, Nightingale!  Hope you get drowned!  Yah!" after which he went
his way.

The two friends paddled quietly up the river.  They talked very little,
but both felt relieved to be away from their books.  As they went on
their spirits rose, greatly to Paul's displeasure.  That young
gentleman, immoderately jealous for the glory of the Fifth, was content
as long as the two rowers remained grave and serious; he could then make
himself believe they were engaged in mental exercises favourable to
Monday's examination.  But as soon as they began to whistle, and chaff
him and one another, and talk of their holiday adventures, Paul became
displeased, for they could not possibly do this and be inwardly
preparing for the examination at the same time.

However, he had to submit as best he could, and gave all his attention
to steering them carefully, so that it should be no fault of his, at any
rate, if they were prevented from showing up on the critical day.

"This old Shar isn't half such a jolly river as the Thames, is it,
Wray?"

"Rather not!" replied Wraysford, resting on his oar; "and yet it's
pretty enough in parts."

"Oh, up at the weir?--yes.  But I'm out of love with weirs at present.
I shudder every time I think of that one up the Thames."

"It wasn't pleasant, certainly," said Wraysford.

"Pleasant!  Old man, if you hadn't been there it would have been a good
deal worse than unpleasant.  Poor Stee!"

"Pull your left, Greenfield senior, or you'll be into the bank!" sung
out Paul.

They paddled on again until Gusset Lock came in sight.  There were very
few boats about; the season was, in fact, at an end, and the river,
which a month or two ago had generally swarmed with boats just at this
part on Saturday afternoons, looked quite deserted.

"Shall we go through the lock or turn round?" inquired Paul.

"May as well turn, eh, Wray?"

Paul was about to obey the order and turn the boat, when, casting his
eyes on the bank, he started suddenly to his feet and exclaimed,
pointing towards the lock-house, "Hullo!  I say, there's something up
there!"

The two others looked round; something more lively than usual was
undoubtedly taking place at old Mr Cripps's residence, to judge by the
shouts and laughter which proceeded from the group of people assembled
near the door.

From where they were the boys in the boat could not see what the nature
of the excitement was, and therefore paddled on with a view to satisfy
their curiosity.

As they came up to the lock Paul suddenly exclaimed, "That's young
Greenfield!"

"What!" said Oliver--"Stephen?"

"Yes, and--what _on earth_ are they doing to him?"

The boat being low down under the bank, it was impossible to see what
was going on on the tow-path.  Oliver, however, having once heard
Stephen's name, ordered Paul to put them into the opposite bank quick,
where they could land.

While this was being done a shriek from the bank sent the blood suddenly
to the faces of the two friends.  It was Stephen!  They dashed ashore,
and in a moment were across the lock and on the spot.  The spectacle
which met their eyes as they came up was a strange one.  The central
figure was the luckless Stephen, in the clutches of three or four
disreputable fellows, one of whom was Cripps the younger, who, with loud
laughter at the boy's struggles and brutal unconcern at his terror, were
half dragging, half carrying him towards the water's edge.

Beside them stood Loman, flushed, excited, and laughing loudly.  Poor
Stephen, very unlike himself, appeared to be utterly cowed and
terrified, and uttered shriek upon shriek as his persecutors dragged him
along.

"Oh, don't!  Please, Cripps!  Don't let them, Loman--don't let them
drown me!" he shouted.

A laugh was the only answer.

It was at this moment, and just when, to all appearances, the boy was
about to be thrown into the water, that Oliver and Wraysford appeared on
the scene.

Their appearance was so sudden and unexpected that the fellows, even
though they did not know who the two boys were, were momentarily taken
aback and dropped their prey.

With a bound Oliver sprang furiously on Cripps, who happened to be
nearest him, and before that respectable gentleman knew where he was,
had dealt him a blow which sent him staggering back in the utmost alarm
and astonishment.  Wraysford, no less prompt, tackled one of the other
blackguards, while Stephen, now released, and cured of his momentary
terror by the appearance of the rescuers, did his share manfully with
one of the others.

The contest was short and sharp.  A pair of well-trained athletic
schoolboys, with a plucky youngster to help them, are a match any day
for twice the number of half-tipsy cads.  In a minute or two the field
was clear of all but Cripps, who appeared, after his short experience,
by no means disposed to continue the contest single-handed.  As for
Loman, he had disappeared.

"What is all this?" demanded Oliver, when at last, breathless and pale
with excitement, he could find words.

"Oh, Noll!" cried Stephen, "I'll tell you all about it.  But let's get
away from here."

"No, I won't go!" shouted Oliver--"not till I know what it all means.
You fellow!" added he, walking up to Cripps, "you'd better speak or I'll
thrash you!"

Mr Cripps, who had had time to recover somewhat from his first
surprise, looked a little inclined to defy his young antagonist, but,
thinking better of it, suddenly assumed his usual impudent swagger as he
replied, with a laugh, "Come, I say, you _do_ do it well, you do!  It
was a joke--just a joke, young gentleman.  You've no occasion to flurry
yourself; we wouldn't have hurt a hair of the young gentleman's head.
Ask Mr Loman."

"Where's Loman?" demanded Oliver.  "Gone," said Stephen.  "But I say,
Noll, do come away.  I'll tell you all about it.  Do come."

Cripps laughed.  "Don't you swallow all that young swell tells you.
He's a nice boy, he is, but--well, he'd better mind what he says, that's
all!"

"Do come away!" once more entreated Stephen.

"Yes, do come away," laughed Cripps, mimicking the boy's tones.  "When I
calls up at the school I'll let them all know what a nice young prig he
is, coming down and drinking at my public-house and then turning round
on me.  Never fear!  _I'll_ let them know, my beauties!  I'll have a
talk with your Doctor and open his eyes for him.  Good-bye, you sneaking
young--"

"Look here!" said Wraysford, quietly walking up to the blackguard in the
midst of this discourse, "if you don't stop instantly you'll be sorry
for it."

Cripps stared a moment at the speaker, and at the first he held out.
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel into the cottage,
leaving the three boys standing in undisputed possession of the
tow-path.

"Come on, how, old man!" said Wraysford; "we can't do any good by
staying here."

Oliver looked disposed to resist, and cast a glance at the cottage door
by which Cripps had just vanished.  But he let himself be persuaded
eventually, and turned gloomily towards the boat.  Here Paul, who had
been a witness of the _fracas_ on the tow-path, was waiting, ready to
steer home, and bursting with curiosity to hear all Stephen had to say.

Greatly to his disgust, Oliver said, peremptorily, "You'll have to walk
home, Paul; Stephen will steer."

"Why, you said I might steer."

Oliver was in no humour for an argument, so he gave Paul a light box on
his ears and advised him to go home quietly unless he wanted a
thrashing, and not say a word to any one about what had occurred.

Paul had nothing for it but sulkily to obey, and walk back.  At last the
others got on board and put off homeward.

"Now," said Oliver, presently, resting on his oar and bending forward
towards Stephen.

"Oh, Noll!" began that unhappy youngster, "I am so very, very sorry! it
was all--"

"None of that," angrily interrupted the elder brother.  "Just tell me
how it came about."

Stephen, quite cowed by his brother's angry manner, told his story
shortly and hurriedly.

"Why," he said, "you know I promised you never to go to the Cockchafer
again, and I didn't, but I thought I ought to see Cripps and give him
back the bicycle-lamp."

"Young muff!" ejaculated his brother.

"So," pursued Stephen, still more falteringly, "I thought I'd come up
this afternoon."

"Well, go on, can't you?" said Oliver, losing his temper at the poor
boy's evident uneasiness.

"Cripps asked me into the cottage, and there were some fellows there,
smoking and drinking and playing cards."

"Was Loman one of them?" put in Wraysford.

"I think so," said poor Stephen, who had evidently started his story in
the hope of keeping Loman's name quiet.

"_Think_ so, you young cad!" cried Oliver.  "Why can't you tell the
truth straight out?  Was he there or not?"

"Yes, he was.  I did mean to tell the truth, Noll, really, only--only
there's no need to get Loman in a row."

"Go on," said Oliver.

"They made fun of me because I wouldn't smoke and play with them.  You
know I promised mother not to play cards, Noll.  I didn't mind that,
though, but when I wanted to go away they--that is, Cripps--wouldn't let
me.  I tried to get away, but he stopped me, and they said they'd make
me play."

"Who said?  Did Loman?" inquired Oliver, again.  "Why--yes," said
Stephen falteringly, "he and the rest.  They held me down in a chair,
and made me take hold of the cards, and one of them opened my mouth and
shouted beastly words down into it--ugh!"

"Was that Loman?"

"No," said Stephen, relieved to be able to deny it.

"What did he do?" demanded Oliver.

"They all--"

"What did Loman do, I say?" again asked Oliver.

It was no use trying to keep back anything.

"He pulled my ears, but not very hard.  Really I expect it was only fun,
Noll."  This was said quite beseechingly.  "I said I thought they were
very wicked to be doing what they did; but they only laughed at that,
and called me a prig."

"Much better if you'd kept what you thought to yourself," said
Wraysford.  "Well?"

"Oh, then they did a lot of things to rile me, and knocked me about
because I wouldn't drink their stuff, and they swore too."

"Did Loman swear?"

"They all swore, I think," said Stephen; "and then, you know, when I
wouldn't do what they wanted they said they'd throw me in the river, and
then you fellows turned up."

"Did Loman tell them to throw you in the river?" said Oliver, whose brow
had been growing darker and darker.

"Oh, no," exclaimed Stephen, "he didn't, really!  I think he was sorry."

"Did he try to prevent it, then?" asked Oliver.

"Well, no; I didn't hear him say--" faltered Stephen; but Oliver shut
him up, and turning to Wraysford said, "Wray, I shall thrash Loman."

"All serene," replied Wraysford; "you'd better have it out to-night."

"Oh, Noll!" cried Stephen in great distress; "don't fight, please.  It
was all my fault, for--"

"Shut up, Stee," said Oliver, quietly, but not unkindly.  Then turning
to Wraysford, he added, "After tea, then, Wray, in the gymnasium."

"Right you are!" replied his friend.

And then, without another word, the three rowed back to Saint Dominic's.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE FIGHT THAT DID NOT COME OFF.

On reaching Saint Dominic's the three boys discovered that the news of
their afternoon's adventure had arrived there before them.  Paul,
despite his promise of secrecy, had not been able to refrain from
confiding to one or two bosom friends, in strict confidence, his version
of the _fracas_ on the tow-path.  Of course the story became frightfully
distorted in its progress from mouth to mouth, but it flew like wildfire
through Saint Dominic's all the same.

When Oliver and his friend with Stephen entered the school-house, groups
of inquisitive boys eyed them askance and whispered as they went by.  It
seemed quite a disappointment to not a few that the three did not appear
covered with blood, or as pale as sheets, or with broken limbs.  No one
knew exactly what had happened, but every one knew something had
happened, and it would have been much more satisfactory if the heroes of
the hour had had something to show for it.

Oliver was in no mood for gratifying the curiosity of anybody, and
stalked off to his study in gloomy silence, attended by his chum and the
anxious Stephen.

A hurried council of war ensued.

"I must go and challenge Loman at once," said Oliver.

"Let me go," said Wraysford.

"Why?"

"Because most likely if you go you'll have a row in his study.  Much
better wait and have it out decently in the gymnasium.  I'll go and tell
him."

Oliver yielded to this advice.

"Look sharp, old man," he said, "that's all."

Wraysford went off on his mission without delay.

He found Loman in his study with his books before him.

"Greenfield senior wants me to say he'll meet you after tea in the
gymnasium if you'll come there," said the ambassador.

Loman, who was evidently prepared for the scene, looked up angrily as he
replied, "Fight me?  What does he want to fight me for, I should like to
know!"

"You know as well as I do," said Wraysford.

"I know nothing about it, and what's more I'll have nothing to do with
the fellow.  Tell him that."

"Then you won't fight?" exclaimed the astounded Wraysford.

"No, I won't to please him.  When I've nothing better to do I'll do it;"
and with the words his face flushed crimson as he bent it once more over
his book.

Wraysford was quite taken aback by this unexpected answer, and hesitated
before he turned to go.

"Do you hear what I say?" said Loman.  "Don't you see I'm working?"

"Look here," said Wraysford, "I didn't think you were a coward."

"Think what you like.  Do you suppose I care?  If Greenfield wants so
badly to fight me, why didn't he do it last term when I gave him the
chance?  Get out of my study, and tell him I'll have nothing to do with
him or any of your stuck-up Fifth!"

Wraysford stared hard at the speaker and then said, "I suppose you're
afraid to fight _me_, either?"

"If you don't clear out of my study I'll report you to the Doctor,
that's what I'll do," growled Loman.

There was no use staying, evidently; and Wraysford returned dejectedly
to Oliver.

"He won't fight," he announced.

"Not fight!" exclaimed Oliver.  "Why ever not?"

"I suppose because he's a coward.  He says because he doesn't choose."

"But he _must_ fight, Wray.  We must make him!"

"You can't.  I called him a coward, and that wouldn't make him.  You'll
have to give it up this time, Noll."

But Oliver wouldn't hear of giving it up so easily.  He got up and
rushed to Loman's study himself.  But it was locked.  He knocked, no one
answered.  He called through the keyhole, but there was no reply.
Evidently Loman did not intend to fight, and Oliver returned crestfallen
and disappointed to his study.

"It's no go," he said, in answer to his friend's inquiry.

"Oh, well, never mind," said Wraysford.  "Even if you could have fought,
I dare say it wouldn't have done much good, for he's such a sullen
beggar there would have been no making it up afterwards.  If I were you
I wouldn't bother any more about it.  I'll let all the fellows know he
refused to fight you!"

"What's the use of that?" said Oliver.  "Why tell them anything about
it?"

But tell them or not tell them, the fellows knew already.  It had oozed
out very soon that a fight was coming off, and instantly the whole
school was in excitement.  For, however little some of them cared about
the personal quarrel between Oliver and Loman, a fight between Fifth and
Sixth was too great an event to be passed by unheeded.

The Fifth were delighted.  They knew their man could beat Loman any day
of the week, and however much they had once doubted his courage, now it
was known he was the challenger every misgiving on that score was done
away with.

"I tell you," said Ricketts to a small knot of his class-fellows, "he
could finish him up easily in one round."

"Yes," chimed in another knowing one, "Loman's got such a wretched knack
of keeping up his left elbow, that he's not a chance.  A child could get
in under his guard, I tell you; and as for wind, he's no more wind than
an old paper bag!"

"I wish myself it was a closer thing, as long as our man won," said Tom
Senior, with a tinge of melancholy in his voice.  "It will be such a
miserably hollow affair I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry it's not Wren, or Callonby, or one of them," said another of
these amiable warriors; "there'd be some pleasure in chawing them up."

At this moment up came Pembury, with a very long face.

"It's no fight after all, you fellows," said he.  "Loman funks it!"

"What! he won't fight!" almost shrieked the rest.  "It must be wrong."

"Oh, all right, if it's wrong," snarled Pembury.  "I tell you there's no
fight; you can believe it or not as you like," and off he hobbled, in
unusual ill-humour.

This was a sad blow to the Fifth.  They saw no comfort anywhere.  They
flocked to Oliver's study, but he was not there, and Wraysford's door
was locked.  The news, however, was confirmed by other reporters, and in
great grief and profound melancholy the Fifth swallowed their tea, and
wondered if any set of fellows were so unlucky as they.

But their rage was as nothing to that of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles.

These amiable young animals had of course sniffed the battle from afar
very early in the evening, and, as usual, rushed into all sorts of
extremes of enthusiasm on the subject.  A fight!  A fight between Fifth
and Sixth!  A fight between Greenfield senior and a monitor!  Oh, it was
too good to be true, a perfect luxury; something to be grateful for, and
no mistake!

Of course a meeting was forthwith assembled to gloat over the auspicious
event.

Bramble vehemently expressed his conviction that the Sixth Form man
would eat up his opponent, and went the length of offering to cut off
his own head and Padger's if it turned out otherwise.

Paul and his friends, on the other hand, as vehemently backed the Fifth
fellow.

"When's it to come off, I say?" demanded Bramble.

"To-night, I should say, or first thing in the morning."

"Sure to be to-night.  My eye! won't Greenfield senior look black and
blue after it!"

"No, he won't," cried Paul.

"Turn him out!" shouted Bramble.  "No one wants you here; do we, Padger?
Get yourself out of the meeting, you sneak!"

"Get yourself out!" retorted Paul.

The usual lively scene ensued, at the end of which the door suddenly
opened, and a boy entered.

"Look sharp," he cried: "it's half over by now.  They were--"

But what the end of his sentence was to be, history recordeth not.  With
a simultaneous yell the youngsters rushed headlong from the room, down
the passages, out at the door, across the quadrangle, and into the
gymnasium.  Alas! it was empty.  Only the gaunt parallel bars, and idle
swings, and melancholy vaulting-horse.

With a yelp of anger the pack cried back, and made once more for the
school-house.  At the door they met Stephen.

"Where's the fight, young Greenfield?" shouted Bramble.

"Nowhere," replied Stephen.

"What! not coming off?" shrieked the youngsters.

"No," laconically answered Stephen.

"Has your brother funked it again?" demanded Bramble, in his usual
conciliatory way.

"He never funked, you young cad!" retorted the young brother.

"Yes, he did, didn't he, Padger?  That time, you know, last term.  But I
say, Greenfield junior, why ever's the fight not coming off?"

"Loman won't fight, that's why," said Stephen; and then, having had
quite enough of catechising, turned on his heel and left the indignant
youngsters to continue their rush back to the Fourth Junior, there to
spend an hour or so in denouncing the caddishness of everybody and to
make up by their own conflicts for the shortcomings of others.

Oliver meanwhile had settled down as best he could once more to work,
and tried to forget all about the afternoon's adventures.  But for a
long time they haunted him and disturbed him.  Gradually, however, he
found himself cooling down under the influence of Greek accents and
Roman history.

"After all," said he to Wraysford, "if the fellow is a coward why need I
bother?  Only I should have rather liked to thrash him for what he did
to Stee."

"Never mind--thrash him over the Nightingale instead."

The mention of the Nightingale, however, did not serve to heighten
Oliver's spirits at all.

He turned dejectedly to his books, but soon gave up further study.

"You can go on if you like," said he to Wraysford.  "I can't.  It's no
use.  I think I shall go to bed."

"What!  It's not quite nine yet."

"Is that all it is?  Never mind; good-night, old man.  I'm glad it will
all be over on Monday."

Before Oliver went to bed he had a talk with Stephen in his study.  He
succeeded in putting pretty vividly before his young brother the
position in which he had placed himself by going down to the
public-house and associating with a man like Cripps.

"What I advise you is, to make a clean breast of it to the Doctor at
once.  If he hears of it any other way, you're done for."  Oliver
certainly had an uncompromising way of putting things.

"Oh, Noll, I never could!  I know I couldn't.  I say, will you?  You can
tell him anything you like."

Oliver hesitated a moment, and then said, "All serene; I'll do it.
Mind, I must tell him everything, though."

"Oh, yes!  I say, do you think I'll be expelled?"

"I hope not.  There's no knowing, though."

"Oh, Noll! what _shall_ I do?"

"It's your only chance, I tell you.  If Cripps comes up and talks about
it, or Loman tells, you're sure to be expelled."

"Well," said Stephen, with a gulp, "I suppose you'd better tell him,
Noll.  Need I come too?"

"No, better not," said Oliver.  "I'll go and see if he's in his study
now.  You go up stairs, and I'll come and tell you what he says."

Stephen crawled dismally away, leaving his brother to fulfil his
self-imposed task.

Oliver went straight to the Doctor's study.  The door stood half-open,
but the Doctor was not there.  He entered, and waited inside a couple of
minutes, expecting that the head master would return; but no one came.
After all, he would have to put off his confession of Stephen's
delinquencies till to-morrow; and, half relieved, half disappointed, he
quitted the room.  As he came out he encountered Simon in the passage.

"Hullo, Greenfield!" said that worthy; "what have you been up to in
there?"

"I want the Doctor," said Oliver; "do you know where he is?"

"If saw him go up stairs a minute ago; that is, I mean down stairs, you
know," said the lucid poet.

This information was sufficiently vague to determine Oliver not to
attempt a wild-goose chase after the Doctor that night, so, bidding a
hurried good-night to Simon, he took his way down the passage which led
to Stephen's dormitory.

He had not, however, gone many steps when a boy met him.  It was Loman.
There was a momentary struggle in Oliver's breast.  Here was the--very
opportunity which an hour or two ago he had so eagerly desired.  The
whole picture of that afternoon's adventures came up before his mind,
and he felt his blood tingle as his eyes caught sight of Stephen's
persecutor.  Should he pay off the score now?

Loman saw him, and changed colour.  He evidently guessed what was
passing through his enemy's mind, for a quick flush came to his face and
an angry scowl to his brow.

Oliver for one moment slackened pace.  Then suddenly there came upon him
a vision of Stephen's appealing face as he interceded that afternoon for
the boy who had done him such mischief, and that vision settled the
thing.

Hurriedly resuming his walk, Oliver passed Loman with averted eyes, and
went on his way.

"Well?" said Stephen, in the midst of undressing, as his brother entered
the dormitory.

"He wasn't there.  I'll see him in the morning," said Oliver.
"Good-night, Stee."

"Good-night, Noll, old man!  I say, you are a brick to me!" and as the
boy spoke there was a tremble in his voice which went straight to his
brother's heart.

"You are a brick to me!"  A pretty "brick" he had been, letting the
youngster drift anywhere--into bad company, into bad ways, without
holding out a hand to warn him; and in the end coming to his help only
by accident, and serving him by undertaking a task which would quite
possibly result in his expulsion from the school.

A brick, indeed!  Oliver went off to his own bed that night more
dispirited and dissatisfied with himself than he had ever felt before.
And all through his dreams his brother's troubled face looked up at him,
and the trembling voice repeated, again and again, "You are a brick to
me--a brick to me!"



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE NIGHTINGALE EXAMINATION.

The next morning early, before breakfast, Oliver joined the Doctor in
his study, and made a clean breast to him there and then of Stephen's
delinquencies.  He had evidently taken the right step in doing so, for,
hearing it all thus frankly confessed by the elder brother, Dr Senior
was disposed to take a much more lenient view of the case than he would
had the information come to him through any other channel.

But at its best the offence was a grave one, and Oliver more than once
felt anxious at the sight of the head master's long face during the
narrative.  However, when it was all over his fears were at once
dispelled by the doctor saying, "Well, Greenfield, you've done a very
proper thing in telling me all this; it is a straightforward as well as
a brotherly act.  Your brother seems to have been very foolish, but I
have no doubt he has got a lesson.  You had better send him to me after
morning service."

And so, much relieved, Oliver went off and reported to the grateful
Stephen the success of his mission, and the two boys went off to the
school chapel together a good deal more happy than they had been the
previous day.

"I say," said Stephen, as they went along, "I suppose you didn't say
anything about Loman, did you?"

"Of course not! he's no concern of mine," said Oliver, rather tartly.
"But look here, young 'un, I'm not going to let you fag any more for
him, or have anything to do with him."

"All right!" said Stephen, who had no desire to continue his
acquaintance with his late "proprietor."

"But the captain will row me, won't he?"

"If he does I'll make that square.  You can fag for Wraysford if you
like, though, he wants a fellow."

"Oh, all right!" cried Stephen, delighted, "that'll be jolly!  I like
old Wray."

"Very kind of you," said a voice close by.

It was Wraysford himself, who had come in for this very genuine
compliment.

"Hullo!  I say, look here, Wraysford," said the beaming Stephen, "I'm
going to cut Loman and fag for you.  Isn't it jolly?"

"Depends on whether I have you.  I don't want any Guinea-pigs in my
study, mind."

Stephen's face fell.  For even such a privilege as fagging for Wraysford
he could not afford to sever the sacred ties which held him to the
fellowship of the Guinea-pigs.  "I really wouldn't kick-up shines," said
he, imploringly.

"You'd be a queer Guinea-pig if you didn't!" was the flattering answer.
"And how many times a week would you go on strike, eh?"

"Oh!" said Stephen, "I'll never go on strike again; I don't like it."

The two friends laughed at this ingenuous admission, and then Wraysford
said, "Well, I'll have you; but mind, I'm awfully particular, and knock
my fags about tremendously, don't I, Noll?"

"I don't mind that," said the delighted Stephen.  "Besides, you've not
had a fag to knock about!"

At that moment, however, the bell for morning chapel cut short all
further talk for the present.  Stephen obeyed its summons for once in a
subdued and thankful frame of mind.  Too often had those weekly services
been to him occasions of mere empty form, when with his head full of
school worries or school fun he had scarcely heard, much less heeded,
what was said.

To-day, however, it was different.  Stephen was a sobered boy.  He had
passed through perils and temptations from which, if he had escaped, it
had been through no merit of his own.  Things might have been far
different.  His life had been saved, so had his peace of mind, and now
even the consequences of old transgressions had been lightened for him.
What had he done to deserve all this?

This was the question which the boy humbly asked himself as he entered
the chapel that morning, and the Doctor's sermon fitted well with his
altered frame of mind.

It was a sermon such as he had often heard before in that chapel; the
words struck him now with a new force which almost startled him.
"Forgetting those things which are behind--reaching forth unto those
things which are before,"--this was the Doctor's text, and in the few
simple words in which he urged his hearers to lay the past, with all its
burdens, and disappointments, and shame, upon Him in whom alone
forgiveness is to be found, Stephen drank in new courage and hope for
the future, and in the thankfulness and penitence of his heart resolved
to commit his way more honestly than ever to the best of all keeping,
compared with which even a brother's love is powerless.

Before the morning was over Stephen duly went to the Doctor, who talked
to him very seriously.  I need not repeat the talk here.  Stephen was
very penitent, and had the good sense to say as little as possible; but
when it was all over he thanked the Doctor gratefully, and promised he
should never have to talk to him for bad conduct again.

"You must thank your brother for my not dealing a great deal more
severely with the case," said Dr Senior; "and I am quite ready to
believe it will not occur again.  Now, good-bye."

And off Stephen went, the happiest boy alive, determined more than ever
to respect the Doctor's authority, and prove himself a model boy.

Sunday afternoon at Saint Dominic's was usually spent by the boys in
fine weather, in strolling about in the gardens, or rambling into the
woods by the banks of the Shar.

This afternoon, however, was somewhat overcast, and a good many of the
boys consequently preferred staying indoors to running the risk of
spoiling their best hats in a shower.  Among those who kept the house
was Oliver, who, in reply to Wraysford's invitation to go out, pleaded
that he was not in the humour.

This indeed was the case, for, now that Stephen's affairs were settled,
the dread of the approaching Nightingale examination came back over him
like a nightmare, and made him quite miserable.  The nearer the hour of
trial came the more convinced did Oliver become that he stood no chance
whatever of winning, and with that conviction all the bright hopes of a
university course, and the prospects of after-success, seemed
extinguished.

Of course it was very ridiculous of him to worry himself into such a
state, but then, reader, he had been working just a little too hard, and
it was hardly his fault if he was ridiculous.

Wraysford, though by no means in high spirits, kept his head a good deal
better, and tried to enjoy his walk and forget all about books, as if
nothing at all was going to happen to-morrow.  As for Loman, he was not
visible from morning till night, and a good many guessed, and guessed
correctly, that he was at work, even on Sunday.

The small boys, not so much though, I fear, out of reverence for the day
as for partisanship of the Fifth, were very indignant on the subject,
and held a small full-dress meeting after tea, to protest against one of
the candidates taking such an unfair advantage over the others.

"He ought to be expelled!" exclaimed Paul.

"All very well," said Bramble.  "Greenfield senior's cramming too, he's
been in all the afternoon."

"He's not cramming, he's got a headache!" said Stephen.

"Oh, yes, I dare say, don't you, Padger?  Got a headache--that's a nice
excuse for copying out of cribs on a Sunday."

"He doesn't use cribs, and I tell you he's not working!" said Stephen,
indignantly.

"Shut up, do you hear, or you'll get turned out, Potboy!"

This was too much for Stephen, who left the assembly in disgust, after
threatening to take an early opportunity on the next day of giving his
adversary "one for himself," a threat which we may as well say at once
here he did not fail to carry out with his wonted energy.

The long Sunday ended at last--a Sunday spoiled to many of the boys of
Saint Dominic's by distracting thoughts and cares--a day which many
impatiently wished over, and which some wished would never give place to
the morrow.

But that morrow came at last, and with it rose Oliver, strengthened and
hopeful once more for the trial that lay before him.  He was early at
Wraysford's study, whom he found only just out of bed.

"Look alive, old man.  What do you say to a dip in the river before
breakfast?  We've got plenty of time, and it will wash off the cobwebs
before the exam."

"All serene," said Wraysford, not very cheerily, though.  "Anything's
better than doing nothing."

"Why, Wray, I thought you weren't going to let yourself get down about
it?"

"I thought you weren't going to let yourself get up--why, you're quite
festive this morning."

"Well, you see, a fellow can't do better than his best, and so as I have
done my best I don't mean to punish myself by getting in the blues."

"Pity you didn't make that resolution yesterday.  You were awfully glum,
you know, then; and now I've got my turn, you see."

"Oh, never mind, a plunge in the Shar will set you all right."

"Stee," said he, addressing his younger brother, who at that moment
entered proudly in his new capacity as Wraysford's fag, "mind you have
breakfast ready sharp by eight, do you hear? the best you can get out of
Wray's cupboard.  Come along, old boy."

And so they went down to the river, Oliver in unusually good spirits,
and Wraysford most unusually depressed and nervous.  The bathe was not a
great success, for Wraysford evidently did not enjoy it.

"What's wrong, old man?" said Oliver, as they walked back, "aren't you
well?"

"I'm all right," said Wraysford.

"But you're out of spirits.  It's odd that I was in dumps and you were
in good spirits up to the fatal day, and now things are just reversed.
But, I say, you mustn't get down, you know, or it'll tell against you at
the exam."

"It strikes me every answer I give will tell against me.  All I hope is
that you get the scholarship."

"I mean to try, just like you and Loman."

And so they went into breakfast, which was a solemn meal, and despite
Stephen's care in hunting up delicacies, not very well partaken of.

It seemed ages before the nine o'clock bell summoned them down to the
Fifth Form room.

Here, however, the sympathy and encouragement of their class-fellows
amply served to pass the time till the examination began.

"Well, you fellows," cried Pembury, as the two entered, "do you feel
like winning?"

"Not more than usual," said Oliver.  "How do you feel?"

"Oh, particularly cheerful, for I've nothing to do all day, I find.  I'm
not in for the Nightingale, or for the Mathematical Medal, or for the
English Literature.  Simon's in for that, you know, so there's no chance
for any one."

Simon smiled very blandly at this side compliment.

"So you fellows," continued Tony, "may command my services from morning
to night if you like."

"Loman was grinding hard all yesterday," said Braddy.  "I'm afraid he'll
be rather a hot one to beat."

"But we _must_ beat him, mind, you fellows," said Ricketts, calmly,
comprehending the whole class in his "we."

"Why, Wray," said another, "how jolly blue you look!  Don't go and funk
it, old man, or it's all UP."

"Who's going to funk it?" said Oliver, impatiently, on his friend's
behalf.  "I tell you Wray will most likely win."

"Well, as long as one of you does," said Tom Senior, with noble
impartiality, "we don't care which; do we, Braddy?"

"Of course not."

So, then, all this sympathy and encouragement were not for the two boys
at all, but for their Form.  They might just as well have been two
carefully trained racehorses starting on a race with heavy odds upon
them.

The Doctor's entry, however, put an end to any further talk, and, as
usual, a dead silence ensued after the boys had taken their seats.

The Doctor looked a little uneasy.  Doubtless he was impressed, too, by
the importance of the occasion.  He proceeded to call over the lists of
candidates for the different examinations in a fidgety manner, very
unlike his usual self, and then turning abruptly to the class, said:

"The Mathematical Medal candidates will remain here for examination.
The English Literature and Nightingale Scholarship candidates will be
examined in the Sixth Form room.  Boys not in for either of these
examinations may go to their studies till the twelve o'clock bell rings.
Before you disperse, however,"--and here the Doctor grew still more
fidgety--"I want to mention one matter which I have already mentioned in
the Sixth.  I mention it not because I suspect any boy here of a
dishonourable act, but because--the matter being a mystery--I feel I
must not neglect the most remote opportunity of clearing it up."

What on earth was coming?  It was as good as a ghost story, every one
was so spellbound and mystified.

"On Saturday evening I had occasion to leave my study for rather less
than five minutes, shortly after nine o'clock.  I had been engaged in
getting together the various papers of questions for to-day's
examinations, and left them lying on the corner of the table.  On
returning to my study--I had not been absent five minutes--I found that
one of the papers--one of the Nightingale Scholarship papers, which I
had only just copied out, was missing.  If I were not perfectly sure the
full number was there before I left the room, I should conclude I was
mistaken, but of that I am sure.  I just wish to ask this one question
here, which I have already asked in the Sixth.  Does any boy present
know anything about the missing paper?"

You might have heard a pin drop as the Doctor paused for a reply.

"No?  I expected not; I am quite satisfied.  You can disperse, boys, to
your various places."

"What a fellow the Doctor is for speeches, Wray," said Oliver, as he and
his friend made their way to the Sixth Form room.

"Yes.  But that's a very queer thing about the paper, though."

"Oh, he's certain to have mislaid it somewhere.  It's a queer thing
saying anything about it; for it looks uncommonly as if he suspected
some one."

"So it does.  Oh, horrors! here we are at the torture-chamber!  I wish
it was all over!"

They entered the Sixth Form room, which was regularly cleared for
action.  One long desk was allotted to the three Nightingale candidates,
two others to the English Literature boys, and another to the
competitors in a Sixth Form Greek verse contest.

Loman was already in his place, waiting with flushed face for the ordeal
to begin.  The two friends took their seats without vouchsafing any
notice of their rival, and an uncomfortable two minutes ensued, during
which it seemed as if the Doctor were never to arrive.

He did arrive at last, however, bringing with him the examination papers
for the various classes.

"Boys for the Greek verse prize come forward."

Wren, Raleigh, Winter, and Callonby advanced, and received each one his
paper.

"Boys for the Nightingale Scholarship come forward."

The three competitors obeyed the summons, and to each was handed a
paper.

It was not in human nature to forbear glancing hurriedly at the
momentous questions, as each walked slowly back to his seat.  The effect
of that momentary glance was very different on the three boys.
Wraysford's face slightly lengthened, Loman's grew suddenly aghast,
Oliver's betrayed no emotion whatever.

"Boys for the English Literature prize come forward."

These duly advanced and were furnished, and then silence reigned in the
room, broken only by the rapid scratching of pens and the solemn tick of
the clock on the wall.

Reader, you doubtless know the horrors of an examination-room as well as
I do.  You know what it is to sit biting the end of your pen, and
glaring at the ruthless question in front of you.  You know what it is
to dash nervously from question to question, answering a bit of this and
a bit of that, but lacking the patience to work steadily down the list.
And you have experienced doubtless the aggravation of hearing the pen of
the man on your right flying along the paper with a hideous squeak,
never stopping for a moment to give you a chance.  And knowing all this,
there is no need for me to describe the vicissitudes of this particular
day of ordeal at Saint Dominic's.

The work went steadily on from morning to afternoon.  More than one
anxious face darted now and then nervous glances up at the clock, as the
hour of closing approached.

Loman was one of them.  He was evidently in difficulties, and the Fifth
Form fellows, who looked round occasionally from their English
Literature papers, were elated to see their own men writing steadily and
hard, while the Sixth man looked all aground.  There was one boy,
however, who had no time for such observations.  That was Simon.  He had
got hold of a question which was after his own heart, and demanded every
second of his attention--"Describe, in not more than twelve lines of
blank verse, the natural beauties of the River Shar."  Here was a chance
for the _Dominican_ poet!

  "The Shar is a very beautiful stream,
  Of the Ouse a tributary;
  Up at Gusset Weir it's prettiest, I ween,
  Because there the birds sing so merry."

These four lines the poet styled, "Canto One."  Cantos 2, 3, and 4 were
much of the same excellence, and altogether the effusion was in one of
Simon's happiest moods.  Alas! as another poet said, "Art is long, time
is fleeting."  The clock pointed to three long before the bard had
penned his fifth canto; and sadly and regretfully he and his
fellow-candidates gathered together and handed in their papers, for
better or worse.

Among the last to finish up was Oliver, who had been working hammer and
tongs during the whole examination.

"How did you get on?" said Wraysford, as they walked back to the Fifth.

"Middling, not so bad as I feared; how did you?"

"Not very grand, I'm afraid; but better than I expected," said
Wraysford.  "But I say, did you see how gravelled Loman seemed?  I fancy
he didn't do very much."

"So I thought; but I hadn't time to watch him much."

In the Fifth there was a crowd of questioners, eager to ascertain how
their champions had fared; and great was their delight to learn that
neither was utterly cast down at his own efforts.

"You fellows are regular bricks if you get it!" cried Ricketts.

"It'll be the best thing that has happened for the Fifth for a long
time."

"Oh, I say," said Simon, suddenly, addressing Oliver in a peculiarly
knowing tone, "wasn't it funny, that about the Doctor losing the paper?
Just the very time I met you coming out of his study, you know, on
Saturday evening.  But of course I won't say anything.  Only wasn't it
funny?"

What had come over Oliver, that he suddenly turned crimson, and without
a single word struck the speaker angrily with his open hand on the
forehead?

Was he mad? or could it possibly be that--

Before the assembled Fifth could recover from their astonishment or
conjecture as to the motive for this sudden exhibition of feeling, he
turned abruptly to the door and quitted the room.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A TURN OF THE TIDE.

An earthquake could hardly have produced a greater shock than Oliver's
strange conduct produced on the Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's.  For a
moment or two they remained almost stupefied with astonishment, and then
rose a sudden clamour of tongues on every hand.

"What can he mean?" exclaimed one.

"Mean!  It's easy enough to see what he means," said another, "the
hypocrite!"

"I should never have thought Greenfield senior went in for that sort of
thing!"

"Went in for what sort of thing?" cried Wraysford, with pale face and in
a perfect tremble.

"Why--cheating!" replied the other.

"You're a liar to say so!" shouted Wraysford, walking rapidly up to the
speaker.

The other boys, however, intervened, and held the indignant Wraysford
back.

"I tell you you're a liar to say so!" again he exclaimed.  "He's not a
cheat, I tell you; he never cheated.  You're a pack of liars, all of
you!"

"I say, draw it mild, Wray, you know," interposed Pembury.  "You needn't
include me in your compliments."

Wraysford glared at him a moment and then  slightly.

"_You_ don't call Oliver a cheat?" he said, inquiringly.

"I shouldn't till I was cock-sure of the fact," replied the cautious
editor of the _Dominican_.

"Do you mean to say you aren't sure?" said Wraysford.

Pembury vouchsafed no answer, but whistled to himself.

"All I can say is," said Bullinger, who was one of Wraysford's chums,
"it looks uncommonly ugly, if what Simon says is true."

"I don't believe a word that ass says."

"Oh, but," began Simon, with a most aggravating cheerfulness, "I assure
you I'm not telling a lie, Wraysford.  I'm sorry I said anything about
it.  I never thought there would be a row about it.  I promise I'll not
mention it to anybody."

"You blockhead! who cares for your promises?  I don't believe you."

"Well, I know I met Greenfield senior coming out of the Doctor's study
on Saturday evening, about five minutes past nine.  I'm positive of
that," said Simon.

"And I suppose he had the paper in his hand?" sneered Wraysford, looking
very miserable.

"No; I expect he'd put it in his pocket, you know, at least, that is, I
would have."

This candid admission on the part of the ingenious poet was too much for
the gravity of one or two of the Fifth.  Wraysford, however, was in no
laughing mood, and went off to his study in great perturbation.

He could not for a moment believe that his friend could be guilty of
such a dishonourable act as stealing an examination paper, and his
impulse was to go at once to Oliver's study and get the suspicions of
the Fifth laid there and then.  But the fear of seeming in the least
degree to join in those suspicions kept him back.  He tried to laugh the
thing to scorn inwardly, and called himself a villain and a traitor
twenty times for admitting even the shadow of a doubt into his own mind.
Yet, as Wraysford sat that afternoon and brooded over his friend's new
trouble, he became more and more uncomfortable.

When on a former occasion the fellows had called in question Oliver's
courage, he had felt so sure, so very sure the suspicion was a
groundless one, that he had never taken it seriously to heart.  But
somehow this affair was quite different.  What possible object would
Simon, for instance, have for telling a deliberate lie? and if it had
been a lie, why should Oliver have betrayed such confusion on hearing
it?

These were questions which, try all he would, Wraysford could not get
out of his mind.

When Stephen presently came in, cheery as ever, and eager to hear how
the examination had gone off, the elder boy felt an awkwardness in
talking to him which he had never experienced before.  As for Stephen,
he put down the short, embarrassed answers he received to Wraysford's
own uneasiness as to the result of the examination.  Little guessed the
boy what was passing in the other's mind!

There was just one hope Wraysford clung to.  That was that Oliver should
come out anywhere but first in the result.  If Loman, or Wraysford
himself, were to win, no one would be able to say his friend had
profited by a dishonourable act; indeed, it would be as good as proof he
had not taken the paper.

And yet Wraysford felt quite sick as he called to mind the unflagging
manner in which Oliver had worked at his paper that morning, covering
sheet upon sheet with his answers, and scarcely drawing in until time
was up.  It didn't look like losing, this.

He threw himself back in his chair in sheer misery.  "I would sooner
have done the thing myself," groaned he to himself, "than Oliver."  Then
suddenly he added, "But it's not true!  I'm certain of it!  He couldn't
do it!  I'll never believe it of him!"

Poor Wraysford!  It was easier to say the generous words than feel them.

Pembury looked in presently with a face far more serious and overcast
than he usually wore.

"I say, Wray," said he, in troubled tones, "I'm regularly floored by all
this.  Do you believe it?"

"No, I don't," replied Wraysford, but so sadly and hesitatingly that had
he at once confessed he did, he could not have expressed his meaning
more plainly.

"I'd give anything to be sure it was all false," said Pembury, "and so
would a lot of the fellows.  As for that fool Simon--"

"Bah!" exclaimed Wraysford, fiercely, "the fellow ought to be kicked
round the school."

"He's getting on that way already, I fancy," said Pembury.  "I was
saying I'd think nothing at all about it if what he says was the only
thing to go by, but--well, you saw what a state Greenfield got into
about it?"

"Maybe he was just in a sudden rage with the fellow for thinking of such
a thing," said Wraysford.

"It looked like something more than rage," said Pembury, dismally,
"something a good deal more."

Wraysford said nothing, but fidgeted in his chair.  A long silence
followed, each busy with his own thoughts and both yearning for any sign
of hope.  "I don't see what good it could have done him if he did take
the paper.  He'd have no time to cram it up yesterday.  He was out with
you, wasn't he, all the afternoon?"

"No," said Wraysford, not looking up, "he had a headache and stayed in."

Pembury gave a low whistle of dismay.

"I say, Wray," said he, presently, "it really does look bad, don't you
think so yourself?"

"I don't know what to think," said Wraysford, with a groan; "I'm quite
bewildered."

"It's no use pretending not to see what's as plain as daylight," said
Pembury, as he turned and hobbled away.

The Fifth meanwhile had been holding a sort of court-martial on the
affair.

Simon was made to repeat his story once more, and stuck to it too, in
spite of all the browbeating he got.

"What makes you so sure of the exact time?" asked one of his
inquisitors.

"Oh, because, you know, I wanted to get off a letter by the post, and
thought I was in time till I saw the clock opposite the Doctor's study
said five minutes past."

"Did Greenfield say anything to you when he saw you?" some one else
asked.

"Oh, yes, he asked me if I knew where the Doctor was."

"Did you tell him?"

"Oh, yes, I said he'd gone down to the hall or somewhere."

"And did Greenfield go after him?"

"Oh, no, you know, he went off the other way as quick as he could," said
Simon, in a voice as though he would say, "How can you ask such an
absurd question?"

"Did you ask him what he wanted in the study?"

"Oh, yes; but of course he didn't tell me--not likely.  But I say, I
suppose we're sure to win the Nightingale now, aren't we?  Mind, I'm not
going to tell anybody, because, of course, it's a secret."

"Shut up, you miserable blockhead, unless you want to be kicked!"
shouted Bullinger.  "No one wants to know what you're going to do.
You've done mischief enough already."

"Oh, well, I didn't mean, you know," said the poet; "all I said was I
met him coming--"

"Shut up, do you hear? or you'll catch it!" once more exclaimed
Bullinger.

The wretched Simon gave up further attempts to explain himself.  Still
what he had said, in his blundering way, had been quite enough.

The thing was beyond a doubt; and as the Fifth sat there in judgment, a
sense of shame and humiliation came over them, to which many of them
were unused.

"I know this," said Ricketts, giving utterance to what was passing in
the minds of nearly all his class-fellows, "I'd sooner have lost the
scholarship twenty times over than win it like this."

"Precious fine glory it will be if we do get it!" said Braddy.

"Unless Wray wins," suggested Ricketts.

"No such luck as that, I'm afraid," said Bullinger.  "That's just the
worst of it.  He's not only disgraced us, but he's swindled his best
friend.  It's a blackguard shame!" added he, fiercely.

"At any rate, Loman is out of it, from what I hear; he got regularly
stuck in the exam."

"I tell you," said Ricketts, "I'd sooner have had Loman take the
scholarship and our two men nowhere at all, than this."

There was nothing more than this to be said, assuredly, to prove the
disgust of the Fifth at the conduct of their class-fellow.

"I suppose Greenfield will have the grace to confess it, now it's all
come out," said Ricketts.

"If he doesn't I fancy we can promise him a pretty hot time of it among
us," said Braddy.

One or two laughed at this, but to most of those present the matter was
past a joke.

For it must be said of the Dominicans--and I think it may be said of a
good many English public schoolboys besides--that, however foolish they
may have been in other respects, however riotous, however jealous of one
another, however well satisfied with themselves, a point of honour was a
point which they all took seriously to heart.  They could forgive a
schoolfellow for doing a disobedient act sometimes, or perhaps even a
vicious act, but a cowardly or dishonourable action was a thing which
nothing would excuse, and which they felt not only a disgrace to the boy
perpetrating it, but a disgrace put upon themselves.

Had Oliver been the most popular boy in the school it would have been
all the same.  As it was, he was a long way from being the most popular.
He never took any pains to win the good opinion of his fellows.  When,
by means of some achievement in which he excelled, he had contrived (as
in the case of the cricket match last term) to bring glory on his school
and to make himself a hero in the eyes of Saint Dominic's, he had been
wont to take the applause bestowed on him with the utmost indifference,
which some might even construe into contempt.  And in precisely the same
spirit would he take the displeasure which he now and then managed to
incur.

Boys don't like this.  It irritates them to see their praise or blame
made little of; and for this reason, if for no other, Oliver would
hardly have been a favourite.

But there was another reason.  Now that the Fifth found their faith in
Greenfield senior rudely dashed to the ground, they were not slow to
recall the unpleasant incidents of last term, when, by refusing to
thrash Loman, he had discredited the whole Form, and laid himself under
the suspicion of cowardice.

Most of the fellows had at the time of the Nightingale examination
either forgotten, or forgiven, or repented of their suspicions, and,
indeed, by his challenge to Loman the previous Saturday Oliver had been
considered quite to have redeemed his reputation in this respect.  But
now it all came up again.  A fellow who could do a cowardly deed at one
time could do a mean one at another.  If one was natural to his
character, so was the other, and in fact one explained the other.  He
was mean when he showed himself a coward last term.  He was a coward
when he did a mean act this term.

What wonder, in these circumstances, if the Fifth felt sore, very sore
indeed, on the subject of Oliver Greenfield?

To every one's relief, he did not put in an appearance again that day.
He kept his study, and Paul brought down word at prayer time that he had
a headache and had gone to bed.

At this the Fifth smiled grimly and said nothing.

Next morning, however, Oliver turned up as usual in his place.  He
looked pale, but otherwise unconcerned, and those who looked-for traces
of shame and self-abasement in his face were sorely disappointed.

He surely must have known or guessed the resolution the Fifth had come
to with regard to him; but from his unabashed manner he was evidently
determined not to take it for granted till the hint should be given
pretty clearly.

On Ricketts, whose desk was next to that of Oliver, fell the task of
first giving this hint.

"How did you get on yesterday in the English Literature?" asked Oliver.

Ricketts' only answer was to turn his back and begin to talk to his
other neighbour.

Those who were watching this incident noticed a sudden flush on Oliver's
cheek as he stared for an instant at his late friend.  Then with an
effort he seemed to recover himself.

He did not, however, attempt any further conversation either with
Ricketts or his other neighbour, Braddy, who in a most marked manner had
moved as far as possible away from him.  On the contrary, he coolly
availed himself of the extra room on the desk and busied himself
silently with the lessons for the day.

But he now and then looked furtively up in the direction of Wraysford,
who was seated at an opposite desk.  The eyes of the two friends met now
and then, and when they did each seemed greatly embarrassed.  For
Wraysford, after a night's heart-searching, had come to the
determination not, after all, to cut his friend; and yet he found it
impossible to feel and behave towards him as formerly.  He tried very
hard indeed not to appear constrained, but the more he tried the more
embarrassed he felt.  After class he purposely walked across the room to
meet his old chum.

"How are you?" he said, in a forced tone and manner utterly unlike his
old self.

It was a ridiculous and feeble remark to make, and it would have been
far better had he said nothing.  Oliver stared at him for a moment in a
perplexed way, and then, without answering the question, walked
somewhere else.

Wraysford was quite conscious of his own mistake; still it hurt him
sorely that his well-meant effort, which had cost him so much, should be
thus summarily thrust aside without a word.  For the first time in his
life he felt a sense of resentment against his old friend, the beginning
of a gap which was destined to become wider as time went on.

The only person in the room who did meet Oliver on natural ground was
the poetic Simon.  To him Oliver walked up and said, quietly, "I beg
your pardon for hitting you yesterday."

"Oh," said Simon, with a giggle.  "Oh, it's all right, Greenfield, you
know; I never meant to let it out.  It'll soon get hushed up; I don't
intend to let it go a bit farther."

The poet was too much carried away by the enthusiasm of his own
magnanimity to observe that he was in imminent risk, during the delivery
of this speech, of another blow a good deal more startling than that of
yesterday.  When he concluded, he found Oliver had left him to himself
and hurriedly quitted the room.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE RESULT OF THE EXAMINATION.

The adventures of the morning did not certainly tend to make the Fifth
think better of Oliver Greenfield.

Had he appeared before them humble and penitent, there were some who
even then might have tried to forgive him and forget what was done.  But
instead of that he was evidently determined to brazen the thing out, and
had begun by snubbing the very fellows whom he had so deeply injured.

Wraysford felt specially hurt.  It had cost him a good deal to put on a
friendly air and speak as if nothing had happened; and to find himself
scorned for his pains and actually avoided by the friend who had wronged
him was too much.  But even that would not have been so bad, had not
Oliver immediately gone and made up to Simon before all the class.

Wraysford did not remain to join in the chorus of indignation in which
the others indulged after morning school was over.  He left them and
strolled out dismally into the playground.

He must do something!  He must know one way or the other what to think
of Oliver.  Even now he would gladly believe that it was all a dream,
and that nothing had come between him and his old friend.  But the more
he pondered it the more convinced he became it was anything but a dream.

He wandered unconsciously beyond the playground towards the woods on the
side of the Shar, where he and Oliver had walked so often in the old
days.

The old days!  It was but yesterday that they had last walked there.
Yet what an age ago it seemed! and how impossible that the old days
should ever come back again.

He had not got far into the wood when he heard what seemed to him
familiar footsteps ahead of him.  Yesterday he would have shouted and
whistled and called on the fellow to hold hard.  But now he had no such
inclination.  His impulse was to turn round and go back.

"And yet," thought he, "why should _I go_ back?  If it is Oliver, what
have _I_ to feel ashamed of?"

And so he advanced.  The boy in front of him was walking slowly, and
Wraysford soon came in view of him.  As he expected, it was Oliver.

At the sight of his old friend, wandering here solitary and listless,
all Wraysford's old affection came suddenly back.  At least he would
make one more effort.  So he quickened his pace.  Oliver turned and saw
him coming.  But he did not wait.  He walked on slowly as before,
apparently indifferent to the approach of anybody.

This was a damper certainly to Wraysford.  At least Oliver might have
guessed why his friend was coming after him.

It was desperately hard to know how to begin a conversation.  Oliver
trudged on, sullen and silent, in anything but an encouraging manner.
Still, Wraysford, now his mind was made up, was not to be put from his
purpose.

"Noll, old man," he began, in as much of his old tone and manner as he
could assume.

"Well?" said Oliver, not looking up.

"Aren't we to be friends still?"

The question cost the speaker a hard effort, and evidently went home.
Oliver stopped short in his walk, and looking full in his old friend's
face, said, "Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm afraid we are not friends at this moment."

"And whose fault is that?" said Oliver, scornfully.

The question stung Wraysford as much as it amazed him.  Was he, then, of
all the fellows in the school, to have an explanation thus demanded of
him from one who had done him the most grievous personal wrong one
schoolboy well could do to another?

His face flushed as he replied slowly, "Your fault, Greenfield; how can
you ask?"

Oliver gave a short laugh very like contempt, and then turned suddenly
on his heel, leaving Wraysford smarting with indignation, and finally
convinced that between his old friend and himself there was a gulf which
now it would be hard indeed to bridge over.

He returned moodily to the school.  Stephen was busy in his study
getting tea.

"Hullo, Wray," he shouted, as the elder boy entered; "don't you wish it
was this time to-morrow?  I do, I'm mad to hear the result!"

"Are you?" said Wraysford.

"Yes, and so are you, you old humbug.  Noll says he thinks he did pretty
well, and that you answered well too.  I say, what a joke if it's a dead
heat, and you both get bracketed first."

"Cut away now," said Wraysford, as coolly as he could, "and don't make
such a row."

There was something unusual in his tone which surprised the small boy.
He put it down, however, to worry about the examination, and quietly
withdrew as commanded.

The next day came at last.  Two days ago, in the Fifth Form, at any
rate, it would have been uphill work for any master to attempt to
conduct morning class in the face of all the eagerness and enthusiasm
with which the result of the examinations would have been looked-for.
Now, however, there was all the suspense, indeed, but it was the
suspense of dread rather than triumph.

"Never mind," said Ricketts to Pembury, after the two had been talking
over the affair for the twentieth time.  "Never mind; and there's just
this, Tony, if Wray is only second, it will be a splendid win for the
Fifth all the same."

"I see nothing splendid in the whole concern," said Pembury.  And that
was the general feeling.

Oliver entered and took his accustomed seat in silence.  No one spoke to
him, many moved away from him, and nearly all favoured him with a long
and unfriendly stare.

All these things he took unmoved.  He sat coolly waiting for class to
begin, and when it did begin, any one would have supposed he was the
only comfortable and easy-minded fellow in the room.  The lesson dragged
on languidly that morning.  Most of the boys seemed to regard it as
something inflicted on them to pass the time rather than as a serious
effort of instruction.  The clock crawled slowly on from ten to eleven,
and from eleven to half-past, and every one was glad when at last Mr
Jellicott closed his book.  Then followed an interval of suspense.  The
Doctor was due with the results, and was even now announcing them in the
Sixth.  What ages it seemed before his footsteps sounded in the passage
outside the Fifth!

At last he entered, and a hush fell over the class.  One or two glanced
quickly up, as though they hoped to read their fate in the head master's
face.  Others waited, too anxious to stir or look up.  Others groaned
inwardly with a sort of prophetic foresight of what was to come.

The Doctor walked up to the desk and unfolded his paper.

Wraysford looked furtively across the room to where his old friend sat.
There was a flush in Oliver's face as he followed the Doctor with his
eyes; he was breathing hard, Wraysford could see, and the corners of his
mouth were working with more than ordinary nervousness.

"Alas!" thought Wraysford, "I don't envy him his thoughts!"

The Doctor began to speak.

"The following are the results of the various examinations held on
Monday.  English Literature--maximum number of marks 100. 1st,
Bullinger, 72 marks; 2nd, West, 68; 3rd, Maybury, 51; 4th, Simon, 23.
I'm afraid, Simon, you were a little too venturesome entering for an
examination like this.  Your paper was a very poor performance."

Simon groaned and gulped down his astonishment.

"I say," whispered he to Oliver, who sat in front of him, "I know it's a
mistake: you know I wrote five cantos about the Shar--good too.  He's
lost that.  I say, had I better tell him?"

Oliver vouchsafing no reply, the unfortunate poet merely replied to the
head master's remarks, "Yes, sir," and then subsided, more convinced
than ever that Saint Dominic's was not worthy of him.

"The Mathematical Medal--maximum number of marks 80. 1st, Heath, 65;
2nd, Price, 54; 3rd, Roberts, 53.  Heath's answers, I may say, were very
good, and the examiners have specially commended him."

Heath being a Sixth Form man, this information was absolutely without
interest to the Fifth, who wondered why the Doctor should put himself
out of the way to announce it.

"The Nightingale Scholarship."

Ah, now!  There was a quick stir, and then a deeper silence than ever as
the Doctor slowly read out, "The maximum number of marks possible, 120.
First, Greenfield, Fifth Form, 112 marks.  And I must say I and the
examiners are astonished as well as highly gratified with this really
brilliant performance.  Greenfield, I congratulate you as well as your
class-fellows on your success.  It does you the very greatest credit!"

A dead silence followed this eulogium.  Those who watched Oliver saw his
face first glow, then turn pale, as the Doctor spoke.  He kept his eyes
steadily fixed on the paper in the head master's hand, as if waiting for
what was to follow.

The Doctor went on, "Second, Wraysford, Fifth Form, 97 marks, also a
creditable performance."

One or two near Wraysford clapped him warmly on the back, and throughout
the class generally there was a show of satisfaction at this result, in
strange contrast with the manner in which the announcement of Oliver's
success had been received.

Still, every one was too eager to hear the third and final announcement
to disturb the proceedings by any demonstration just now.

"Loman, Sixth Form--" and here the Doctor paused, and knitted his brows.

"Loman, Sixth Form, 70 marks!"

This finally brought down the house.  Scarcely was the Doctor's back
turned, when a general clamour rose on every hand.  He, good man, set it
down to applause of the winners, but every one else knew it meant
triumph over the vanquished.

"Bravo, Wray! old man.  Hurrah for the Fifth!" shouted Bullinger.

"Ninety-seven to seventy.  Splendid, old fellow!" cried another.

"I was certain you'd win," said another.

"I have not won," said Wraysford, drily, and evidently not liking these
marked congratulations; "I'm second."

"So you are, I quite forgot," said Ricketts: then turning to Oliver, he
added, mockingly, "Allow me to congratulate you, Greenfield, on your
really brilliant success. 112 marks out of 120!  You could hardly have
done better if you had seen the paper a day or two before the exam!
Your class, I assure you, are very proud of you."

A general sneer of contempt followed this speech, in the midst of which
Oliver, after darting one angry glance at the speaker, deliberately
quitted the room.

This proceeding greatly irritated the Fifth, who had hoped at least to
make their class-fellow smart while they had the opportunity.  They
greeted his departure now with a general chorus of hissing, and revenged
themselves in his absence by making the most of Wraysford.

"Surely the fellow won't be allowed to take the scholarship after this?"
said Ricketts.  "The Doctor must see through it all."

"It's very queer if he doesn't," said Bullinger.

"The scholarship belongs to Wray," said Braddy, "and I mean to say it's
a blackguard shame if he doesn't get it!"

"It's downright robbery, that's what it is!" said another; "the fellow
ought to be kicked out of the school!"

"I vote some one tells the Doctor," said Braddy.

"Suppose you go and tell him now, yourself," said Pembury, with a
sarcastic smile; "you could do it capitally.  What do you say?"

Braddy .  Pembury was always snubbing him.

"I don't want to tell tales," he said.  "What I mean is, Wraysford ought
not to be cheated out of his scholarship."

"It's a lucky thing Wray has got you to set things right for him,"
snarled Pembury, amid a general titter.

Braddy subsided at this, and left his tormentor master of the situation.

"There's no use our saying or doing anything," said that worthy.  "We
shall probably only make things worse.  It's sure to come out in time,
and till then we must grin and bear it."

"All very well," said some one, "but Greenfield will be grinning too."

"I fancy not," said Pembury.  "I'm not a particular angel myself, but
I've a notion if I had cheated a schoolfellow I should be a trifle off
my grinning form; I don't know."

This modest confession caused some amusement, and helped a good deal to
restore the class to a better humour.

"After all, I don't envy the fellow his feelings this minute," continued
Pembury, following up his advantage.

"And I envy his prospects in the Fifth still less," said Ricketts.

"If you take my advice," said Pembury, "you'll leave him pretty much to
himself.  Greenfield is a sort of fellow it's not easy to score off; and
some of you would only make fools of yourselves if you tried to do it."

Wraysford had stood by during this conversation, torn by conflicting
emotions.  He was undoubtedly bitterly disappointed to have missed the
scholarship; but that was as nothing to the knowledge that it was his
friend, his own familiar friend, who had turned against him and thus
grievously wronged him.  Yet with all his sense of injury he could
hardly stand by and listen to all the bitter talk about Oliver in his
absence without a sense of shame.  Two days ago he would have flared up
at the first word, and given the rash speaker something to remember.
Now it was his misery to stand by and hear his old chum abused and
despised, and to feel that he deserved every word that was spoken of
him!

If he could only have found one word to say on his behalf!

But he could not, and so left the room as soon as it was possible to
escape, and retired disconsolately to his own study.

As for the Fifth, Pembury's advice prevailed with them.  There were a
few who were still disposed to take their revenge on Oliver in a more
marked manner than by merely cutting him; but a dread of the tongue of
the editor of the _Dominican_, as well as a conviction of the
uselessness of such procedure, constrained them to give way and fall in
with the general resolution.

One boy only was intractable.  That was Simon.  It was not in the poet's
nature to agree to cut anybody.  When the class dispersed he took it
into his gifted head to march direct to Oliver's study.  Oliver was
there, writing a letter.

"Oh, I say, you know," began Simon, nervously, but smiling most affably,
"all the fellows are going to cut you, you know, Greenfield.  About that
paper, you know, the time I met you coming out of the Doctor's study.
But _I_ won't cut you, you know.  We'll hush it all up, you know,
Greenfield; upon my word we will.  But the fellows think--"

"That will do!" said Oliver, angrily.

"Oh, but you know, Greenfield--"

"Look here, if you don't get out of my study," said Oliver, rising to
his feet, "I'll--"

Before he could finish his sentence the poet, who after all was one of
the best-intentioned jackasses in Saint Dominic's, had vanished.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

LOMAN IN LUCK.

While we have been talking of Oliver and Wraysford, and of the manner in
which the results of the Nightingale examination affected them and the
class to which they belonged, the reader will hardly have forgotten that
there was another whose interest in that result was fully as serious and
fully as painful.

Loman had been counting on gaining the scholarship to a dead certainty.
From the moment when it occurred to him he would be able to free himself
of his money difficulties with Cripps by winning it, he had dismissed,
or seemed to dismiss, all further anxiety from his mind.  He never
doubted that he in the Sixth could easily beat the two boys in the
Fifth; and though, as we have seen, he now and then felt a sneaking
misgiving on the subject, it never seriously disturbed his confidence.

Now, however, he was utterly floored.  He did not need to wait for the
announcement of the results to be certain he had not won, for he had
known his fate the moment his eyes glanced down the questions on the
paper on the morning of examination.

At his last interview with Cripps that memorable Saturday afternoon, he
had promised confidently to call at the Cockchafer next Thursday with
the news of the result, as a further guarantee for the payment of the
thirty pounds, never doubting what that result would be.  How was he to
face this interview now?

He could never tell Cripps straight out that he had been beaten in the
examination; that would be the same thing as telling him to go at once
to the Doctor or his father with the document which the boy had signed,
and expose the whole affair.  And it would be no use making a poor mouth
to the landlord of the Cockchafer and begging to be forgiven the debt;
Loman knew enough by this time to feel convinced of the folly of that.
What was to be done?

"I shall have to humbug the fellow some way," said Loman to himself, as
he sat in his study the afternoon after the announcement of the result.
And then followed an oath.

Loman had been going from bad to worse the last month.  Ever since he
had begun, during the holidays, regularly to frequent the Cockchafer,
and to discover that it was his interest to make himself agreeable to
the man he disliked and feared, the boy's vicious instincts had
developed strangely.  Company which before would have offended him, he
now found--especially when it flattered him--congenial, and words and
acts from which in former days he would have shrunk now came naturally.

"I shall have to humbug the fellow somehow," said he; "I only wish I
knew how;" and then Loman set himself deliberately to invent a lie for
Mr Cripps.

A charming afternoon's occupation this for a boy of seventeen!

He sat and pondered for an hour or more, sometimes fancying he had hit
upon the object of his search, and sometimes finding himself quite off
the tack.  Had Cripps only known what care and diligence was being
bestowed on him that afternoon he would assuredly have been highly
nattered.

At length he seemed to come to a satisfactory decision, and, naturally
exhausted by such severe mental exertion, Loman quitted his study and
sought in the playground the fresh air and diversion he so much needed.
One of the first boys he met there was Simon.  "Hullo, Loman!" said that
amiable genius, "would you have believed it?"

"Believed what?" said Loman.

"Oh! you know, I thought you knew, about the Nightingale, you know.  I
say, how jolly low you came out!"

"Look here! you'd better hold your row!" said Loman, surlily, "unless
you want a hiding."

"Oh; it's not that, you know.  What I meant was about Greenfield senior.
Isn't that a go?"

"What about him?  Why can't you talk like an ordinary person, and not
like a howling jackass?"

"Why, you know," said Simon, off whom all such pretty side compliments
as these were wont to roll like water off a duck's back--"why, you know,
about that paper?"

"What paper?" said Loman, impatiently.  "The one that was stolen out of
the Doctor's study, you know.  Isn't that a go?  But we're going to hush
it up.  Honour bright!"

Loman's face at that moment was anything but encouraging.  Somehow, this
roundabout way of the poet's seemed particularly aggravating to him, for
he turned quite pale with rage, and, seizing the unhappy bard by the
throat, said, with an oath, "What do you mean, you miserable beast?
What about the paper?"

"Oh!" said Simon, not at all put about by this rough handling--"why,
don't you know? _we_ know who took it, we do; but we're all going to--"

But at this point Simon's speech was interrupted, for the very good
reason that Loman's grip on his throat became so very tight that the
wretched poet nearly turned black in the face.

With another oath the Sixth Form boy exclaimed, "Who took it?"

"Why--don't you know?--oh!--oh, I say, mind my throat!--haven't you
heard?--why, Greenfield senior, you know!"

Loman let go his man suddenly and stared at him.

"Greenfield senior?" he exclaimed in amazement.

"Yes; would you have thought it?  None of us would--we're all going to
hush it up, you know, honour bright we are."

"Who told you he took it?"

"Why, you know, I saw him;" and here Simon giggled jubilantly, to mark
what astonishment his disclosure was causing.

"_You_ saw him take it?" asked Loman, astounded.

"Yes; that is, I saw him coming out of the Doctor's study with it."

"You did?"

"Yes; that is, of course he must have had it; and he says so himself."

"What, Greenfield says he took the paper?" exclaimed Loman, in utter
astonishment.

"Yes; that is, he doesn't say he didn't; and all the fellows are going
to cut him dead, but we mean to hush it up if we can."

"Hush yourself up, that's what you'd better do," said Loman, turning his
back unceremoniously on his informant, and proceeding, full of this
strange news, on his solitary walk.  What was in his mind as he went
along I cannot tell you.  I fancy it was hardly sorrow at the thought
that a schoolfellow could stoop to a mean, dishonest action, nor, I
think, was it indignation on Wraysford's or his own account.

Indeed, the few boys who passed Loman that afternoon were struck with
the cheerfulness of his appearance.  Considering he had been miserably
beaten in the scholarship examination, this show of satisfaction was all
the more remarkable.

"The fellow seems quite proud of himself," said Callonby to Wren as they
passed him.

"He's the only fellow who is, if that's so," said Wren.

Loman stopped and spoke to them as they came up.

"Hullo! you fellows," said he, in as free and easy a manner as one
fellow can assume to others who he knows dislike him, "I wanted to see
you.  Which way are you going?--back to the school?"

"Wren and I are going a stroll together," said Callonby, coldly;
"good-bye."

"Half a minute," said Loman.  "I suppose you heard the results of the
Nightingale read out."

"Considering I was sitting on the same form with you when they were, I
suppose I did," said Wren.

"That's all right," said Loman, evidently determined not to notice the
snubbing bestowed on him.  "Mine wasn't a very loud score, was it?
Seventy!  I was surprised it was as much!"

The two Sixth boys looked at him inquiringly.

"The fact is, I never tried to answer," said Loman, "and for a very good
reason.  I suppose you know."

"No--what?" asked they.

"Haven't you heard?  I thought it was all over the school.  You heard
about the Doctor missing a paper?"

"Yes; what about it?  Was it found, or lost, or what?"

"No one owned to having taken it, that's certain."

"I should hope not.  Not the sort of thing any fellow here would do."

"That's just what I should have thought," said Loman.  "But the fact is,
some one did take it--you can guess who--and you don't suppose I was
going to be fool enough to take any trouble over my answers when I knew
one of the other fellows had had the paper in his pocket a day and a
half before the exam."  And here Loman laughed.

"Do you mean to say Greenfield stole it?" exclaimed both the friends at
once, in utter astonishment.

"I mean to say you're not far wrong.  But you'd better ask some of the
Fifth.  It's all come out, I hear, there."

"And you knew of it before the exam?"

"I guessed it; or you may be sure I'd have taken a little more trouble
over my answers.  It wasn't much use as it was."

Loman had the satisfaction of seeing the two Sixth boys depart in
amazement, and the still greater satisfaction of seeing them a little
later in confidential conference with Simon, from whom he guessed pretty
correctly they would be sure to get a full "all-round" narrative of the
whole affair.

"I'm all right with the Sixth, anyhow," muttered he to himself.  "I only
wish I was as right with that blackguard Cripps."

"That blackguard Cripps" had, next afternoon, the peculiar pleasure of
welcoming his young friend and patron under the hospitable roof of the
Cockchafer.  As usual, he was as surprised as he was delighted at the
honour done him, and could not imagine for the life of him to what he
was indebted for so charming a condescension.  In other words, he left
Loman to open the business as best he could.

"I promised to come and tell you about the exam, didn't I?"

"Eh?  Oh, yes, to be sure.  That was last Saturday.  Upon my word, I'd
quite forgotten."

Of course Loman knew this was false; but he had to look pleasant and
answer, "Well, you see, my memory was better than yours."

"Right you are, young captain.  And what about this here fifty-pound
dicky-bird you've been after?"

"The Nightingale?" said Loman.  "Oh, it's all right, of course; but the
fact is, I forgot when I promised you the money now, that of course
they--"

"Oh, come now, none of your gammon," said Mr Cripps, angrily; "a
promise is a promise, and I expect young swells as makes them to keep
them, mind that."

"Oh, of course I'll keep them, Cripps.  What I was saying was that they
don't pay you the money till the beginning of each year."

Loman omitted to mention, as he had omitted to mention all along, that
young gentlemen who win scholarships do not, as a rule, have the money
they win put into their hands to do as they like with.  But this was a
trifling slip of the memory, of course!

"I don't care when they pay you your money!  All I know is I must have
mine now, my young dandy.  Next week the time's up."

"But, Cripps, how _can_ I pay you unless I've got the money?"

"No, no; I've had enough of that, young gentleman.  This time I'm
a-going to have my way, or the governor shall know all about it,--you
see!"

"Oh, don't say that!" said Loman.  "Wait a little longer and it will be
all right, it really will."

"Not a bit of it.  That's what you said three months ago," replied
Cripps.

"I won't ask you again," pleaded the boy; "just this time, Cripps."

"Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, that you ought," exclaimed
the virtuous landlord of the Cockchafer, "a keeping a honest man out of
his money!"

"Oh, but I'm certain to have it then--that is, next to certain."

"Oh! then what you're telling me about this here Nightingale of yours is
a lie, is it?" said the 'cute Mr Cripps.  "You ain't got it at all,
ain't you?"

Loman could have bitten his tongue off for making such a blunder.

"A lie?  No; that is--Why, Cripps, the fact is--" he stammered, becoming
suddenly very red.

"Well, drive on," said Cripps, enjoying the boy's confusion, and proud
of his own sharpness.

"The fact is--I was going to tell you, Cripps, I was really; there's
been something wrong about this exam.  One of the fellows stole one of
the papers, and so got the scholarship unfairly."

"And I can make a pretty good guess," said Mr Cripps, with a grin,
"which of the fellows that gentleman was."

"No, it wasn't me, Cripps, really," said Loman, pale and quite humble in
the presence of his creditor; "it was one of the others--Greenfield in
the Fifth; the fellow, you know, who struck you on Saturday."

"What, him?" exclaimed Cripps, astonished for once in a way.  "That
bloke?  Why, he looked a honest sort of chap, he did, though I _do_ owe
him one."

"Oh," said Loman, following up this temporary advantage, "he's a regular
swindler, is Greenfield.  He stole the paper, you know, and so won the
scholarship, of course.  I was certain of it, if it hadn't been for
that.  I mean to have a row made about it, and there's certain to be
another exam, so that I'm sure of the money if you'll only wait."

"And how long do you want me to wait, I'd like to know?" said Cripps.

"Oh, till after Christmas, please, at any rate.  It'll be all right
then, I'll answer for that."

"You'll answer for a lot of things, it strikes me, young gentleman,"
said Cripps, "before you've done."

There were signs of relenting in this speech which the boy was quick to
take advantage of.

"_Do_ wait till then!" he said, beseechingly.

Cripps pretended to meditate.

"I don't see how I can.  I'm a poor man, got my rent to pay and all
that.  Look here, young gentleman, I must have 10 pounds down, if I'm to
wait."

"Ten pounds!  I haven't as much in the world!" exclaimed Loman.  "I can
give you five pounds, though," he added.  "I've just got a note from
home to-day."

"Five's no use," said Cripps, contemptuously, "wouldn't pay not the
interest.  You'll have to make it a tenner, young gentleman."

"Don't say that, Cripps, I'd gladly do it if I could; I'd pay you every
farthing, and so I will if you only wait."

"That's just the way with you young swells.  You get your own ways, and
leave other people to get theirs best way they can.  Where's your
five-pound?"

Loman promptly produced this, and Cripps as promptly pocketed it,
adding, "Well, I suppose I'll have to give in.  How long do you say--two
months?"

"Three," said Loman.  "Oh, thanks, Cripps, I really _will_ pay up then."

"You'd better, because, mind you, if you don't, I shall walk straight to
the governor.  Don't make any mistake about that."

"Oh, yes, so you may," said the wretched Loman, willing to promise
anything in his eagerness.

Finally it was settled.  Cripps was to wait three months longer; and
Loman, although knowing perfectly well that there was absolutely less
chance then of having the money than there had been now, felt a weight
temporarily taken off his mind, and was all gratitude.

Of course, he stayed a while as usual and tasted Mr Cripps's beer, and
of course he met again not a few of his new friends--sharpers, most of
them, of Cripps's own stamp, or green young gentlemen of the town, like
Loman himself.  From one of the latter Loman had the extraordinary "good
luck" that afternoon to win three pounds over a wager, a sum which he at
once handed over to Cripps in the most virtuous way, in further
liquidation of his debt.

Indeed, as he left the place, and wandered slowly back to Saint
Dominic's, he felt quite encouraged.

"There's eight pounds of it paid right off," said he to himself; "and
before Christmas something is sure to turn up.  Besides, I'm sure to get
some more money from home between now and then.  Oh, it'll be all
right!"

So saying he tried to dismiss the matter from his mind and think of
pleasanter subjects, such, for instance, as Oliver's crime, and his own
clever use of it to delude the Sixth.

Things altogether were looking up with Loman.  Cheating, lying, and
gambling looked as if they would pay after all!



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

AT COVENTRY.

Were you ever at Coventry, reader?  I don't mean the quaint old
Warwickshire city, but that other place where from morning till night
you are shunned and avoided by everybody?  Where friends with whom you
were once on the most intimate terms now pass you without a word, or
look another way as you go by?  Where, whichever way you go, you find
yourself alone?  Where every one you speak to is deaf, every one you
appear before is blind, every one you go near has business somewhere
else?  Where you will be left undisturbed in your study for a week, to
fag for yourself, study by yourself, disport yourself with yourself?
Where in the playground you will be as solitary as if you were in the
desert, in school you will be a class by yourself, and even in church on
Sundays you will feel hopelessly out in the cold among your
fellow-worshippers?

If you have ever been to such a place, you can imagine Oliver
Greenfield's experiences during this Christmas term at Saint Dominic's.

When the gentlemen of the Fifth Form had once made up their minds to
anything, they generally carried it through with great heartiness, and
certainly they never succeeded better in any undertaking than in this of
"leaving Oliver to himself."

The only drawback to their success was that the proceeding appeared to
have little or no effect on the _very_ person on whose behalf it was
undertaken.  Not that Oliver could be _quite_ insensible of the honours
paid him.  He could not--they were too marked for that.  And without
doubt they were as unpleasant as they were unmistakable.  But, for any
sign of unhappiness he displayed, the whole affair might have been a
matter of supreme indifference to him.  Indeed, it looked quite as much
as if Greenfield had sent the Fifth to Coventry as the Fifth Greenfield.
If they determined none of them to speak to him, he was equally
determined none of them should have the chance; and if it was part of
their scheme to leave him as much as possible to himself, they had
little trouble in doing it, for he, except when inevitable, never came
near them.

Of course this was dreadfully irritating to the Fifth!  The moral
revenge they had promised themselves on the disgracer of their class
never seemed to come off.  The wind was taken out of their sails at
every turn.  The object of their aversion was certainly not reduced to
humility or penitence by their conduct; on the contrary, one or two of
them felt decidedly inclined to be ashamed of themselves and feel
foolish when they met their victim.

Oliver always had been a queer fellow, and he now came out in a queerer
light than ever.

Having once seen how the wind lay, and what he had to expect from the
Fifth, he altered the course of his life to suit the new circumstances
with the greatest coolness.  Instead of going up the river in a pair-oar
or a four, he now went up in a sculling boat or a canoe, and seemed to
enjoy himself quite as much.  Instead of doing his work with Wraysford
evening after evening, he now did it undisturbed by himself, and, to
judge by his progress in class, more successfully than ever.  Instead of
practising with the fifteens at football, he went in for a regular
course of practice in the gymnasium, and devoted himself with remarkable
success to the horizontal bar and the high jump.  Instead of casting in
his lot in class with a jovial though somewhat distracting set, he now
kept his mind free for his studies, and earned the frequent commendation
of the Doctor and Mr Jellicott.

Now, reader, I ask you, if you had been one of the Fifth of Saint
Dominic's would not all this have been very riling?  Here was a fellow
convicted of a shameful piece of deceit, caught, one might say, in the
very act, and by his own conduct as good as admitting it.  Here was a
fellow, I say, whom every sensible boy ought to avoid, not only showing
himself utterly indifferent to the aversion of his class-fellows, but
positively thriving and triumphing before their very faces!  Was it any
wonder if they felt very sore, and increasingly sore on the subject of
Oliver Greenfield?

One boy, of course, stuck to the exile through thick and thin.  If
Oliver had murdered all Saint Dominic's with slow poison, Stephen would
have stuck to him to the end, and he stuck to him now.  He, at least,
never once admitted that his brother was guilty.  When slowly he first
discovered what were the suspicions of the Fifth, and what was the
common talk of the school about Oliver, the small boy's indignation was
past description.  He rushed to his brother.

"Do you hear the lies the fellows are telling about you, Noll?"

"Yes," said Oliver.

"Why don't you stop it, and tell them?"

"What's the use?  I've told them once.  If they don't choose to believe
it, they needn't."

Any other boy would, of course, have taken this as clear evidence of the
elder brother's guilt; but it only strengthened the small boy's
indignation.

"_I'll_ let them know, if _you_ won't!" and forthwith he went and
proceeded to make himself a perfect nuisance in the school.  He began
with Wraysford.

"I say, Wray," he demanded, "do you hear all the lies the fellows are
telling about Noll?"

"Don't make a row now," said Wraysford, shortly.  "I'm busy."  But
Stephen had no notion of being put down.

"The fellows say he stole an exam paper, the blackguards!  I'd like to
punch all their heads, and I will too!"

"Clear out of my study, now," said Wraysford, sharply.

Stephen stared at him a moment.  Then his face grew pale as he grasped
the meaning of it all.

"I say, Wray, surely _you_ don't believe it?" he cried.

"Go away now," was Wraysford's only answer.

But this did not suit Stephen, his blood was up, and he meant to have it
out.

"Surely _you_ don't believe it?" he repeated, disregarding the
impatience of the other; "_you_ aren't a blackguard, like the rest?"

"Do you hear what I tell you?" said Wraysford.

"No, and I don't mean to!" retorted the irate Stephen.  "If you were
anything of a friend you'd stand up for Oliver.  You're a beast,
Wraysford, that's what you are!" continued he, in a passion.  "You're a
blackguard! you're a liar!  I could kill you!"

And the poor boy, wild with rage and misery, actually flung himself
blindly upon his brother's old friend--the saviour of his own life.

Wraysford was not angry.  There was more of pity in his face than anger
as he took the small boy by the arm and led him to the door.  Stephen no
longer resisted.  After giving vent to the first flood of his anger,
misery got the upper hand of him, and he longed to go anywhere to hide
it.  He could have endured to know that Oliver was suspected by a good
many of the fellows, but to find Wraysford among them was a cruel blow.

But in due time his indignation again came to the fore, and he ventured
on another crusade.  This time it was to Pembury.  He knew before he
went he had little enough to expect from the sharp-tongued editor of the
_Dominican_, so he went hoping little.

To his surprise, however, Pembury was kinder than usual.  He told him
plainly that he did suspect Oliver, and explained why, and advised
Stephen, if he were wise, to say as little about Oliver as possible at
present.  The young champion was quite cowed by this unexpected
reception.  He did his best to fly in a rage and be defiant, but it was
no use, and he retired woefully discomfited from the interview.

Others to whom he applied, when once again his anger got the better of
his wretchedness, met him with taunts, others with contempt, others with
positive unkindness; and after a week Stephen gave it up and retired in
dudgeon to the territory of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, determined
that there at least he would, at the edge of the knuckle, if needs be,
compel a faction to declare for his brother.

In this undertaking, I need hardly say, he was eminently successful.
There were those among the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles who were ready to
declare for anybody or anything as long as there was a chance of a row
on the head of it.  Already the question of Greenfield senior had been
occupying their magnificent minds.  When the story first fell suddenly
into their midst, it was so surprising that, like the frogs and the log
in the fable, they were inclined to be a little shy of it.  But,
gradually becoming accustomed to it, and looking carefully into it from
all sides, it seemed somehow to contain the promise of a jolly row, and
their hearts warmed to it proportionally.  No one quite liked to start
the thing at first, for fear doubtless of not doing it full justice, but
it only wanted a spark to kindle the whole lower school on the question
of Greenfield senior.  Stephen it was who supplied the spark.

He entered the Fourth Junior room one day, after one of the unsuccessful
crusades of which we have spoken, utterly cast down and out of humour.
He flung his cap on to the peg, and himself on to his seat, in an
unusually agitated manner, and then, to the astonishment of everybody,
broke out into tears!

This was a rare and glorious opportunity, of course, for Bramble.

"Beastly young blub-baby!" exclaimed that doughty hero, "you're always
blubbing!  I never knew such a fellow to blub, did you, Padger?"

Padger said it was worse than the baby at home, and the two thereupon
started a mocking caterwaul on their own account, in which not a few of
their nearest and dearest friends joined.

This performance had the effect of restoring Stephen's composure.
Hastily dashing away his tears, he flew with unwonted wrath at his
enemy.  Bramble, however, managed to get behind Padger and the rest, and
thus fortified shouted out, "Yah, boo, howling young sucking pig! go
home to your mammy, or your great big cheat of a blackguard thief of a
caddish big brother!  Do you hear?  Who stole the exam paper?  Eh,
Padger?  Yah, boo, pack of sneaking Guinea-pigs!"

This last objurgation, which was quite unnecessary to the beauty or
force of the speech, gave rise to a huge tumult.

The Guinea-pigs present took it up as a direct challenge to themselves,
and it decided them instantly to declare in favour of Stephen and his
big brother.  Paul led the attack.

"Shut up, you young cad, will you?" said he; "you know well enough _you_
stole the paper."

Of course no one, not even Paul himself, attached any meaning to such an
absurd accusation, but it came conveniently to hand.

This declaration of war was promptly taken up on all sides, and for a
short period the Fourth Junior had a rather dusty appearance.  When at
length a little order was restored, a lively discussion on the crime of
Greenfield senior ensued.  The Tadpoles to a man believed in it, and
gave it as their candid opinion that the fellow ought to be hung.  "Yes,
and expelled too!" added a few of the more truculent.

The Guinea-pigs, on the other hand, whatever they thought, protested
vehemently that Greenfield senior was the most virtuous, heroic,
saintly, and jolly fellow in all Saint Dominic's, and denounced the
Tadpoles and all the rest of the school as the most brutal ruffians in
Christendom.

"They ought all to be expelled, every one of them," said one; "all
except Greenfield senior, and I hope they will be."

"All I know is," said Paul, "I'll let them have a bit of my mind, some
of them."

"So will I," said another.

"You haven't got any to give 'em a bit of," squealed Bramble, "so now!"

"All right, I'll give 'em a bit of _you_ then," retorted Paul.

"You wouldn't get any of them to touch him with a pair of tongs," added
another.

This was too much for Bramble, and another brief period of dust ensued.
Then, comparative quiet once more prevailing, Paul said, "I tell you
what, _I_ mean to stick to Greenfield senior."

"So do I," said another youth, with his face all over ink.  "I mean _to
fag_ for him."

"So do I!" shouted another.

"So do I!" shouted another.

And a general chorus of assent hailed the idea.

"We'll all fag for him, I vote, eh, Stee?" said Paul, "the whole lot of
us!  My eye, that'll be prime!  Won't the others just about look black
and blue!"

It was a magnificent idea!  And no sooner conceived than executed.

There was a great rush of Guinea-pigs to Oliver's study.  He was not
there.  So much the better.  They would give him a delightful surprise!

So they proceeded straightway to empty his cupboards and drawers, to
polish up his cups, to unfold his clothes and fold them again, to take
down his books and put them up again, to upset his ink and mop it up
with one of his handkerchiefs, to make his tea and spill it on the
floor, to dirty his collars with their inky hands, to clean his boots
with his hat-brush, and many other thoughtful and friendly acts
calculated to make the heart of their hero glad.

In the midst of their orgies, Wraysford and Pembury passed the door, and
stopped to look in, wondering what on earth the tumult was about.  But
they were greeted with such a storm of yells and hisses that they passed
on, a little uneasy in their minds as to whether or no hydrophobia had
broken out in Saint Dominic's.

After them a detachment of Tadpoles, headed by Bramble appeared on the
scene, for the purpose of mocking.  But, whatever their purpose may have
been, it was abandoned for more active opposition when Paul presently
emptied a tumblerful of lukewarm tea in the face of Master Bramble.

A notable battle was fought on the threshold of Greenfield senior's
study, in which many were wounded on both sides, and in the midst of
which Oliver arrived on the scene, kicking right and left, and causing a
general rout.

How their hero appreciated the attentions his admirers had paid him
during his absence the Guinea-pigs did not remain or return to
ascertain.  They took for granted he was grateful, and bashfully kept
out of the way of his thanks for a whole day.

After that their enthusiasm returned, but this time it found a new vent.
They decided that, although they would all fag for him to the end of
his days, they would not for a season, at any rate, solicit jobs from
him, but rather encourage him by their sympathy and applause at a more
respectful distance.

So they took to cheering him in the playground, and following him down
the passages.  And this not being enough, they further relieved
themselves by hooting (at a respectful distance also) the chiefs of the
senior school, whose opinions on the question of Greenfield senior were
known not to agree with their own.

If Oliver was not grateful for all this moral support in his trouble, he
must have been a villain indeed of the deepest dye.  He never said in so
many words he was grateful; but then the Guinea-pigs remembered that
feelings are often too deep and too many for words, and so took for
granted the thanks which their consciences told them they deserved.

Meanwhile a fresh number of the _Dominican_ was in progress, and rapidly
nearing the hour of publication.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE "DOMINICAN" ON THE SITUATION.

The examination at the beginning of the term had seriously interfered
with the prospects of the _Dominican_.  Pembury knew well enough it was
no good trying to get anything out of the diligent section of his
class-fellows at such a time; and he knew equally well that a number
contributed entirely by the idlers of the Fifth would neither be
creditable to the paper nor appreciated by any one outside.

So like a prudent man he held back patiently till the examinations were
over, and then pounced down on his men with redoubled importunity.

"Look here," said he one day to Ricketts, "when are you going to let me
have that paper of yours?"

"What paper do you mean?" demanded Ricketts.

"Why for the _Dominican_, of course; you don't suppose I want one of
your cast-off exam papers, do you?"

"Oh, I can't do anything for the _Dominican_ this time," said Ricketts.

"Yes, you can, and yes, you will," coolly replied Anthony.

"Who says I will?" demanded Ricketts, inclined to be angry.

"It sounds as if _I_ do," replied the editor.  "Why of course you'll do
something for it, Rick?"

"I'd be glad enough, but really I'm not in the humour," said Ricketts.

"Why ever not?" demanded Tony.

"Why, the fact is," said Ricketts, "I fancy the Fifth is not exactly
looking up at present, and we've nothing particular to be proud of.  If
you take my advice you'll keep the _Dominican_ quiet for a bit."

"My dear fellow, that's the very thing we mustn't do.  Don't you see,
you old duffer you, that if we shut up shop and retire into private
life, everybody will be thinking we daren't hold up our heads?  I mean
to hold up my head, for one," added Tony, proudly, "if there were a
thousand Greenfields in the class; and I mean to make you hold up yours
too, old man.  It'll be time enough to do the hang-dog business when we
all turn knaves; but till we do, we've as good a right to be known at
Saint Dominic's as anybody else.  So none of your humbug, Rick.  We'll
get out an extra good _Dominican_, and let the fellows see we're alive
and kicking."

This speech had the required effect.  It not only won over Ricketts, but
most of the other leading spirits of the Fifth, who had been similarly
holding back.

Tony was not the fellow to let an advantage go by.  Having once got his
men into a becoming frame of mind, he kept them well in hand and worked
them up into something like the old enthusiasm on the subject of the
_Dominican_.

Every one was determined the present number should be an out-and-out
good one, and laboured and racked his brains accordingly.

But somehow or other the fellows had never found it so hard, first to
get inspirations, and then to put them down on paper, as they did at
present.  Every one thought he had something very fine and very clever
to say if he could only find expression for it.  The amount of
brain-cudgelling that went on over this _Dominican_ was simply awful.
Wraysford gave it up in disgust.  Ricketts, Bullinger, Tom Senior, and
others stumbled through their tasks, and could only turn out lame
productions at the best.  Even Pembury's lucubrations lacked a good deal
of their wonted dash and spirit.  The cloud which was hanging over the
Fifth seemed to have overshadowed its genius for a while.

Still Pembury kept his men at it and gave them no peace till their
productions, such as they were, were safe in his hands.  One boy only
was equal to the emergency; that I need hardly say was Simon.  He was
indeed more eloquent than ever.  He offered Pembury a poem of forty
verses, entitled, "An Elegy on the Wick of a Candle that had just been
blown out," to begin with, and volunteered to supplement this
contribution with one or two smaller pieces, such as, "My Little Lark,"
or "An Adventure outside the Dormitory Door," or "Mind Mewsings."

Pembury prudently accepted all, and said he would insert what he thought
fit, an assurance which delighted Simon, who immediately sat down and
wrote some more "pieces," in case at the last moment there might be room
for them too.  But, in spite even of these valuable contributions, the
_Dominican_ fell flat.  There were a few good things in it here and
there, but it was far below its ordinary form; and not a few of the
writers repented sorely that ever they had put pen to paper to help
produce it.

The chief amusement of the paper was contained in a "New Code of
Regulations for the Better Management of Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles," from
the editor's pen.  It began thus:

"A society has lately been started at Saint Dominic's for the
preservation and management of Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles.  The following
are some of the rules to be observed:--

"Any one owning a Guinea-pig or Tadpole is to be responsible for washing
it with soap and hot water at least twice a day.

"Any one owning a Guinea-pig or Tadpole is to supply the rest of the
school with cotton wool and scent.

"No Guinea-pig or Tadpole is on any account to use hair oil or grease
which has not been sanctioned by a joint committee of the Fifth, Sixth,
and masters.

"During the approaching winter, every one possessing a Guinea-pig or
Tadpole shall be at liberty, providing it is regularly washed, to use it
as a warming-pan for his own bed."

The small tribe of furious juniors who as usual had crowded round the
paper on the morning of publication to get "first read," broke forth at
this point into a howl of exasperation.

"They won't!  I'll see they won't use me as a warming-pan, won't you,
Padger?  The brutes!  I'll bite their horrid cold feet if they stick
them against me, that's what I'll do."

"I'll keep a pin to stick into them," said another.

"I'll get some leeches and put on their legs," shouted another.

"I'll tell you what," said Stephen, changing the subject, "it's cool
cheek of them calling us `it,' as if we were things."

"So they have," exclaimed Paul; "oh, I say, that's too much; I'll let
them know _I'm_ not a thing."

"Yes, you are a thing, isn't he, Padger?  A regular _it_," exclaimed the
vindictive Bramble.  "Yah, boo, old `_its_,' both of you."

"Hold hard," said some one, just as the usual hostilities were about to
commence.  "Listen to this."  And he read the next "regulation":--

"Immediate steps are to be taken to pickle a Tadpole as a specimen for
the school museum.  The following is a recipe for this.  Take the
ugliest, dirtiest, noisiest, and most ignorant specimen that can be
found.  Lift it carefully with a pair of tongs into a bath full of
vinegar.  Close the lid and let it remain there to soak for a week.  At
the end of that time lift it out and scrape it well all over with a
sharp substance, to get off the first coating of grime.  Soak again for
another week and scrape again, and so on till the ninth or tenth coating
is removed.  After that the creature will appear thinner than when it
began.  Hang it up to dry in a clean place, and be sure no other
Guinea-pigs or Tadpoles come near it.  Then put it in a clean gown, and
quickly, before it can get at the ink, put it in a large glass bottle
and fasten down the stopper.  Label it, `Specimen of a curious reptile
formerly found at Saint Dominic's.  Now happily extinct.'"

"There you are," said Paul, when, after much blundering and sticking at
words, this remarkable paragraph had been read through.  "There you are,
Bramble, my boy; what do you think of that?"  Bramble had no difficulty
in intimating what he thought of it in pretty strong language, and for
some little time the further reading of the _Dominican_ was suspended.

When, however, the row was over, the group had been joined by several of
the elder boys, who appeared to appreciate Simon's poem, "An Adventure
outside the Dormitory Door."  It was called an "epick," and began thus.
The reader must be contented with quite a short extract:--

  "Outside the Dormitory door
  I walked me slow upon the floor
  And just outside the Doctor's study
  A youth I met all in a hurry;
  His name perhaps I had better not tell
  But like a snail retire into my shell."

This last simile had evidently particularly delighted the poet.  So much
so, that he brought it in at the close of every succeeding verse.  The
"epick" went on, of course, to unravel the threads of the "adventure,"
and to intimate pretty plainly who "the youth" referred to was.  To any
one not interested in the poet or his epic the production was a dull
one, and the moral at the end was not quite clear even to the most
intellectual.

  "Now I must say farewell; yet stay, methinks
  How many many youths do sit on brinks.
  Oh joy to feel the soft breeze sigh
  And in the shady grove to wipe the eye,
  It makes me feel a man I know full well,
  But like a snail I'll now retire within my shell."

These were the only articles in the _Dominican_ that afforded any
amusement.  The remainder of the paper, made up of the usual articles
sneering at the Sixth and crowing over the school generally, were very
tame.  The result of the Nightingale Scholarship was announced as
follows:--

  "The examination for the Nightingale Scholarship was held on the 1st
  October.  The scholarship was lost by Loman of the Sixth by 70 marks
  to 97.  A good performance on the whole."

This manner of announcing the unfortunate result was ingenious, and did
Tony credit.  For, whether his object was to annoy the Sixth or to
shield the Fifth, he succeeded amply in both.  There were some, however,
in the Fifth who were by no means content that Greenfield should be let
off so easily in the _Dominican_, and these read with interest the
following "Notes from Coventry," contributed by Bullinger.  Anthony had
accepted and inserted them against his better judgment.

"If the fellow is at Coventry, why not let him stay there?" he said to
Bullinger.  "The best thing we can possibly do is to let him alone."

"I don't see it," said Bullinger.  "Everybody will think we are trying
to shield him if we keep so quiet.  Anyhow, here's my paper.  You can
put it in or not, which you like.  I'm not going to write anything
else."

Pembury took the paper and put it in.  The reader may like to hear a few
of the "Notes from Coventry."

"The quaint old city of Coventry has lately been visited by a
`gentleman' from Saint Dominic's, who appears so charmed with all he has
seen and heard that it is expected he will remain there for some
considerable time.

"The object of his visit is of a private nature, possibly for the
purpose of scientific research, for which absolute quiet is necessary.
His experiments are chiefly directed to the making or taking of
examination papers, and on his return we may look for valuable
discoveries.  Meanwhile he sees very little company.  The society in
which he most delights is that of certain Guinea-pigs, between whom and
himself a special bond of sympathy appears to exist.  It is a touching
sight to see him taking his daily walks in company with these singular
animals; who, be it said, seem to be the only creatures able to
appreciate his character.  Curiously enough, since he left us, Saint
Dominic's has not collapsed; indeed, it is a singular fact that now he
is away it is no longer considered necessary for every fellow to lock
his study-door when he goes out, and keep the key."  And so on.

Miserable stuff indeed, as Stephen thought, but quite stinging enough to
wound him over and over again as he saw the sneers and heard the laughs
with which the reading of the extract was greeted.  Everybody evidently
was against his brother, and, with a deep disgust and fury at his heart,
he left them to laugh by themselves and returned to Oliver's study.

He found his brother in what were now his usual cheerful spirits.  For
after the first week or so of his being sent to Coventry, Oliver, in his
own study at least, kept up a cheerful appearance.

"Hullo, Stee," said he as the young brother entered.  "You're just in
time.  Here's a letter from mother."

"Is there?  How jolly!  Read it out, Noll."

So Oliver read it out.  It was an ordinary, kind, motherly epistle, such
as thousands of schoolboys get every week of the school year.  All about
home, and what is going on, how the dogs are, where sister Mary has been
to, how the boiler burst last week, which apple-tree bore most, and so
on; every scrap of news that could be scraped up from the four winds of
heaven was in that letter.

And to the two brothers, far away, and lonely even among their
schoolfellows, it came like a breath of fresh air that morning.

"I have been so proud," went on Mrs Greenfield towards the end of the
letter, "ever since I heard of dear Oliver's success in winning the
scholarship.  Not so much for the value of it, though that is pretty
considerable, but because I am so sure he deserves it."

"Hear, hear!" put in Stephen.

"Poor Mr Wraysford!  I hope he is not very much disappointed.  How nice
it would have been if there had been two scholarships, and each could
have had one!  I suppose the Fifth is making quite a hero of Oliver.  I
know one foolish old woman who would like to be with her boys this
moment to share their triumph."

Oliver laughed bitterly.

"That _would_ be a treat for her!"

Stephen, very red in the face, was too furious for words, so Oliver went
on:

"And if, instead of triumph, they should ever be in trouble or sorrow,
still more would I love to be with them, to share it.  But most of all
do I trust and pray they may both make a constant friend of the Saviour,
who wants us all to cast our burdens on Him, and follow the example He
has left us in all things."

There was a silence for some moments after this home message fell on the
brothers' ears.  The hearts of both were full--too full for words--but I
think, had the widow-mother far away been able to divine the secret
thoughts of her boys, hope would have mingled with all her pity and all
her solicitude on their account.

But the old trouble, for the present at any rate, was destined to swamp
all other emotions.

Oliver continued reading: "Christmas will not be so very long now in
coming.  We must have a real snug, old-fashioned time of it here.  Uncle
Henry has promised to come, and your cousins.  It would be nice if you
could persuade Mr Wraysford to come here then.  I am so anxious to see
him again.  Tell him from me I reckon on him to be one of our party if
he can possibly manage it."

"Baa!" exclaimed Stephen.  "The beast!  I'll let her know what sort of
blackguard the fellow is!"

"Easy all, young 'un," said Oliver.

"I shan't easy all, Noll!" exclaimed the boy; "he _is_ a blackguard, you
know he is, and I hate him."

"I think he's a fool just now," said Oliver, "but--well, he fished you
out of the Thames, Stee; you oughtn't to call him a blackguard."

"I wish he'd left me in the Thames," said Stephen, nearly breaking down.
"I've been miserable enough this term for half a dozen."

Oliver looked hard and long at his young brother.  It never seemed to
have occurred to him before how deeply the boy took the trouble of his
elder brother to heart.

Now if Oliver had really been innocent, the natural thing would have
been--wouldn't it?--for him to be quite cut up at this exhibition of
feeling, and fall on his brother's neck and protest once more that he
never did or would or could do such a thing as that he was suspected of.
But instead of this, the hardened villain turned quite cross when he
saw his brother at the point of tears, and exclaimed, hurriedly, "Don't
make a young fool of yourself, Stee, whatever you do.  It won't do a bit
of good."

"But, Noll, old man," pleaded the boy, "why ever don't you--"

"Because I don't choose, and it would be no use if I did," retorted the
other.

"But the fellows all suspect you!"

"I can't help that, if they do.  Come now, Stee, we've had enough of
this.  It'll all come right some day, you see, and meanwhile what do you
say to a turn in the gymnasium?"

"Well, but," persisted Stephen, not half satisfied, "you surely aren't
going to give mother's message to Wraysford?  _I_ don't want him home at
Christmas."

"No one asked you if you did, you young duffer.  But I don't think, all
the same, I shall give it just yet."

They were walking down the big passage arm-in-arm in the direction of
the gymnasium, and as Oliver spoke these last words the subject of their
conversation appeared advancing towards them.

Who could have believed that those three friends who only a month or two
ago were quoted all over Saint Dominic's as inseparables could ever meet
and pass one another as these three met and passed one another now?

Wraysford  as he caught sight of his old ally, and looked
another way.  Oliver, more composed, kept his eyes fixed straight ahead,
and appeared to be completely unconscious of the presence of any one but
Stephen, who hung on to his arm, snorting and fuming and inwardly raging
like a young tiger held in by the chain from his prey.

An odd meeting indeed, and a miserable one; yet to none of the three so
miserable as to the injured Wraysford, who ever since the day of the
Nightingale examination had not known a happy hour at Saint Dominic's.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

MR CRIPPS AT SAINT DOMINIC'S.

Oliver Greenfield's banishment from civilised society, however much it
may have gratified the virtuous young gentlemen of the Fifth, was
regarded by a small section of fellows in the Sixth with unmitigated
disgust.  These fellows were the leading spirits of the Saint Dominic
Football Club, which was just about to open proceedings for the season.
To them the loss of the best half-back in the school was a desperate
calamity.

They raged and raved over the matter with all the fury of disappointed
enthusiasts.  _They_ didn't care a bit, it almost seemed, whether the
fellow was a cheat or not.  All they knew was, he was the quickest
half-back and the safest drop-kick the school had, and here was the
match with Landfield coming on, and, lo and behold! their man was in
Coventry, forsooth, and not to be had out for love or money.  Thus
baulked, the Sixth Form athletes could afford to wax very virtuous and
philanthropic on the subject of Coventry generally.

"The Doctor ought to put a stop to it," said Stansfield, who this year
occupied the proud position of captain of the fifteen.

"Why, we've not got a single man worth twopence behind the scrimmage!"

This was gratifying for Loman, one of the council of war, who usually
played quarter or half-back in the matches.

"I don't see why we shouldn't get him to play if he _is_ at Coventry,"
said Callonby; "_we_ didn't send him there."

"All very well," said the captain; "if we got him we should lose
Ricketts, and Bullinger, and Tom Senior, and Braddy, which would come to
about the same thing."

"And I shouldn't play either," said Loman, "if Greenfield played."

Stansfield shrugged his shoulders and looked vicious.

"All child's play!" said he.  "They think it's very grand and a fine
spectacle and all that.  But they ought to have more consideration for
the credit of the school."

"It's not much to the credit of the school," said Loman, "to have a
fellow like him in the fifteen."

"It's less credit to have a pack of louts who tumble head over heels
every time they try to pick up a ball, and funk a charge twice out of
every thrice!" retorted Stansfield, who was one of the peppery order.
"Greenfield's worth any half-dozen of you, I tell you."

"Better get him to play Landfield by himself," growled Loman, who
generally got the worst of it in discussions like this.

"It's a plaguey nuisance, that's what it is," said Stansfield; "we are
sure to get licked.  Who's to play half-back instead of him, I'd like to
know?"

"Forrester, in the Fourth, plays a very good half-back," said Callonby;
"he's tremendously quick on his feet."

"Yes, but he can't kick.  I've a good mind to put Wraysford in the
place.  And yet he's such a rattling steady `back' I don't like to move
him."

"Wraysford told me yesterday," said Wren, "he wasn't going to play."

"What!" exclaimed Stansfield, starting up as if he had been shot.
"Wraysford not going to play!"

"So he said," replied Wren.

"Oh, this is a drop too much!  Why ever not?"

"I don't know.  He's been awfully down in the mouth lately; whether it
is about the Nightingale, or--"

The captain gave a howl of rage.

"I wish that miserable brute of a Nightingale had been scragged, that I
do!  Everything's stopped for the Nightingale!  Who cares a button about
the thing, I'd like to know?  Wraysford can get dozens more of them
after the football season's over.  Why, the Doctor gave out another
scholarship to be gone in for directly after Christmas, only to-day.
Can't he go in for that?"

"So he will, I expect," said Wren; "but I don't fancy he'll play, all
the same, on Saturday."

Stansfield groaned.  "There go my two best men," he said; "we may as
well shut up shop and go in for croquet."

A powerful deputation waited on Wraysford that same evening to try to
prevail upon him to play in the fifteen.  They had hard work to do it.
He said he was out of form, and didn't feel in the humour, and was
certain they could get on well enough without him.

"Oh, no, we can't," said Stansfield.  "I say, Wraysford," he added,
bluntly, "I expect it's this Nightingale affair's at the bottom of all
this nonsense.  Can't you possibly patch it up, at any rate till after
Saturday?  I'd give my head to get you and Greenfield in the team."

"Do play, Wraysford," put in Callonby.  "Don't let the school be beaten
just because you've got a row on with another fellow."

"It's not that at all," said Wraysford, feeling and looking very
uncomfortable.  "It's nothing to do with that.  It's just that I'm not
in the humour.  I'd really rather not."

"Oh, look here," cried Stansfield; "that won't wash.  Come to oblige me,
there's a good fellow."

In the end Wraysford gave in, and the captain went off half consoled to
complete his preparations, and inveigh in his odd moments against all
Nightingales and Coventrys, and examinations, and all such enemies and
stumbling-blocks to the glorious old English sport of football.

Loman looked forward to the coming match with quite good spirits.
Indeed, it was a long time since he had felt or appeared so
light-hearted.

That very day he had received a most unexpected present in the shape of
a five-pound note from an aunt, which sum he had promptly and virtuously
put into an envelope and sent down to Mr Cripps in further liquidation
of his "little bill."  Was ever such luck?  And next week the usual
remittance from home would be due; there would be another three or four
pounds paid off.  Loman felt quite touched at the thought of his own
honesty and solvency.  If only everybody in the world paid their debts
as he did, what a happy state of things it would be for the country!

So, as I said, Loman looked forward to the football match in quite good
spirits, just as a man who has been working hard and anxiously for
eleven long months looks forward to his well-earned summer holiday.
Things were looking up with him, and no mistake.

And then, just like his luck, the Doctor had that same day made the
announcement, already referred to, of another scholarship to be competed
for directly after Christmas.  It was for Sixth form boys under
seventeen, and he meant to go in for it!  True, this scholarship was
only for twenty pounds for a single year, but that was something.  As
far as he could see, Wraysford, who would get his move up at Christmas,
would be the only man in against him, if he did go in, and he fancied he
could beat Wraysford.  For in the Nightingale exam he had not really
tried his best, but this time he would and astonish everybody.
Greenfield would scarcely go in for this exam, even if he got his move
up; it was safe to conclude his recent exploit would suffice him in the
way of exams, for some time to come.

And then, what could be more opportune than its coming off just after
Christmas, at the precise time when Cripps would be looking for a final
settlement of his account, or whatever little of it remained still to
pay!  Oh, dear! oh, dear!  What a thing it is to be straight and honest!
Everything prospers with a man when he goes in for being honest!  Why,
Loman was positively being bathed in luck at the present time!

The Saturday came at last.  Stansfield had drilled his men as well as he
could during the interval, and devoutly hoped that he had got a
respectable team to cope with the Landfield fellows.  If he could only
have been sure of his half-back he would have been quite happy; and
never a practice passed without his growling louder than ever at the
disgraceful custom of sending useful behind-scrimmage men to Coventry.
At the last moment he decided to give the responsible post to Loman,
rather than move forward Wraysford from his position at "back"; and
Loman's usual place at quarter-back was filled up by young Forrester of
the Fourth, greatly to that young gentleman's trepidation and to the
exultation of the Fourth Senior as a body, who felt terrifically puffed
up to have one of their men actually in the first fifteen.

Some of my readers may perhaps know from actual experience what are the
numerous and serious anxieties which always beset the captain of the
football fifteen.  If the fellow is worth his salt he knows to a nicety
where he is strong and where he is weak; he knows, if the wind blows one
way, which is the best quarter-back to put on the left and which on the
right.  He knows which of his "bulldogs" he can safely put into the
middle of the scrimmage, and which are most useful in the second tier.
He knows when to call "Kick!" to a man and when to call "Run!" and no
man knows better when to throw the ball far out from touch, or when to
nurse it along close to the line.  It is all very well for outsiders to
talk of football everlastingly as a _game_.  My dear, good people,
football is a science if ever there was a science; the more you know of
it the more you will find that out.

This piece of lecturing is thrown in here for the purpose of observing
that Stansfield was a model football captain.  However worried and
worrying and crabby he was in his ordinary clothes, in his football togs
and on the field of battle he was the coolest, quickest, readiest, and
cunningest general you could desire.  He said no more than he could
help, and never scolded his men while play was going on, and, best of
all, worked like a horse himself in the thick of the fight, and looked
to every one else to do the same.

Yet on this Saturday all the captain's prowess and generalship could not
win the match for Saint Dominic's against Landfield.

The match began evenly, and for the first half of the time the game was
one long succession of scrimmages in the middle of the ground, from
which the ball hardly ever escaped, and when it did, escaped only to be
driven back next moment into the "mush."

"It'll do at this rate!" thinks Stansfield to himself.  "As long as they
keep it among the forwards we shan't hurt."

Alas! one might almost have declared some tell-tale evil spirit had
heard the boast and carried it to the ear of the enemy, for next moment
half-time was called, the sides changed over, and with them the
Landfielders completely reversed their tactics.

The game was no longer locked up in a scrimmage in the middle of the
ground.  It became looser all along the line; the ball began to slip
through the struggling feet into the hands of those behind, who sent it
shooting over the heads of the forwards into more open ground.  The
quarter-backs and half-backs on either side ran and got round the
scrimmages; and when at last they were collared, took to ending up with
an expiring drop-kick, which sent the ball far in the direction of the
coveted goals.

Nothing could have happened worse for Saint Dominic's, for the strain
fell upon them just at their weakest point.  Stansfield groaned as he
saw chance after chance missed behind his scrimmages.  Young Forrester
played pluckily and hard at quarter-back, and shirked nothing; but he
could not kick, and his short runs were consequently of little use.
Callonby, of course, did good work, but Loman, the half-back, was
woefully unsteady.

"What a jackass I was to put the fellow there!" said Stansfield to
himself.

And yet Loman, as a rule, was a good player, with plenty of dash and not
a little courage.  It was odd that to-day he should be showing such
specially bad form.

There goes the ball again, clean over the forwards' heads, straight for
him!  He is going to catch it and run!  No; he is not!  He is going to
take a flying kick!  No, he is not; he is going to make his mark!  No,
he is not; he is going to dribble it through!  Now if there is one thing
fatal to football it is indecision.  If you wobble about, so to speak,
between half a dozen opinions, you may just as well sit down on the
ground where you are and let the ball go to Jericho.  Loman gets
flurried completely, and ends by giving the ball a miserable side-kick
into touch--to the extreme horror of everybody and the unmitigated
disgust of the peppery Stansfield.

Yet had the captain and his men known the cause of all this--had they
been aware that that flash, half-tipsy cad of a fellow who, with half a
dozen of his "pals," was watching the match with a critical air, there
at the ropes was the landlord of the Cockchafer himself, the holder of
Loman's "little bill" for 30 pounds, they would perhaps have understood
and forgiven their comrade's clumsiness.  But they did not.

Whatever had brought Cripps there?  A thousand possibilities flashed
through Loman's mind as he caught sight of his unwelcome acquaintance in
the middle of the match.  Was he come to make a row about his money
before all the school? or had anything fresh turned up, or what?  And
why on earth did he bring those other cads with him, all of whom Loman
recognised as pot-house celebrities of his own acquaintance?  No wonder
if the boy lost his head and became flurried!

He felt miserable every time the ball flew over to Cripps's side of the
ground.  There was a possibility the landlord of the Cockchafer had only
come up out of curiosity, and, if so, might not have recognised his
young friend among the players.  But this delusion was soon dispelled.

The ball went again into touch--this time close to the spot occupied by
the unwelcome group, and was about to be thrown out.

Stansfield signalled to Loman.  "Go up nearer the line: close up."

Loman obeyed, and as he did so there fell on his ears, in familiar
tones, the noisy greeting, "What cheer, Nightingale?  What cheer, my
hearty?  Stick to your man; eh, let him have it, Mr Loman!  Two to one
in half-sovereigns on Mr Loman."

A laugh greeted this encouraging appeal, in the midst of which Loman,
knowing full well every one had heard every word, became completely
disconcerted, and let the ball go through his fingers as if it had been
quicksilver.

This was too much for Stansfield's patience.

"Go up forward, for goodness' sake," he exclaimed, "if you must play the
fool!  I'll go half-back myself."

Loman obeyed like a lamb, only too glad to lose himself in the
scrimmages and escape observation.

The match went on--worse and worse for Saint Dominic's.  Despite
Stansfield's gallant efforts at half-back (where he had never played
before), despite Wraysford's steady play in goal, the ball worked up
nearer and nearer the Dominican lines.

The Landfield men were quick enough to see the weak point of their
enemies, and make use of the discovery.  They played fast and loose,
giving the ball not a moment's peace, and above all avoiding scrimmages.
The Saint Dominic's forwards were thus made practically useless, and
the brunt of the encounter fell on the four or five players behind, and
they were not equal to it.

The calamity comes at last.  One of the Landfield men gets hold of the
ball, and runs down hard along the touch-line.  Forrester is the
quarter-back that side, and gallant as the Fourth Form boy is, his big
opponent runs over him as a mastiff runs over a terrier.

Stansfield, anticipating this, is ready himself at half-back, and it
will go hard with him indeed if he does not collar his man.  Alas! just
as the Landfielder comes to close quarters, and the Saint Dominic's
captain grips him round the waist, the ball flies neatly back into the
hands of another of the enemy, who, amid the shouts of his own men and
the crowd, makes off with it like fury, with a clear field before him,
and only Wraysford between him and the Dominican goal.

"Look-out behind there!"

No need of such a caution to a "back" like Wraysford.  He is looking
out, and has been looking out ever since the match began.

But if he had the eyes of an Argus, and the legs of an Atlas, he could
not prevent that goal.  For the Landfield man has no notion of coming to
close quarters; he is their crack drop-kick, and would be an ass indeed
if he did not employ his talent with such a chance as this.  He only
runs a short way.  Then he slackens pace.  Wraysford rushes forward in
front, the pursuing host rush on behind, but every one sees how it will
be.  The fellow takes a deliberate drop-kick at the goal, and up flies
the ball as true as a rocket, clean over the posts, as certain a goal as
Saint Dominic's ever lost!  It was no use crying over spilt milk, and
for the rest of the game Stansfield relaxed no efforts to stay the tide
of defeat.  And he succeeded too, for though the ball remained
dangerously near the school goal, and once or twice slipped behind, the
enemy were unable to make any addition to their score before "Time" was
called.

When the match was over, Loman tried his best to slip away unobserved by
his respectable town acquaintances; but they were far too polite to
allow him.

"Well," cried Mr Cripps, coolly joining the boy as he walked with the
other players back to the school--"well, you _do_ do it, you do.  Bless
me!  I call that proper sport, I do.  What do you put on the game, bobs
or sovereigns, eh?  Never mind, I and my pals we wanted a dander, so we
thought we'd look you up, eh?  You know Tommy Granger here?  I heard him
saying as we came along he wondered what you'd stand to drink after it
all."

All Loman could do was to stand still as soon as this talk began, and
trust his schoolfellows would walk on, and so miss all Mr Cripps's
disgusting familiarities.

"I say," whispered he, in an agitated voice, "for goodness' sake go
away, Cripps!  I shall get into an awful row if you don't."

"Oh, all serene, my young bantam," replied Cripps, aloud, and still in
the hearing of not a few of the boys.  "I'll go if you want it so
particular as all that.  _I_ can tear myself away.  Only mind you come
and give us a look up soon, young gentleman, for I and my pals ain't
seen you for a good while now, and was afraid something was up.  Ta! ta!
Good-day, young gentlemen all.  By-bye, my young Nightingales."

Loman's feelings can be more easily imagined than expressed when Cripps,
saying these words, held out his hand familiarly to be shaken.  The boy
did shake it, as one would shake hands with a wolf, and then, utterly
ashamed and disgraced, he made his way among his wondering schoolfellows
up to the school.

Was this his luck, after all?  A monitor known to be the companion and
familiar friend of the disreputable cad at the Cockchafer!  The boy who,
if not liked, had yet passed among most of his schoolfellows as a
steady, well-conducted fellow, now suddenly shown up before the whole
school like this!

Loman went his way to his study, feeling that the mask was pretty nearly
off his face at last, and that Saint Dominic's knew him almost as he
really was.  Yet did they know all?

As Loman passed Greenfield's study he stopped and peeped in at the door.
The owner was sitting in his armchair, with his feet upon the
mantelpiece, laughing over a volume of _Pickwick_ till the tears came.
And yet the crime Oliver was suspected of was theft and lying?  Was it
not strange--must it not have struck Loman as strange, in all his
misery, that any one under such a cloud as Greenfield could think of
laughing, while _he_, under a cloud surely no greater, felt the most
miserable boy alive!



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A QUEER PRIZE-DAY.

The long Christmas term crawled slowly on unsatisfactorily to everybody.
It was unsatisfactory to Loman, who, after the football match,
discovered that what little popularity or influence he ever had was
finally gone.  It was unsatisfactory to Wraysford, who, not knowing
whether to be ashamed of himself or wroth with his old friend, settled
down to be miserable for the rest of the term.  It was unsatisfactory to
the Fifth, who felt the luck was against them, and that the cloud
overhead seemed to have stuck there for good.  It was unsatisfactory to
Stephen, who raged and fretted twenty times a day on his brother's
behalf, and got no nearer putting him right than when he began.  And
undoubtedly it must have been unsatisfactory to Oliver, a banished man,
forgetting almost the use of tongue and ears, and, except his brother,
not being able to reckon on a single friend at Saint Dominic's outside
the glorious community of the Guinea-pigs.

In fact, the only section in the school to whom the term was
satisfactory, was these last-named young gentlemen and their sworn foes,
the Tadpoles.

Now, at last, they had a clear issue before them--Greenfield senior, was
he a hero or was he a blackguard?  There was no mistaking sides there.
There was no unpleasant possibility of having to make common cause and
proclaim an armistice.  No! on the question of Greenfield senior,
Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles had something to fight about from morning till
night, and therefore _they_, at any rate, were happy!

"Jellicott," said Dr Senior one day, as the masters met for five
minutes' talk in the head master's study, "Greenfield in the Fifth is
not well, I'm afraid.  I never see him out in the playground."

"Really?" said Mr Jellicott.  "I'm so rarely out there that I haven't
noticed.  I believe, however, he is quite well."

"I hope he is not overworking," said the Doctor.  "He has done so very
well this term that it would be a pity if he spoiled his chance by
knocking himself up."

"Greenfield senior," put in Mr Rastle, "appears to be unpopular just at
present; at least, so I gather from what I have heard.  I don't know
what crime he has committed, but the tribunal of his class have been
very severe on him, I fancy."

The Doctor laughed.

"Boys will be boys!  Well, it's a relief if that's the solution of the
mystery, for I was afraid he was ill.  We have no right to interfere
with these boyish freaks, as long as they are not mischievous.  But you
might keep your eye on the little comedy, Jellicott.  It would be a pity
for it to go too far."

Mr Jellicott did keep his eye on the little comedy, and came to the
conclusion that, whatever Greenfield had done, he was being pretty
severely paid out.  He reported as much to the Doctor, who, however,
still deprecated interference.

"We might only make things worse," said he, "by meddling.  Things like
this always right themselves far better than an outsider can right them.
Besides, as Greenfield will get his move up after Christmas, he will be
less dependent on the good graces of his present class-fellows."

And so the matter ended for the present, as far as the masters were
concerned.  The reader will, perhaps, feel very indignant, and declare
the Doctor was neglecting his duty in treating so serious a matter so
lightly.  He ought (some one says) to have investigated the whole affair
from beginning to end, and made sure what was the reason of the Fifth's
displeasure and of Oliver's disgrace.  In fact, when one comes to think
of it, it is a marvel how the Doctor had not long ago guessed who took
the lost examination paper, and treated the criminal accordingly.

Christmas prize-day was always a great event at Saint Dominic's.  For,
as all the examinations had been held at the beginning of the term, all
the rewards were naturally distributed at the end of it.

Fellows who were leaving made on these occasions their last appearance
before their old companions.  Fellows who had earned their removes
figured now for the last time as members of their old classes; and
fellows who had distinguished themselves during the last year generally
were patted on the back by the masters and cheered by their
schoolfellows, and made much of by their sisters, and cousins, and
aunts.

For ladies turned up at the Christmas prize-day at Saint Dominic's;
ladies, and big brothers, and old boys, and the school governors, with
the noble Earl at their head to give away the prizes.  It was a great
occasion.  The school was decorated with flags and evergreens; Sunday
togs were the order of the day; the Doctor wore his scarlet hood, and
the masters their best gowns.  The lecture-theatre was quite gay with
red-baize carpet and unwonted cushions, and the pyramid of
gorgeously-bound books awaiting the hour of distribution on the centre
table.

Prize-day, too, was the object of all sorts of preparations long before
the eventful date came round.  Ten days at least before it arrived the
Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were wont secretly to buy pumice-stone for
their finger ends, and used one by one to disappear casually into Maltby
and come back with their hair cut.  Then the Fourth Senior, who were for
ever getting up testimonials to their master (they gave him a
testimonial on an average twice every term), were very busy collecting
contributions and discussing whether Mr Brand would prefer an ormolu
mustard-pot, or a steel watch-chain, or an antimacassar.  The musical
set at the school, too, were busy rehearsing part songs for the
evening's festivities, and the dramatic set were terribly immersed for a
fortnight beforehand in the preparations for a grand charade.

Altogether the end of the Christmas term at Saint Dominic's was a busy
time, and the present year was certainly no exception to the rule.
Greatly to the relief of Stephen and Oliver, Mrs Greenfield found
herself unable at the last moment to come down and take part in the
proceedings of the eventful day.  As long as the boys had expected her
to come they had looked forward to prize-day with something like horror,
but now that that danger was passed, Oliver recovered his old unconcern,
and Stephen relapsed once more into his attitude of terror-in-chief to
his big brother, snapping and snarling at any one who dared so much as
to mention the name of Greenfield senior in his hearing.

Well, the day came at last, fully as grand an occasion as any one
expected.  The noble Earl turned up half an hour early, and spent the
interval in patting the greasy heads of all the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles
he came across.  The mothers and sisters swarmed up and down the
staircases and in and out the studies, escorted proudly by their dear
Johnnys and precious Bobs.  The red robes of the Doctor flashed down the
corridor, and in the lecture-theatre there was such a rustling of silk
gowns and waving of feather bonnets, and gleaming of white collars and
sparkling patent-leather boots, as must have fairly astonished that
sombre place.  Every one was there--every fellow nearly had got a mother
or somebody to show off to.  Even Bramble turned up with a magnificent
grandmother, greatly to the envy of friend and foe, and would have been
the proudest Tadpole alive if the dear good old lady had not insisted on
taking her descendant's _hand_ instead of his arm, and trotting him
about instead of letting him trot her.  Oliver and Stephen alone had no
kith and kin to see them on this proud day.

In due time the lecture-theatre filled up, crowded from floor to
ceiling.  The noble Earl walked in amid terrific cheers and took his
seat.  The Doctor walked in after him, amid cheers almost as terrific,
and after him the ordinary procession of governors, masters, and
examiners; and when they were all seated prize-day had begun.

For up steps Mr Raleigh, the captain of the school, on to the raised
dais, whence, after bowing profoundly to the noble Earl and everybody,
he delivers a neat speech in honour of a good old soul who lived three
or four centuries ago, and left behind him the parcel of ground on which
Saint Dominic's now stands, and a hatful of money besides, to found the
school.  Raleigh having said his say (and how proud the smallest boys
are of the captain's whiskers as they listen!), up steps Wren and
commences a similar harangue in Greek.  The small boys, of course, cheer
this even more than the English.  Then up gets Mr Winter and spins off
a Latin speech, but this does not go down so well, for the juniors know
a _little_ Latin, and so are a good deal more critical over that than
over the Greek.  The French and German speeches however, restore them to
good humour, and then the speeches are done.

Then comes the noble Earl.  He is an old, old man, and his voice is weak
and wavering, and scarcely any one hears a word he says.  Yet how they
cheer him, those youngsters!  They watch the back of his head, and when
it bobs then they know the end of a sentence has come, and they let out
accordingly.

"My dearie," says Bramble's grandmother, "don't stamp so.  The poor old
gentleman can't hear his own voice."

"That's no matter," says "my dearie," pounding away with his feet.  "If
we keep it up the old boy may give us an extra week's holiday."

The old lady subsided at this, in a resigned way; and certainly when the
good old nobleman did reach his final bob, his merry, jovial face looked
particularly promising for the extra week.  And now the Doctor advances
to the table with the prize list in his hand.  The prize boys are
marshalled in the background, in the order in which their names appear,
and Bramble tries hard to look as if nothing but his duty to his
grandmother would have kept him from forming one of that favoured band
himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"First Latin--Greenfield junior."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bravo, Tony!"

"Hurrah for the _Dominican_!"

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

"First Greek prize--Wraysford."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Among the first to depart is Wraysford.

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

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

"Yes; are you?"

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

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

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

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

Oliver looks up as they approach.

Now or never!  Wraysford feels he must say something!

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

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

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

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

Wraysford says nothing.

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

Ah! my Fifth Form heroes, just fancy!



CHAPTER THIRTY.

A NEW TURN OF THE TIDE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stephen, overflowing with joy, and quite rickety with emotion, flew at
his old friend, and, instead of kicking him, caught hold of his arm, and
turning to his brother, cried, "Oh, Noll! _isn't_ this prime?  Why,
here's old Wray--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oliver laughed loud at this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, Noll, old man--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know you will win," said Wraysford.

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

LOMAN IN LUCK AGAIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so saying the amiable and respectable youth departed.

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

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

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

"Ye--yes.  A new boy of Morris's."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And here the poet caught sight of the captain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor shred indeed! but better than nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cripps only whistled pleasantly to himself.

Loman, almost frantic, made one last effort.

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

No answer.

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

Cripps only laughed and went on whistling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The news came at last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nor can I," said Bullinger.

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

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

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

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

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

"So I did.  That is--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But do you really--" began Bullinger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, Wray--"

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

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

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

At that moment there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," said Oliver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was the fellow at?

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

"What is it?" again asked Oliver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

THE "DOMINICAN" COMES ROUND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ricketts laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Sonit A.

  To the _Dominican_.

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

  Sonit B.

  To Dr Senior.

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

  Sonit C.

  To O-- G--.

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

  [Wite, possibly wight.]

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

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

The poet promptly sought out his enthusiastic admirer.

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

"Eh--oh, rather!" was the reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This announcement was interesting in more than one respect.  Greenfield
_was_ in the team, Loman was _not_.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do, you young blockhead!"

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

The very potboys despised and ridiculed him!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now, Cripps," began Loman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fire away," said Cripps.

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

"What if you have?"

"Then give me back that bill!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that it?" cried the excited Loman.

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

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

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

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

And here Mr Cripps looked very dejected.

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

And he held out his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hand me that paper, Loman!"

Loman hesitated.

"Obey me, Loman!"

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

The Doctor took it up.

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



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

THE MATCH AGAINST THE COUNTY.

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

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

"How do you account for this, Loman?"

Loman lowered his eyes and made no reply.

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

"No."

"Did you ever see this paper before?"

"No."

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

"No."

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

"No."

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

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

"No."

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

"Yes."

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

Loman hesitated.

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

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

"Must I say?" asked Loman.

"Yes--you must."

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

"Who?"

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

"And what made you suspect Greenfield senior?"

"All the boys suspected him."

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

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

"And why else?"

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

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

Loman did his best to look virtuous.

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

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

"No."

"Did he admit it?"

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

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

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

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

"Not that I remember."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes; you can go now, Loman."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I didn't.  And yet in a way--"

"Eh?  What do you say?"

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

"Yes; so you did."

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

"Hum!  I remember now you said so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So much for cutting through the scrimmage!

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

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

Loose it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hullo! half-time!

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

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

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

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

Ah!  Greenfield has got him at last.  Yes, Mr Eel, you may wriggle as
hard as you like, but you'd hardly find your way out of that grip
without leave!

Altogether this is a fine run, and makes the School see that even with
the wind they are not going to have it all their own way.  However, they
warm up wonderfully after this.

Steady is still the word (what grand play we should get if it were
always the word at football, you schoolboys!  You may kick and run and
scrimmage splendidly, but you are not steady--but this is digression).
Steady is still the word, and _every_ minute Saint Dominic's pulls
better together.  The forwards work like one man, and, lighter weight
though they are, command the scrimmages by reason of their good
"packing."

Wren and young Forrester, the quarter-backs, are "dead on" the ball the
moment it peeps out from the scrimmage; and behind them at half-back
Oliver and Bullinger are not missing a chance.  If they did, Wraysford
is behind them, a prince of "backs."

Oh, for a chance to put this fine machinery into motion!  Time is
flying, and the umpire is already fidgeting with his watch.  Oh, for one
chance!  And while we speak here it comes.  A County man has just darted
up along the touch-line half the length of the field.  Wren goes out to
meet him, and behind Wren--too close behind--advances Oliver.  The
County man thinks twice before delivering himself up into the clutches
of one of these heroes, and ends his run with a kick, which, Oliver
being not in his place, Wraysford runs forward to take.  Now Wraysford
has hardly had a run this afternoon.  He means to have one now!  And he
does have one.  He takes the ball flying, gives one hurried look round,
and then makes right for the thick of the fray.  Who backs him up?
Greenfield for one, and all the rest of Saint Dominic's for the other.

"Stick close!" he says to Oliver, as he flies past.  Oliver wants no
bidding.  He follows his man like a shadow.  In and out among the
forwards, and round about past the quarter-backs; and when at last
Wraysford is borne down by a combined force of half and
three-quarter-backs, Greenfield is there to take the ball on.

"Look-out there!" cries the County captain, "mark that man."  The County
does mark that man, and they have the painful task of marking him pass
one half-back and floor another before he is arrested.

"I'm here!" cries Wraysford's voice at that moment; and next instant the
ball is again hurrying on towards the County goal in Wraysford's arms,
Greenfield once more being in close attendance.

And now the County backs come into action, and the first of them collars
Wraysford.  But it is Oliver who collars the ball, and amid the shouts,
and howls, and cheers of players and spectators rushes it still onward.
The second "back" is the County's only remaining hope, nor surely will
he fail.  He rushes at Oliver.  Oliver rushes at him.  Wraysford, once
more on his feet, rushes on them both.

"Look-out for the ball there!" is the panic cry of the County.  Ay, look
indeed!  Oliver is down, but Wraysford has it, and walks with it merrily
over the County's goal-line, and deposits it on the ground in the exact
centre of the posts.

"There never was such a rush-up, or such a pretty piece of double play,"
say the knowing ones among the onlookers; and when a minute later the
ball is brought out, and Stansfield kicks it beautifully over the goal,
every one says that it is one of the best-earned goals that old meadow
has ever seen kicked, and that Saint Dominic's, though beaten, has
nothing in that day's performance to be ashamed of.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

A VOCAL, INSTRUMENTAL, AND DRAMATIC ENTERTAINMENT IN THE FOURTH JUNIOR.

Now among those who were present to witness the famous "rush-up" of
Greenfield senior and Wraysford, which ended in the fall of the County
goal, was one boy who showed very little enthusiasm over the
achievement, or very little delight at the glory which the school
thereby derived.

Loman, who, unable to sit in his study, and not knowing what else to do,
had wandered almost instinctively to the meadow, found himself on this
particular afternoon one of the most miserable boys in Saint Dominic's.

Two years ago, when he first entered the school, he was popular with his
fellows and voted an acquisition on the cricket-ground and
football-field whenever the youth of Saint Dominic's strove in emulation
against their rivals.  He could remember a time when fellows strolled
arm-in-arm with him down to the matches; when the small boys looked
quite meek in his presence, and the masters gave a friendly nod in
answer to his salutes.  That was when he was quite new at Saint
Dominic's; but how changed now!  This afternoon, for instance, as he
stood looking on, he had the cheerful knowledge that not a boy in all
that assembly cared two straws about him.  Why wasn't _he_ playing in
the match?  Why did the fellows, as they came near him, look straight in
front of them, or go round to avoid him?  Why did the Guinea-pigs and
Tadpoles strut about and crack their vulgar jokes right under his very
nose, as if he was nobody?  Alas, Loman! something's been wrong with you
for the last year or thereabouts; and if we don't all know the cause, we
can see the effect.  For it is a fact, you _are_ nobody in the eyes of
Saint Dominic's at the present time.

However, he was destined to become a somebody pretty soon; and, indeed,
as soon as the football match was over, and the supper after it was
disposed of, and the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles (who, you know, had
selected this same afternoon _for their_ great football match) had
ceased their rows in slumber, every one's mind, at least the mind of
every one in the two head forms, turned naturally to the strange and
mysterious event of the morning.  What various conclusions they came to
it is not for me to set down here.  They probably came to as good a
conclusion as the reader has done, and waited impatiently to have the
whole thing cleared up.

And it looked as if the Doctor were about to do this next morning, for
he summoned together the Fifth and Sixth, and thus solemnly addressed
them:--

"Before we begin the lesson for the day, boys, I wish to refer to an
incident that happened here yesterday morning, which must be fresh in
your memories.  I mean the accidental discovery of the lost examination
paper for the Nightingale Scholarship.  I hope you will not draw hasty
conclusions from what then occurred.  The boy in whose book the paper
was found is present here, and has assured me on his honour he never saw
the paper before, and is quite ignorant how it came into his book.  That
is so, Loman?"

"Yes, sir," replied Loman.

"When a boy makes a statement to me on his honour, I accept it as such,"
said the Doctor, very gravely, and looking hard at the boy.  "I accept
it as such--"

Loman sat motionless with his eyes on the desk before him.

"But," went on the Doctor, turning again to the boys, "before I dismiss
the subject I must do justice to one among you who I find, much to my
pain, has been an object of suspicion in connection with this same lost
paper.  Greenfield senior, I have no hesitation in saying, is perfectly
clear of any such imputation as that you put upon him.  I may say in his
presence I believe him to be incapable of a fraudulent and mean act; and
further than that, you boys will be interested to hear that the
questions which he answered so brilliantly in that examination were not
the questions which appeared on the lost paper at all, but an entirely
new set, which for my own satisfaction I drew up on the morning of
examination itself."

This announcement _did_ interest every one--the Fifth particularly, who
felt their own humiliation now fourfold as they looked at Oliver, and
thought of what their conduct to him had been.

It interested Oliver and Wraysford as much as any one, but for a
different reason.  Supposing Loman had taken the paper--this was the
reflection which darted through both their minds--supposing Loman _had_
taken the paper and worked up the answers from it, might not the sudden
change of questions described by the Doctor account for the low place he
had taken in the exam?

Altogether the Doctor's speech left things (except as concerned Oliver)
not much more satisfactory than before.  The natural impulse of
everybody was to suspect Loman.  But, then, six months ago the natural
impulse had been equally as strong to suspect Oliver, and--well, that
had somehow turned out a bad "spec," and so might this.

So Saint Dominic's really didn't know what to think, and settled down to
the work of the term in an uneasy frame of mind, wishing something would
turn up, to end the wretched affair of the lost paper definitely one way
or another.

Of course the report of the new state of affairs soon penetrated down to
the lower school, and the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles at any rate were not
slow in making up _their_ minds on the burning question.

They turned out in a body and hooted Loman up and down the passages with
as much, if not more, glee than some of them had lately hooted Oliver.
"Yah, boo!  Who stole the exam paper?--there! old Loman."  Such were the
cries which presently became familiar in the school, until one day Mr
Rastle dropped down on some twenty of the "howlers," and set them each
twelve propositions of Euclid to learn by heart, and two hours a-piece
in the detention-room, there to meditate over their evil ways.

The quiet of the lower school during the next week was something
delicious.

The tyrannical proceeding on the part of Mr Rastle provoked bitter
indignation, of course, in the breasts of the culprits.  Why weren't
they to be allowed to express their feelings?  And if Rastle did want to
"pot" them, why should he give them Euclid to learn, when he knew
perfectly well Euclid was the very thing not one of them _could_ learn
by heart?  And if he did want to detain them, why _ever_ should he fix
on the identical week in which the grand "Vocal, Instrumental, and
Dramatic Entertainment" of the Fourth Junior was due to come off.

It was an abominable piece of spite, that was a fact; and Mr Rastle was
solemnly condemned one evening in the dormitory to be blown up with
dynamite at the first convenient opportunity.  Meanwhile, come what
would, the "Vocal, Instrumental, and Dramatic Entertainment" _should_
come off, if it cost every man Jack of the "entertainers" his head.

Stephen, who by this time was a person of authority in his class, was
appointed president of the "V. I. and D. Society."  The manner of his
election to this honourable office had been peculiar, but emphatic.  He
had been proposed by Paul and seconded by himself in a short but elegant
speech, in which he asserted he would only serve if his appointment was
unanimous.  It _was_ unanimous, for directly after this magnanimous
statement he and Paul and a few others proceeded summarily to eject
Bramble, Padger, and others who showed signs of opposition; and then,
locking the door, proceeded to an immediate vote, which, amid loud
Guinea-pig cheers, was declared to be unanimous, one contumacious
Tadpole, who had escaped notice, having his hands held down by his sides
during the ceremony.  As soon as the doors were open, Bramble, who had
meanwhile collected a large muster of adherents, rushed in, and, turning
out all the Guinea-pigs, had himself elected treasurer, and Padger
honorary secretary.  These exciting appointments having been made, the
meeting was "thrown open," a programme was drawn up, and the
preparations were in a very forward state when the sad interruption
occasioned by Mr Rastle's brutal conduct took place.  But if Mr Rastle
thought he was going to extinguish the "Vocal, Instrumental, and
Dramatic Entertainment" he was woefully mistaken.

As soon as ever, by superhuman exertions, Bramble and a few others of
the "potted" ones had struggled through their Euclid, and served their
term of detention, an evening was fixed upon for the great event to come
off.

Immediately a question arose.  Should the public be admitted?

"Rather!" exclaimed Bramble, the treasurer, "five bob each."

"Masters half price," suggested Padger.

"Greenfield senior free!" shouted the loyal Paul.

"Bah! do you think Greenfield senior would come to hear you spout, you
young muff!" roared the amiable Bramble.

"I know what he would come for," retorted Paul, "and I'd come with him
too.  Guess!"

"Shan't guess.  Shall I, Padger?"

"May as well," suggested Padger.

"He'd come," cried Paul, not waiting for the Tadpole to guess--"he'd
come a mile to see you hung.  So would I--there!"

It was some time before the meeting got back to the subject of admitting
the public.  But it was finally agreed that, though the public were not
to be invited, the door should be left open, and any one ("presenting
his card," young Bilbury suggested) might come in, with the exception of
Loman, Mr Rastle, Tom Braddy, and the school cat.

For the next few days the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were busy, learning
their parts, practising their songs, arranging all the details of their
dramatic performance, and so on; and Mr Rastle had to "pot" one or two
more of them, and detain one or two others, before he could get anything
like the ordinary work of the class done.  All this the young vocal,
instrumental, and dramatic enthusiasts bore patiently, devoting so many
extra ounces of dynamite to Mr Rastle's promised blow-up for each
offence.

At last the festival day arrived.  Stephen, on whom, somehow, all the
work had devolved, while the talking and discussion of knotty points had
fallen on his two brother officers, looked quite pale and anxious on the
eventful morning.

"Well, young 'un," said Oliver, "I suppose Wray and I are to be allowed
to come and see the fun to-night."

"Yes," said Stephen, with considerable misgivings about the "fun."

"All serene; we'll be there, won't we, Wray?  Not the first Guinea-pig
kick-up we've been witness to, either."

"Do you think Pembury will come?" asked Stephen, nervously.

"Oh, rather.  He'll have to report it in the next _Dominican_.  I'll see
he comes."

"Oh, I think he needn't mind," said Stephen, with a queer shyness; "I
could write out a report for him."

"Oh, I dare say; a nice report that would be.  No, Tony must be there.
He wouldn't miss it for a five-pound note."

Stephen retired to report these rather alarming prospects of an audience
to his comrades.

"Talking of five-pound notes," said Wraysford, after he had gone, "does
Loman ever mean to pay up that 8 pounds?"

"I don't know; it doesn't look like it," said Oliver.  "The fact is, he
came to me yesterday to borrow another pound for something or another.
He said Cripps had been up to the school and tried to make out that
there was another owing, and had threatened, unless he got it, at once
to speak to the head master."

"Did you lend it him?" said Wraysford.  "It's a regular swindle."

"I hadn't got it to lend.  I told him I was sure the fellow was a thief,
and advised him to tell the Doctor."

"What did he say?"

"Oh, he got in an awful state, and said he would get into no end of a
row, and wouldn't for the world have the Doctor know a word of it."

"I don't like it at all," said Wraysford.  "Don't you have more to do
than you can help with that business, Noll, old man."

"But the poor beggar seems regularly at his wits' end."

"Never mind; you'll do him and yourself no good by lending him money."

"Well, I haven't done so, for a very good reason, as I tell you.  But
I'm sorry for him.  I do believe he can't see that he's being fleeced.
He made me promise not to utter a word of it to the Doctor, so I really
don't know how to help him."

"It's my impression he's good reason to be afraid of the Doctor just
now," said Wraysford.  "That Nightingale business has yet to be cleared
up."

The two friends pursued this disagreeable topic no farther, but agreed,
for all Loman wasn't a nice boy, and for all they had neither of them
much cause to love him, they would see the next day if they could not do
something to help him in his difficulty.  Meanwhile they gave themselves
over to the pure and refined enjoyment of the "Vocal, Instrumental, and
Dramatic Entertainment."

At seven that evening, after tea, the Fourth Junior room became a centre
of attraction to all Saint Dominic's.  Fellows from the Sixth and Fifth,
always ready for novelty in the way of amusement, looked in to see the
sport.  The Fourth Senior grandly condescended to witness the vulgar
exploits of their juniors, and the other classes were most of them
represented by one or more spectators.

The programme had been carefully got up.  Stephen took the chair
solemnly at the appointed hour, and with a great deal of stammering
announced that the proceedings were now about to commence, and then sat
down.  An awful pause ensued.  At first it was borne with interest, then
with impatience; then, when Stephen began to whisper to Paul, and Paul
began to signal to Bramble, and Bramble gesticulated in dumb show at
Padger, and all four whispered together, and finally looked very gravely
in an opposite direction to the audience, then they began to be amused.

"Oh," said Stephen, very red, turning round abruptly after this awkward
pause had continued for a minute or two--"oh, that was wrong; he doesn't
begin, and the other fellow's away.  Look here, Bramble, do your thing
now."

"No, I can't," whispered Bramble in an audible voice.  "I've forgotten
the first line."

"Something about a kid asleep," suggested Padger, also audibly.

"Oh, yes," said Bramble, starting up and blushing very red as he began.

"`Lines on Seeing my Wife and Two Children Asleep'--Hood."

This modest announcement of his subject was overwhelming in itself, and
was greeted with such yells of laughter that the poor elocutionist found
it utterly impossible to go on.  He tried once or twice, but never got
beyond the first half line.

"And has the earth--" and here he stuck, but in answer to the cheers
began again, looking round for Padger to help.

"And has the earth--(Go it, Padger, give a fellow a leg up, can't you?)"

"I can't find the place," said Padger, very hot and flurried, and
whipping over the pages of a book with his moist thumb.

"And has the earth--(Look in the index, you lout!  Oh, won't I give it
to you afterwards!)" once more began the wretched Bramble.  He got no
farther.  Even had he remembered the words his voice could never have
risen above the laughter, which continued as long as he remained on his
feet.

He retired at length in dudgeon, and Stephen called on Paul for a song.
This went off better, only everybody stamped the time with his feet, so
that the singer could neither be heard for the row nor seen for the
dust.  After that followed another "reading."  This time the subject was
a humorous one--"Ben Battle," by T. Hood.  Every one, by the way, chose
Hood.  It was the only poetry-book to be had in the Fourth Junior.  The
reading progressed satisfactorily for the first two lines--indeed, until
a joke occurred, and here the reader was so overcome with the humour of
the thing that he broke into a laugh, and every time he tried to begin
the next line he laughed before he could get it out, until at last it
got to be quite as monotonous as watching the hyena at the Zoological
Gardens.  Finally he did get through the line, but in a voice so weak,
wavering by reason of his efforts not to laugh, that the effect was more
ludicrous than ever.  He could get no farther, however.  For the
recollection of the joke that had passed, and the anticipation of the
one that was coming, fairly doubled him up, and he let the book drop out
of his hands in the middle of one of his convulsions.

The next performance was an "instrumental" one, which bade fair to be a
great success.  Four of the boys had learned to whistle "Home, Sweet
Home" in parts, and were now about to ravish the audience with this
time-honoured melody.  They stood meekly side by side in a straight line
facing the audience, waiting for the leader to begin, and screwing their
mouths up into the proper shape.  Just as the signal was given, and each
had taken a long breath and was in the act of letting out, some lout in
the audience laughed!  The result may be imagined.  The first note,
which was to have been so beautiful, sounded just like the letting off
of steam from four leaky safety-valves, and no effort could recover the
melody.  The more they tried the more they laughed.  The more they
laughed the more the audience roared.  There they stood, with faces of
mingled agony and mirth, frantically trying to get the sound out; but it
never came, and they finally had to retire, leaving the audience to
imagine what the effect of "Home, Sweet Home" might have been had they
only got at it.

However, as the "dramatic" performance came next, the audience were
comforted.  The modest subject chosen was _Hamlet_.

Stephen, who was combining the duties of master of the ceremonies with
those of president, rose and said to the company, "All turn round, and
don't look till I tell you."

Of course every one pretended to turn round, and of course everybody
looked as hard as he could.  And they saw Bramble hop up on a chair and
lower the gas, to represent night.  And they saw Paul and Padger stick
up two or three forms on end, to represent a castle.  And they saw two
other boys walk majestically on to the platform in ulsters and billycock
hats, and their trousers turned up, and sticks in their hands to
represent soldiers.

"Now you can turn round," cried Stephen.

They did turn round, just at the very moment when Bramble, attempting to
lower the gas still further, turned it right out.  The effect was
remarkable.  No one and nothing was visible, but out of the black
darkness came the following singular dialogue:--

"_Who's there_?"

"Have you got a lucifer about you, any of you?"

"_Nay, answer me.  Stand and unfold yourself_."

"Don't be a fool (in agitated accents); you're shoving me off the
platform."

"Why don't you light up?"

"_Long live the king_."

"Ah, here's one.  What's become of the chair?"

Next moment, amid great applause, the gas was re-lit, and the thrilling
tragedy proceeded.

It went on all right till the ghost enters, and here another calamity
occurred.  Padger was acting ghost, dressed up in a long sheet, and with
flour on his face.  Being rather late in coming on, he did so at a very
unghostlike pace, and in the hurry tripped up on the bottom of his
sheet, falling flop on the platform, which, being none of the cleanest,
left an impression of dust on his face and garment, which greatly added
to the horror of his appearance.  He recovered the perpendicular with
the help of two soldiers and a few friends, and was about to proceed
with his part, when the door suddenly opened and Mr Rastle appeared.

He had evidently not come to see the show--indeed he hardly seemed aware
that a show was going on.  His face was grave, and his voice agitated,
as he said--

"Has any one here seen Loman?"

No one had seen him since breakfast that morning.

"Is Greenfield senior here?"

"Yes, sir," answered Oliver.

"Will you come with me to the Doctor at once, please?"

Oliver was out in the passage in a moment, and hurrying with the master
to Dr Senior's study.

"I'm afraid," said Mr Rastle, as they went--"I'm afraid something has
happened to Loman!"



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

MISSING.

Slowly Oliver followed Mr Rastle to the Doctor's study with strange
forebodings at heart.

What the "something that must have happened to Loman" could be, he could
not conjecture; but the recollection of his unhappy schoolfellow's
troubles and of his difficulties, and--worse still--of his dishonesty
(for Oliver had no doubt in his mind that Loman had taken the
examination paper), all came to his mind now with terrifying force.

Oliver had never been fond of Loman, as the reader knows, but somehow
there are times when one forgets whether one is fond of another person
or not, and Oliver felt as if he would give anything now to be sure--

Here he was at the Doctor's study.

Dr Senior was standing at the fireplace with a very grave look,
holding a letter in his hand.

"Greenfield," said he, the moment the boy entered, "when did you see
Loman last?"

"Last night, sir, after preparation."

"He was not in his class this morning?"

"No, sir--he sent down word he had a headache."

"You saw him last night--where?"

"In my study."

The Doctor paused uncomfortably, and Mr Rastle put in a question.

"Are you and Loman great friends?"

"No, we are not friends."

"Does he often come to your study?"

"No, sir.  Very rarely."

"May I ask, Greenfield," said the Doctor, "why he was in your study last
night?"

This was getting close quarters for Oliver, who, however, had made up
his mind he must, if put to it, say all he knew.

"He came to--to ask me about something."

"Yes, what?"

"He made me promise not to tell any one."

"Greenfield," said the Doctor, seriously, "Loman has disappeared from
Saint Dominic's.  Why, I cannot say.  If you know of anything which will
account for this proceeding, you owe it to yourself, to me, and to your
schoolfellow, who may yet be recovered, to speak plainly now."

The Doctor's voice, which had been stern when he began to speak,
betrayed his emotion before the sentence was ended, and Oliver
surrendered without further demur.

"He came to borrow some money," he replied.

"Yes," said the Doctor.

Oliver had nothing for it but to narrate all he knew of Loman's recent
money difficulties, of his connection with Cripps, and of his own and
Wraysford's share in helping him out of his straits.

The Doctor heard all he had to say, putting in a question here and
there, whenever by the boy's manner there seemed to be anything kept in
the background which wanted some coaxing to bring out.

"And he wanted to borrow more money yesterday, then?"

"Yes, sir.  He said Cripps had found there was another sovereign owing,
and had threatened to expose Loman before you and the whole school
unless he got it at once.  But I fancy that must only have been an
excuse."

"Yes.  And did you lend him the pound?"

"I hadn't got it to lend," replied Oliver, "the last lot had completely
cleared me out."

"There is one other question I want to ask you, Greenfield," said the
Doctor, fidgeting with the paper in his hand.  "How long do you suppose
this has been going on?"

"I don't know, sir--but should think for some time."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because," replied Oliver--and there was no help for it--"because at the
time I spoke to you about the scrape my young brother got into at the
lock, last autumn, Loman was very thick with Cripps."

"Indeed?  That was just before the Nightingale examination, was it not?"

"Yes, sir," said Oliver, beginning to feel the ground very uncomfortable
all round.  Here he was telling tales right and left, and no help for
it.  Surely the Doctor was carrying it a little too far.

"Do you suppose Loman was in debt at that time?"

"I have no idea," replied the boy, wondering whatever that had to do
with Loman's disappearance now.

"You wonder why I ask this question," said the Doctor, apparently
reading the boy's thoughts.  "This letter will explain.  I will read it
to you, as you may be able to throw some light on it.  I received it
just now.  It is from Cripps."

"Hon. Sir,--I take the liberty of informing you that one of your young
gents, which his name is Mister Loman, is a prig.  He's been a regular
down at my shop this twelve month, and never paid a farthing for his
liquor.  More than that, he's been a-drawing money from me up to
thirty-five pounds, which I've got his promissory note due last
Micklemas.  He said he was a-going to get a Nightingale or something
then that would pay it all off, and I was flat enough to believe him.
If that ain't enough, he's a-been and played me nicely over a rod I sold
him.  I might have persecuted him over that job but I didn't.  He
cracked it to rights, and then tries to pass it back on me for same as
when he got it, and if I hadn't a-been a bit sharper nor some folk I
should have been clean done.  This is to tell you I ain't a-going to
stand it no longer, and if I don't get my money there'll be a rumpus up
at the school which won't be pleasant for none of you.  So the shortest
cut is to send on the money sharp to your humble servant, Ben Cripps.

"P.S.--I've wrote and told the young swell I've put you on the job."

"It is evident," said Mr Rastle, "this letter has something to do with
Loman's disappearance."

"Yes," said Oliver, "he was awfully frightened of you or his father
getting to know about it all, sir."

"Foolish boy!" said the Doctor, with a half groan.

What little could be done at that late hour was done.  Strict inquiries
were made on all hands as to when and where the missing boy was last
seen, and it was ascertained that he must have left Saint Dominic's that
morning during early class time, when every one supposed him ill in bed
with a headache.

But where had he gone, and with what object?  A telegram was sent to his
father, and the reply came back that the boy had not gone home, and that
Mr Loman was on his way to Saint Dominic's.  At the Maltby railway
station no one had seen or heard anything of him.

Meanwhile, Mr Rastle had gone down to the Cockchafer to see Cripps.
The landlord was not at home, but, said the potboy, was most likely "up
along with the old 'un at the lock-'us."  From which Mr Rastle gathered
there was a chance of seeing Mr Cripps junior at the residence of Mr
Cripps senior, at Gusset Lock-house, and thither he accordingly went.
Mr Cripps junior was there, sweetly smoking, and particularly amiable.

In answer to Mr Rastle's inquiries, he made no secret of his belief
that the boy had run away for fear of exposure.

"You see, Mister," said he, "I don't like a-getting young folk into
trouble, but when it comes to robbing a man downright, why, I considers
it my dooty to give your governor the tip and let him know."

Mr Rastle had no opinion to offer on this question of morals.  What he
wanted to know was whether Cripps had seen the boy that day, or had the
slightest idea what had become of him.

Mr Cripps laughed at the idea.

"Not likely," he said, "he'd tell me where he was a-goin' to, when he'd
got thirty-five-pound of mine in his pocket, the young thief.  All I can
say is, he'd better not show up again in a hurry till that little bill's
squared up."  And here Mr Cripps relapsed into quite a state of
righteous indignation.

"Wait till he do come back, I says," he repeated.  "I'll be on him,
mister, no error.  I'll let the folks know the kind of young gents you
turn out up at your school, so I will."

Mr Rastle took no notice of all this.  He admitted to himself that this
man had some reason for being disagreeable, if Loman had really
absconded with such a debt as he represented.

"Thirty-five pounds," continued Cripps, becoming quite sentimental over
his wrongs, "and if you won't believe me, look at this.  This here bit
of paper's all I've got in return for my money--all I've got!"

And so saying he took from his pocket and exhibited to Mr Rastle the
very promissory note, signed by Loman, which he had pretended to tear up
and burn the last time that unhappy boy was at the Cockchafer.

Had Mr Rastle known as much as the reader knows he would not have
wasted more time over Mr Cripps.  He would have seen that, whatever had
happened to the boy, Mr Cripps's purpose was to make money by it.  But
he did not know all, and looked at the bill with mingled astonishment
and sorrow as an important piece of evidence.

"He really owed you this?" he asked.

"He did so--every brass farthing, which I've waited ever since
Michaelmas for it, mister.  But I ain't a-going to wait no longer.  I
must have my money slap down, I let you know, or somebody shall hear of
it."

"But he has paid you something?" said Mr Rastle, remembering Oliver's
account of the loan of eight pounds.

"Has he?" exclaimed Cripps, satirically.  "Oh, that's all right, only I
ain't seen it, that's all."

"Do you mean he hasn't paid you anything?" demanded Mr Rastle, becoming
impatient with his jocular manner.

"Of course, as you says so, it ain't for me to say the contrairy; but if
you hadn't told me, I should have said he ain't paid me one brass
farthing, so now."

"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed Mr Rastle.  Of course, if that was so,
Loman must have borrowed the eight pounds from Oliver on false
pretences, and kept it for his own use.

"I tell you what," broke in Mr Cripps, in the midst of this meditation,
"I don't want to do nothing unpleasant to you, or the governor, or
anybody.  What I say is, you'd better see this little bill put square
among you, and then the thing can be kept quiet, do you see?  It would
be awkward for you to have a regular shindy about it, my man, but that's
what it'll come to if I don't get my money."

This declaration Mr Cripps delivered in a solemn voice which was his
nearest approach to earnestness.  But he was mistaken in expecting Mr
Rastle to be much affected or overawed by it.  On the contrary, it gave
that gentleman a new insight into his acquaintance's character, which
decided him that a prolongation of this interview would neither be
pleasant nor profitable.

So Mr Rastle abruptly turned and went, much to the regret of Cripps,
who had not half spoken his mind yet.

Returning to the school, the master reported all he had to say, which
was not much.  There an anxious night was spent by the masters and the
one or two boys who were in their confidence in the matter.

The half hope that Loman might return of his own accord before night was
quickly dispelled.  Bed-time came, and no signs of him.  Later his
father arrived, anxious and excited, and was closeted for some time with
the Doctor.

Meanwhile everything that could be done at that time of night was done.
The Maltby newspapers were communicated with, and the police.
Unpleasant as it was, the masters decided the right thing to do was to
make the matter known at once, and not damage the chance of the boy's
discovery by any attempt to keep his disappearance quiet.

At dawn next day an organised search was begun, and inquiries were
started in every direction.  Mr Cripps, among others, once more
received the honour of a visit, this time from Mr Loman himself, who,
greatly to the astonishment of the worthy landlord, called for his son's
promissory note, which, being produced, he paid without a word.  Cripps
was fairly taken aback by this unexpected piece of business, and even a
trifle disconcerted.  It never suited him to be quite square with
anybody, and now that Mr Loman had paid every farthing that could be
claimed against his son, he did not like the look of Mr Loman at all,
and he liked it less before the interview ended.  For Mr Loman (who, by
the way, was a barrister by profession) put his man that morning through
a cross-examination which it wanted all his wits to get over creditably.
As it was, he was once or twice driven completely into a corner, and
had to acknowledge, for the sake of telling one lie, that the last
twenty statements he had made had been lies too.  Still Mr Loman kept
at him.  Now he wanted to know exactly how often his son had visited the
Cockchafer?  When he was there last?  When the time before that?  What
he had done during his visits?  Had he played cards?  With whom?  With
Cripps?  Had he lost?  Had Cripps won?  Had Cripps gone on letting him
run up a score and lose money, even though he got no payment?  Why had
Cripps done so?  Where had he expected to get payment from in the end?

Altogether it was hot quarters for Cripps that morning, and once or
twice he struck completely, and putting himself on his dignity, declared
"he wasn't a-going to be questioned and brow-beated as if he was a
common pickpocket!" which objection Mr Loman quietly silenced by saying
"Very well," and turning to go, a movement which so terrified the worthy
publican that he caved in at once, and submitted to further questions.

Mr Loman then followed up his advantage by finding out all he could
about the companions whom his son had been in the habit of meeting on
the occasion of his visits to the Cockchafer.  What were their names,
occupations, addresses, and so on?  Cripps, if any one had told him
twenty-four hours ago that he would be meekly divulging all this
information to any one in his own house, would have scoffed at the idea.
But there was something about Mr Loman's voice, and Mr Loman's eye,
and Mr Loman's note-book, which was too much for the publican, and he
submitted like a lamb.

In due time the ordeal was over, and Mr Loman said he would now go and
call upon these young gentlemen, and see what they had to say, and that
Mr Cripps would most likely hear from him again.

Altogether the landlord of the Cockchafer had hardly ever passed such an
uncomfortable morning.

Meanwhile the other searchers, among whom were Oliver and Wraysford,
were busy.

For a whole day there came no news of the missing boy.  No one could be
met who had seen him or heard of him.  Neither in Maltby nor up the
river, nor in the country roads round, could any tidings of him be
found.  Towards evening those who remained anxiously behind began to
entertain fresh fears.  Had the boy been merely running away, some one
would surely have seen him or heard of him.  Had anything worse happened
to him?

Mr Loman and the police-inspector paid a hurried visit to the
boathouse.  Had the boy been there?  No, no one had been there for two
days.  They followed the paths through the woods, asking at every
cottage and stopping every passer-by.  But no, no one knew anything.  No
boat had passed through the lock, no passenger on foot had gone past it.

The night came, and with it most of the searchers returned, dejected and
worn-out.

The school was strangely silent.  Not a sound could be heard in the
passages or class-rooms.  Nothing but the heavy rain, which now began to
fall dismally upon the roof and windows of the old school-house.

Boys who heard it shuddered, and their minds went out into the dark wet
night after their lost schoolfellow, wherever he might be.

Where was he now? they wondered, and how was he faring?

"Has Greenfield returned?" asked the Doctor, as about ten o'clock the
masters and Mr Loman met for the mockery of supper in the head master's
study.

"No," said Mr Jellicott.  "I have just been inquiring.  He has not
returned."

"Strange," said the Doctor; "which direction did he take?"

"Up towards Grandham," said Wraysford; "we went together as far as the
cross roads, and then I went off on the Dallingford road and back by the
river."

"He ought to be back now," said the Doctor, looking concerned.

"There is no railway or coach from Grandham," suggested Mr Rastle; "he
would have to walk back most likely."

"And in this rain!" said the Doctor.

"Perhaps," said Wraysford, "he may have heard something."

It was a cheery suggestion.  If it could but be true!

"He would have telegraphed," said Mr Loman.

"There is no telegraph office there," said the Doctor; "the Grandham
people have to come here or to Dallingford to telegraph."

They waited an hour, but Oliver did not return.

The night became more and more stormy.  The bleak February wind whistled
among the chimneys, and the hard rain beat pitilessly at the windows and
on the gravel walk outside.

The Doctor rose and pulled up the blind and looked out.  It was a dreary
prospect.  The rain had turned to sleet, and the wind was growing fast
to a gale.  The trees round the house creaked and groaned beneath it.

"It is a dreadful night," said the Doctor.  "Those two poor boys!"

No one else said anything.  The storm grew fiercer and fiercer.  Boys in
their dormitories sit up in bed and listened to the roar of the wind as
it howled round the house.  And that silent party in the Doctor's study
never once thought of seeking rest.  Midnight came; but no Oliver, no
Loman--and the storm as furious as ever.

Presently there came a soft knock at the door, which made every one
start suddenly as the door opened.

It was Stephen in his night-shirt.  He, like every one else, had been
awakened by the storm.  Oliver was the monitor of his dormitory; and now
for the first time the boy missed his elder brother.  Where was Oliver?
he asked.  No one could say.  He had been out all day, and no one had
seen him since he got back.

This was enough for Stephen.  With bounding heart and quivering lips he
sprang from his bed and hurried down stairs.  There was a light in the
Doctor's study; and there he went.

The boy's alarm and terror on hearing that his brother had not returned
was piteous to see.  He begged to be allowed to go and look for him, and
only the Doctor's authoritative command could put him from this purpose.
But nothing would induce him to return to bed; so Wraysford fetched him
an ulster to keep out the cold.

The night wore on, by inches; and the storm raged outside with unabated
wildness.

More than once the impulse had seized Wraysford to sally out at all
risks and look for his friend.  But what _could_ one do in a night like
this, with a blinding sleet full in one's face, and a wind which mocked
all attempts at progress or shouting!

No, there was nothing for it but to sit patiently and await daylight.

One, two, three o'clock came, and still nothing but the storm.  Stephen
crouched closer up beside Wraysford, and the elder boy, as he put his
arm round the younger, could feel how his chest heaved, and how his
teeth chattered.

"You're cold, old boy," said he, kindly.

"No, I'm not, Wray," said the boy, with a gulp; "but don't talk, Wray,
I--"

The next instant Stephen, with a sudden cry, had bounded to his feet and
rushed to the window.

"Some one called!" he cried.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

FOUND!

The little company of watchers sprang to their feet with one accord and
listened, as Stephen wildly flung up the window.  The storm burst into
the room as he did so, with all its vehemence, drenching those who stood
near, and deafening every one with its roar.  But no other sound could
be heard.  Stephen, heedless of the weather, stood motionless with his
head out of the window, listening.  Alas! it must have been a false hope
after all--a brother's fancy.

"A mistake, I fear," said Dr Senior.  "Greenfield, I think you had
better close the window.  It will be daylight in--"

He had not time to finish his sentence, for with a sudden exclamation
and a shout of, "There it is again; come, Wray!" the boy had leapt from
the low window, half clad as he was, into the garden.

For Wraysford to follow him was the work of an instant. Mr Rastle and
Roach the porter did the same, while the others went hurriedly out into
the passage to the hall door.  Close as they were to one another,
Wraysford lost sight of Stephen for a moment in the blinding sleet which
dashed full in their faces.  But he heard him shouting a few yards off,
and was at his side the same moment.

"No use shouting," said he, "against the wind."

"I _must_ shout!" exclaimed Stephen, calling out once more.

"Where--what did you hear?" asked Wraysford.

"Some one shouting.  I'm positive of it!" said the boy, plunging
forward.

"Stand still, and listen again," said Wraysford; "we may be going all
wrong."

It was all he could do to keep the younger boy still for a few seconds.
What ages those seconds seemed!

A voice somewhere?  No, only Mr Rastle and Roach coming up behind.

"Well?" inquired the master, breathlessly.

"Hush!" said Stephen, turning his head to the wind to listen.

What a wind it was!  Surely it would beat any voice to shreds!

"We may as well go on," said the boy, impatiently.

"Wait a second or two longer," said Wraysford.

Scarcely had he spoken when, joyous sound! there came on the wind from
somewhere what sounded like a feeble shout!

In an instant all four bounded forward and were once more lost in the
storm.

But they had hope, and every moment, a night like this, was precious.
They groped down the garden walk, and towards the meadow, shouting as
they went.  Then presently they halted again and listened.

Yes there was the call again, and nearer.  Thank Heaven! they were on
the right track.  On they went once more.  Another shout!  Nearer still!

Oh, for a lull in the tempest, that they might give one shout back!

"Try," said Mr Rastle, "they may hear it.  Here, Roach, come and
shout--one, two, three, and a--"

What a shout it was!  The wind got hold of it as if it had been a
sparrow's twitter, and tossed it mockingly over their heads and far away
behind them, who knows where?  "It's no go," said Wraysford.  "Hullo,
here's the meadow ditch.  Hadn't we better follow it up and down?
Stephen and I will take the left."

Once more, as they turned, a shout!

"Oh, be quick!" cried Stephen.  "Where does it come from?  Come, Wray,
quick!"

They might as well have tried to fly as run against that wind; but they
crawled rapidly forward.

Suddenly, close at their side, rose the shout again.  With a bound the
two boys were over the ditch, and in another moment a fourfold shout
proclaimed that the wanderers were found!

Oliver and Loman were crouching under a tree, the former without coat or
waistcoat, which he had thrown round the shivering and now senseless
form of his companion.

It was no time for words, either of joy or explanation; time enough for
that when every one was safe indoors.  Mr Rastle and Roach between them
carried Loman, while Oliver, in scarcely better plight, was helped along
by his brother and friend.

"Is it far?" he asked, faintly.

"No, old man; that light there is Saint Dominic's."

"Is it?  I didn't know that when I shouted; I thought we were miles
away."

"Oh, no!  Hold up, old boy; we're just there."

And so this strange procession returned before the wind to Saint
Dominic's, and when, a few minutes later, watchers and rescuers and
rescued all gathered in the Doctor's study, Oliver, as well as Loman,
was insensible.

It was some days before the true story of that terrible night could be
told, and then Oliver only told it briefly.

Late in the afternoon, as he was about to turn back, he said, he heard
from a farmer's boy that he had seen a stranger that morning asleep
under a hedge about a mile off.  Vague as this information was, it
decided Oliver at once to go forward, which he did.  As might have been
expected, there was no trace of the "stranger" at the hedge, and no
amount of searching along it could discover any clue.  Still, he did not
like to turn back while a chance remained.  He went on towards Grandham,
inquiring of everybody and looking everywhere.

At last--it was getting dusk--he entered a field across which ran a
footpath which led direct to Grandham Green.  He was half way across,
wondering if he could by any chance find a cart or vehicle of any kind
to drive him back to Saint Dominic's, when at the other side of the
field he suddenly caught sight of a figure getting up from under the
hedge and moving quickly away.  He instantly and instinctively gave
chase.  The other, seeing he was discovered, began to run too.  It was
Loman.  Oliver called to him to stop, but he paid no heed.  He continued
to run as long as he could, and then, like a hunted animal, turned at
bay.

Oliver told very few all that had passed when finally he did come up
with the wanderer.  His first impression, judging from the unhappy boy's
strange and excited manner, was that he had gone out of his mind.  He
appeared reckless and desperate at first, and determined to resist all
attempts to bring him back.  He would sooner die than go back to Saint
Dominic's, he said.  What right had Oliver to interfere with him and dog
him in this way?  He had a right to go where he chose, and no one should
stop him.  Oliver let him talk on, not attempting to reply, and avoiding
all appearance of using force to detain him.

This wise policy had its effect.  In time the poor fellow, who was
really suffering more from hunger and fatigue (he had not had a morsel
of food since the afternoon before) than from anything else, quieted
down, and gave up further resistance.  Oliver told him, in as few words
as he could, of the distress which his disappearance had caused at Saint
Dominic's and to his parents, and besought him to return quietly,
promising forgiveness for the past, and undertaking that all would be
made right if he would only come home.

Loman listened to all doggedly.  "You're humbugging me!" he said.  "You
know I stole that paper?"

"Oh, don't talk of that!" cried Oliver.  "Do come back!"

"You know--can't you get me something to eat?"

As he said this he sunk down with a groan upon the grass.  Oliver
started wildly to rush to the nearest cottage.  As he did so, however, a
doubt crossed his mind, and he said, "You'll promise to wait here, will
you?"

"Oh, yes! be quick."

Oliver flew on the wings of the wind towards the village.  There was a
cottage a few hundred yards away.  As he neared it, he cast one look
back.  The wretched boy was on his feet, hurrying away in an opposite
direction.

Another chase ensued, though only a short one.  For Loman was in no
condition to hold out long.  Oliver half led, half dragged him to
Grandham, where at last he procured food, which the unhappy fugitive
devoured ravenously.  Then followed another talk, far more satisfactory
than the last.  Restored once more in body and mind, Loman consented
without further demur to accompany Oliver back to Saint Dominic's, but
not before he had unburdened his mind of all that was on it.

Oliver implored him not to do it now, to wait till he got back, and then
to tell all to his father, not to him.  But the poor penitent was not to
be put off.  Until he had confessed all he would not stir a foot back to
the school.

Then Oliver heard all that sad story with which the reader is now
familiar.  How that first act of fraud about the rod had been the
beginning of all this misery.  How Cripps had used his advantage to
drive the boy from one wickedness and folly to another--from deceit to
gambling, from gambling to debt, from debt to more deceit, and so on.
How drinking, low company, and vicious habits had followed.  How all the
while he was trying to keep up appearances at the school, though he saw
that he was gradually becoming an object of dislike to his fellows.  How
he had staked everything--his whole hope of getting free from Cripps--on
the result of the Nightingale examination; and how, when the critical
moment came, he yielded to the tempter and stole the paper.

"And you can fancy how punished I was when, after all, the Doctor missed
the paper and altered the questions, Greenfield.  I was so taken aback
that I didn't even answer as well as I could.  And then I lost the paper
I had stolen--couldn't find it anywhere, and for weeks I was in constant
terror lest it should turn up.  Then I saw the fellows were all
suspecting you to be the thief, and you know how meanly I took advantage
of that to hide my own guilt.  Oh, Greenfield, what a wretch, what a
miserable wretch I have been!"

"Poor fellow!" said Oliver, with true sympathy.  "But, I say, do let's
be going back, it's getting late, and looks as if it might rain."

"I _must_ tell you the rest, Greenfield, please.  You're the only fellow
I can tell it to.  Somehow I think if I'd had a friend like you all the
last year I shouldn't have gone wrong as I have.  How I used to envy you
and Wraysford, always together, and telling one another your troubles!
Well, of course, after the Nightingale exam, things were worse than
ever.  I'd given Cripps a bill, you know, a promise to pay in September.
I don't know anything about bills, but he made me sign it.  Of course I
couldn't pay when it came due, and had to make all sorts of excuses and
tell all sorts of lies to get him to give me more time; as if I was more
likely to pay later on than then!  But, somehow, if I could only get the
thing off my mind for the present, I felt that was all I cared about.
He gave in at last, and I was able to pay it off bit by bit.  But I was
in constant terror all that term of his coming up to Saint Dominic's.
You know he did come once, at the football match against Landfield, and
I thought I was done for."

Here Loman paused a moment, and Oliver, seeing that he was determined to
tell his story to the end, waited patiently till he continued.

"Then there was that Waterston exam.  I fancied I might get that if I
worked.  Ass that I was to think, after all my wasted time and sin, I
had any chance against you or Wraysford!  I tried to work, but soon gave
it up, and went on going down to the Cockchafer instead, to keep Cripps
in good humour, till I was quite a regular there.  You know what a
fearful hash I made of the exam.  I could answer nothing.  That very day
Cripps had sent up to threaten to tell the Doctor everything unless I
paid what I still owed.  I had paid off all the bill but eight pounds.
I had got some of it from home, and some of it by gambling; I'd paid off
all but eight pounds.  You know, Greenfield, who lent me that."

"I'm thankful we were able to do it," said Oliver.

"If you'd known how I hated you and despised myself over that eight
pounds you would hardly have been glad.  Everything was hateful.  I took
the money down to Cripps and paid it him.  He pretended at first that he
wouldn't take it; and then when he did, and I asked him to give me back
my promissory note, he laughed at me.  I nearly went mad, Greenfield, at
the thought of not being clear after all.  At length he did make believe
to give in, and produced what I thought was the bill, and tore it up in
my presence.  I couldn't see it, but he read it out aloud, and I had no
doubt it was actually the thing.  I was so grateful I actually felt
happy.  But then came the discovery of that miserable exam paper.  I
must have left it in my Juvenal last September, and forgotten all about
it.  I was certain the Doctor knew quite well I was the thief, but I
denied it and tried feebly to put it on you.  Then everybody cut me; but
I hoped still all might blow over in time.  But every day it became
harder to bear; I should have had to confess at last, I believe.  Then
came Cripps's final villainy.  He had never destroyed my bill after all,
but now calmly claimed the whole amount."

"The scoundrel!" exclaimed Oliver, indignantly.

"I had no receipts to show what I had paid, and of course was at his
mercy.  This last move really drove me half crazy.  I daren't tell any
one about it.  I was too desperate to think of anything but running away
and hiding somewhere.  I had no money.  I came to you with a lie to try
to borrow a pound, so that I might go somewhere by train.  You couldn't
do it, and so I had to walk, and--and--oh!  Greenfield, what shall I do?
what will become of me?"

"My dear fellow," said Oliver, laying his hand on the unhappy boy's arm,
"we'll go back together, and I can promise you you'll find nothing but
kindness and forgiveness when you get back.  If I wasn't sure of that, I
wouldn't urge you to come.  There!  I wish you could have seen your poor
father's face last night."

Loman held out no longer; and, indeed, it was high time to think of
moving, for the afternoon was closing in and rain was already beginning
to fall.

Loman was in no condition for walking, nor, indeed, was Oliver, who had
been on his feet since early morning.  A farmer's cart was with some
difficulty found, which happened to be going a good part of the
distance, and in this the two boys late that afternoon ensconced
themselves.  They talked little at first, and presently not at all.
Each had his own thoughts, and they were serious enough to occupy them
for a much longer journey.

Night fell presently, soon after they had started, and with it the rain
and wind came heavily.  There was little enough protection for these two
worn-out ones in an empty open cart, but what they could get from an old
wrap and some boards they secured.

As the storm grew worse this poor shelter became quite useless, and the
two boys suffered all the horrors of a bitter exposure.

Loman, who had got a cough already, was the first to show distress, and
he soon became so cold and numbed that Oliver grew alarmed.  They would
be better walking than sitting still in that jolting cart a night like
this.

So, much against their own inclination and the advice of the carman, who
characterised the proceedings as "tomfoolery," they alighted, and
attempted to take the short cut across the fields to Saint Dominic's.

Short cut, indeed!  It was indeed a sarcastic name for the road those
two boys took that terrible night.  Oliver could never recollect all
that happened those few hours.  He was conscious of the tremendous
storm, of the hopeless losing of their way, and of Loman's relapse into
a state of half-unconsciousness, in the midst of which he constantly
begged to be allowed to lie down and sleep.

To prevent this was Oliver's principal occupation during that fearful
time.  More than once he was forced into a hand-to-hand struggle to keep
his companion from his purpose.  To let him lie down and sleep on such a
night would be, he knew, to leave him to certain death.  At any cost he
must be kept moving.  At last the storm fairly vanquished them.  Even
Oliver began to grow half-hearted in his determination.  He took off his
own coat and waistcoat and pat them on his comrade, who by this time was
stupid with cold and exhaustion.  A few minutes longer and both might
have given themselves up, when suddenly there flickered a light before
them.  All Oliver could do was to shout.  He had no power left to drag
Loman farther, and leave him he would not.  He shouted, and the reader
knows who heard that shout, and what the answer was.

Such was Oliver's story, and it needed little amplification.  If it had,
the only boy who could have added to it was in no position to do so.
For four weeks after that night Loman lay ill with rheumatic fever, so
ill that more than once those who watched him despaired of his recovery.
But he did recover, and left Saint Dominic's a convalescent, and,
better still, truly penitent, looking away from self and his own poor
efforts to Him, the World's Great Burden Bearer, whose blood "cleanseth
us from all sin."

His schoolfellows saw him no more; did not know, indeed, when he left
them.  Only one of them shook hands with him at the door of the old
school as he went.  That boy was Oliver Greenfield.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

GOOD-BYE TO SAINT DOMINIC'S.

And now, reader, we are at the end of our story, and there only remain
the usual "last words" before we say good-bye.

Saint Dominic's flourishes still, and only last season beat the County
by five wickets!  The captain on that occasion was a fellow called
Stephen Greenfield, who carried his bat for forty-eight in the first
innings.  He is a big fellow, is the captain, and has got a moustache.
Though he is the oldest boy at Saint Dominic's, every one talks of him
as "Greenfield junior."  He is vastly popular, and fellows say there
never was such a good Sixth at the school since the days of his brother,
Greenfield senior, five years ago.  The captain is an object of special
awe among the youngsters of the Fourth Junior, who positively quake in
their shoes whenever his manly form appears in the upper corridor.

These youngsters, by the way, are still the liveliest section of Saint
Dominic's.  The names Guinea-pig and Tadpole have died out, and left
behind them only the Buttercups and Daisies, who, however, are as fierce
rivals and as inky scamps as even their predecessors were.  There is a
lout of a fellow in the Fourth Senior called Bramble, who is extremely
"down" on these juveniles, always snubbing them, and, along with one
Padger, a friend of his, plotting to get them into trouble.  But somehow
they are not much afraid of Bramble, whereat Bramble is particularly
furious, and summons Padger to a "meeting" about once a week in his
study, there to take counsel against these irreverent Buttercups and
Daisies.

About the only other fellow the reader will recollect is Paul, now in
the Sixth, a steady-going sort of fellow, who, by the way, has just won
the Nightingale Scholarship, greatly to the delight of his particular
friend the captain.

Last year the Fifth tried to revive an old institution of their Form, in
the shape of a newspaper entitled the _Dominican_, directed chiefly
against the members of the Sixth.  But somehow the undertaking did not
come off.  The _Dominican_ was a very mild affair for one thing, and
there was nothing amusing about it for another thing, and there was a
good deal offensive about it for another thing; and for another thing,
the captain ordered it to be taken down off the wall on the first day of
its appearance, and announced that if he had any more of this nonsense
he would thrash one or two whose names he mentioned, and knock one or
two others out of the first eleven.

The _Dominican_ has not appeared since.

The big cricket match against the County I spoke of just now was a
famous event for more reasons than one.  The chief reason, of course,
was the glorious victory of the old school; but another reason, almost
as notable, was the strange muster of old boys who turned up to witness
the exploits of the "youngsters."

There was Tom Braddy, for instance, smoking a big cigar the size of a
pencil-case, looking the picture of a snob.  And with him a
vacant-looking young man with a great crop of whiskers on his puffy
cheeks.  His name was Simon.  The great idea of these two worthies
seemed to be to do the grand before their posterity.  They were
convinced in their own minds that in this they were completely
successful, but no one else saw it.

Boys took a good deal more interest in a lame gentleman present, who was
cracking jokes with everybody, and hobbling about from one old crony to
another in a manner that was perfectly frisky.  Every one seemed to like
Mr Pembury, and not a _few_ to be afraid of him.  Perhaps that was
because he was the editor of a well-known paper of the day, and every
one likes to be on good terms with an editor.

Then there were a batch of fellows whose names we need hardly enumerate,
who had run over from Oxford, or Cambridge, or London for the day, and
who got into clusters between the innings and talked and laughed a great
deal over old times, when "Bully did this," and "Rick did that," and so
on.  A nice lot of fellows they looked on the whole, and one or two, so
people said, were doing well.

But among these _the_ lions of the day were two friends who strolled
about arm-in-arm, and appeared far more at home in Saint Dominic's even
than the boys themselves.  One of them was the big brother of the
captain--a terrible fellow by all accounts.  He rowed in the boat of his
'Varsity the last year he was at Cambridge, and since then he has been
called to the bar, and no one knows what else!  People say Oliver
Greenfield is a rising man; if so, we may hear of him again.  At any
rate in the eyes of the admiring youngsters of Saint Dominic's he was a
great man already.

So was his friend Wraysford, a fellow of his college, and a "coach" for
industrious undergraduates.  He does not look like a tutor, certainly,
to judge by his jovial face and the capers he persisted in cutting with
some of his old comrades of years ago.  But he is one, and Saint
Dominic's Junior eyed him askance shyly, and thought him rather more
learned and formidable a person than the old Doctor himself.

No one enjoyed themselves on that day more than these two, who prowled
about and visited every nook and cranny of the old place--studies,
passages, class-rooms, Fourth Junior and all.

The match is over, the jubilations of victory have subsided, and one by
one the visitors depart.  Among the last to leave are Oliver and
Wraysford; they have stayed to dine with the Doctor, and when at last
they do turn their backs on the old school it is getting late.

Stephen accompanies them down to the station.  On the way they pass the
well-known Cockchafer.  The old board is still there, but a new name is
upon it.

"Hullo! what's become of Cripps?" asked Wraysford.

"Oh! he's gone," said Stephen.  "Didn't you know?"

"No!  When was that?"

"The very time you and Noll went up to Cambridge.  The magistrates took
away his licence for allowing gambling to go on at his house.  He stuck
on at the lock-house for some time, and then disappeared suddenly.  They
said he was wanted for some bit of swindling or other.  Anyhow, he's
gone."

"And a very good riddance too," says Oliver.

"So it is," replies Stephen.  "By the way, Noll, what's the last news of
Loman?"

"Oh, I meant to tell you.  He's coming home; I had a letter from him a
week or two ago.  He says the four or five years' farming and knocking
about in Australia have pulled him together quite; you know how ill he
was when he went out?"

"So he was," says Wraysford.

"He's coming home to be near his father and mother.  He's been reading
law, he says, out in the backwoods, and means to go into his father's
office."

"I'm glad he's coming home," says Wraysford.  "Poor fellow!  I wonder
when he'll come to this old place again."

A silence follows, and Oliver says, "When he does, I tell you what: we
must all make up a jolly party and come down together and help him
through with it."

"Well, old man!" said Stephen, taking his brother's arm, "if it hadn't
been for you, he--"

"Hullo, I say! there's the train coming!" breaks out Oliver.  "Look
alive, you fellows, or we shall be late!"

THE END.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's, by
Talbot Baines Reed

*** 