FOOTNOTES:

"Underneath the young grey dawnA multitude of dense, white, fleecy cloudsWere wandering in thick flocks, ...Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind."

Desmond drew in his breath, sighing with purest delight. From the lawns encompassing the house his eyes strayed into a glade of bracken, gold gleaming through silver—a glade shadowed by noble oaks and beeches, with one birch tree in the middle of it surpassingly graceful. Upon this each delicate bough and spray were outlined sharply against the sky. Beyond the glade stretched the moor, rugged, bleak, and treeless, sloping sharply upward. Beyond the moor lay the Forest—belts of firs darkly purple;and flanking these the irregular masses of oaks and beeches, varying in tint from palest lavender to rose and brown, some still in shadow, some in ever-increasing glow of sunlight; not one the same and each in itself containing a thousand differing forms, yet all harmonious parts of the resplendent whole.

"I'm so glad you like my home," said John. "Shall we have a gallop before breakfast? It's only a white frost."

So they galloped away into fairyland, returning with mortal appetites to the oak-panelled dining-hall, whence a Verney had ridden forth to join his kinsman, Sir Edmund, in arms for the King upon the distant field of Edge Hill. After breakfast the boys explored the quaint old house; and John showed Cæsar the twenty-bore gun, and promised his guest much rabbit-shooting, and two days' hunting, at least, with the New Forest Hounds, and some pike-fishing, and possibly an encounter with a big grayling—which, later, the boys saw walloping about in the Test above Broadlands—a splendid fish, once hooked by John, and lost—a three-pounder, of course.

O golden age! You will never forget that Christmas—will you, John? If you live to be Prime Minister of England, the memory of those first days alone with your friend will remain green when the colour has been sucked by Time out of everything else. Fifty years hence, maybe, you will see Cæsar's curly head and his blue eyes full of fun and life, and you will hear his joyous laughter—peal upon peal—echoing through the corridors of Verney Boscobel. Your mother took him to her heart—didn't she? And all the servants, from butler to scullery maid, voted him the jolliest, cheeriest boy that ever came to Hampshire. Why, Mrs. Osman, the cook, with a temper like tinder from too much heat, refused flatly to let Cæsar make toffee in her kitchen. But just then a barrel-organ turned up, and before she could open her mouth, Cæsar was dancing a polka with her; and after that he could make toffee, or hay, or anything else, wherever and whenever he pleased.

When they returned to the Manor, John hoped and prayed that this blessed intimacy would continue. It did—for a time. The three boys got their remove, and found themselves in the Second Fifth, where they proposed to linger till after the summer term. Lovell and Scaife seemed inseparable, and bridge began again, apparently an inexhaustible source of amusement and excitement. Then came the Torpid matches; and John, as Lawrence predicted, was captain of the cock-house Eleven—the first great victory of the Manorites. During the term, Scaife and Desmond won no races, being in age betwixt and between winners of Upper and Lower School races. Scaife refused to train. Desmond took a few runs, but abandoned them for racquets, the chief game in the Easter term, but only played regularly by boys whose purses are well lined. John confined his attention to "Squash." Cæsar played "Harder" with the Demon. The three worked together as of yore. John now perceived that Scaife had joined a clique pledged to fight Reform. It was in the air that something might happen. Warde eyed the big fellows shrewdly, as if measuring weapons. He confounded some by asking them to dine with him. At dessert he would talk of sport, or games, or politics—everything, in fine, except "shop." The more worthy came away from these pleasant evenings with rather a hangdog expression, as if they had been receiving goods under false pretences. John and Desmond were made especially welcome. And, after dinner, John, whose voice had not yet cracked, would sing, to Mrs. Warde's accompaniment, such songs as "O Bay of Dublin, my heart yu're throublin'," or "Think of me sometimes," or Handel's "Where'er you walk." The Caterpillar made no secret of a passion for Iris Warde, and became a dangerous rival of one of the younger masters. He talked to Warde about genealogies and hunting, topics of conversation in which they had a common interest outside Harrow. John guessed that Warde was making an effort to secure Egerton, who, for his part, took the worldas he found it, consorting alike with John and his friends, and also with Lovell and Co. From the Caterpillar John learned that Beaumont-Greene had begun to play bridge.

"Scaife and Lovell are skinning the beast," he added confidentially. "Green he is, and no error."

"Ructions soon," said John.

"I don't believe it," replied the Caterpillar. "Take my word, Warde knows what he's about. He's playing up to the younger members of the house—you, Cæsar, and you, Jonathan—and he's letting the others slide."

"Giving 'em rope," said John, "to hang 'emselves."

"Well, now, there's something in that. That hadn't occurred to me. What? You think that he's eggin' 'em on, eh? Eggin' 'em on!"

"I think that, if I were you, Caterpillar, I'd cut loose from that gang."

"They've made it rather warm for you."

"I don't care a hang about that."

As a matter of fact, John's life had been made very unpleasant by the fast set. Upon the other hand, the Duffer, Fluff, and many Lower School boys reckoned him their leader and adviser. And—such is the irony of Fate—John's popularity with friends caused him more anxiety than unpopularity with enemies. Towards the end of the term, Desmond spoke of applying to Warde for a certain room to be shared by himself and John. John had to decline an arrangement desired passionately, because he had indiscreetly promised not to chuck the Duffer. Cæsar dropped the subject. After this, John noticed a slight coldness. He wondered whether Cæsar were jealous, jealousy being John's own besetting sin. Finally, he came to the conclusion that his friend might be not jealous but unreasonable. In any case, during the last three weeks of the term, John saw less of Cæsar, and more—more, indeed, than he wanted—of the Duffer and Fluff.

And then came the paralysing news that Desmond had promised to spend ten days with Scaife's people, that aProfessional had been hired, and that both boys were going to give their undivided energies to cricket.

Afterwards, John often wondered whether Scaife, with truly demoniac insight into Desmond's character, had let him go, so as to seize him with more tenacious grasp when an opportunity presented itself.

As soon as John saw Cæsar after the Easter holidays, he knew that, temporarily, at any rate, he had lost his friend. Cæsar, indeed, was demonstratively glad to see him, and dragged him off next day to walk to a certain bridge where a few short weeks before the boys had carved their names upon the wooden railing, surrounding them with a circle and the Crossed Arrows. But Cæsar could talk of nothing else but Scaife and cricket. They had both "come on" tremendously. Scaife's people had a splendid cricket-ground.

Poor John! If he could have submerged the Scaife cricket-ground and the Scaife family by nodding his head, I fear that he would have nodded it, although he told himself that he was an ungenerous beast and cad not to sympathize with his pal.

And before the boys got back to the Manor, Cæsar said, not without a blush, that he had learned to play bridge.

"I shall teach you, Jonathan."

"No."

"I say—yes."

"You're not going to play with Lovell and that beast Beaumont-Greene?"

"The Demon says no cards this term, when lock-up's late. And look here, Jonathan, I've made the Demon promise to make the peace between Lovell and you. You'll play for the House, of course, and we must all pull together, as Warde says."

John might have smiled at this opportune mention of Warde, but sense of humour was swamped in apprehension. Desmond went on to talk about Scaife.

"He'll make 'em sit up, you see! The 'pro.' we had is the finest cover-point in England. I never saw such a chap. He dashes at the ball. Hit it as hard as you please, he runs in, picks it up, and snaps it back to the wicket-keeper as easy as if he was playing pitch and toss. And, by Jove! the Demon can do it. You wait. I never saw any fellow like him. He's only just sixteen, and he'll get his Flannels. You needn't shake your old head, I know he will. And we must work like blazes to get ours next summer."

John discounted much of this talk, but he soon found out that Cæsar had not overestimated the Demon's activity. The draw at Lord's in the previous summer had been attributed, by such experts as Webbe and Hornby, to bad fielding. The Demon told John, with his hateful, derisive smile, that he had remembered this when he selected a "pro." Not for the first time, John realized Scaife's overpowering ability to achieve his own ends. Who, but Scaife, would have made fielding the principal object of his holiday practice?

Within a fortnight, Scaife was put into the Sixth Form game. Desmond found himself—thanks to Scaife—playing in the First Fifth game; but John was placed in Second Fifth Beta. Fortunately, he found an ally in Warde, who had a private pitch in the small park surrounding the Manor, where he coached the weaker players of his House. John told himself that he ought to get his "cap"; but, as the weeks slipped by, despite several creditable performances, he became aware that the "cap" was withheld, although it had been given to Fluff. There were five vacancies in the House Eleven, but, according to precedent, these need not be filled up till after the last House-match, and possibly not even then. In a word, John might play for the House, and even distinguish himself, without receiving the coveted distinction. How sore John felt!

About the end of May he noticed that something was amiss with Cæsar. Generally they walked together on Sunday, but not always. During these walks, as has beensaid, Cæsar did most of the talking. Now, of a sudden, he became a half-hearted listener, and to John's repeated question, "What's up?" he would reply irritably, "Oh, don't bother—nothing."

Finally, John heard from the Caterpillar that Cæsar was playing bridge, and losing.

"They don't play often," the Caterpillar added; "but on wet afternoons they make up for lost time. Cæsar is outclassed. I've told him, but he's mad keen about the game."

Later, John learned from the same source that Sunday afternoon was a bridge-fixture with Lovell and Co. At any rate, Cæsar did not play on Sunday. That was something.

Upon the following Saturday, after making an honest fifteen runs and taking three wickets in a closely-contested game, John was running into the Yard just before six Bill, when Lovell stopped him.

"You can get your 'cap,'" he said coldly.

"Oh, thanks; thanks awfully!"

Cæsar received this agreeable news with indifference.

"You ought to have had it before Fluff," he growled.

"To-morrow, we'll walk to John Lyon's farm," said John, eagerly.

"Engaged," Cæsar replied.

"Oh, Cæsar, you're—you're——"

"Well?"

"You're going to play bridge?"

"Yes. What of it? It's only once in a way. Idobar cards on Sunday; but there are reasons."

"What reasons?"

"Reasons which—er—I'll keep to myself."

"All right," said John, stiffly, but with a breaking heart.

Next day he asked Fluff to walk with him, but Fluff was walking with some one else. The Duffer had letters to write, and stigmatized walking as a beastly grind. Johndetermined to walk by himself; but as he was leaving the Manor he met the Caterpillar, a tremendous buck, arrayed in his best—patent-leather boots, white waistcoat, a flower in his buttonhole.

"Where are you off to, Jonathan?"

"To Preston. You'd better come, Caterpillar."

"I never walk far in these boots. Peal made 'em."

"Change 'em, can't you?"

"Right."

While he was absent, John seriously considered the propriety of taking Egerton into his confidence. Sincerely attached to Egerton, and valuing his advice, he knew, none the less, that the Caterpillar looked at everybody and everything with the eyes of a colonel in the Guards. To tell Colonel Egerton's son that one's heart was lacerated because Cæsar Desmond was playing bridge on Sunday seemed to invite jeers. And, besides, that wasn't the real reason. John felt wretched because the Sunday walk had been sacrificed to Moloch. Presently Egerton came downstairs, spick and span, but not quite so smart. The boys walked quickly, talking of cricket.

"The Demon'll get his Flannels," said Egerton. "I'm glad Lovell gave you your cap, Jonathan; you deserved it a month ago. It wasn't my fault you didn't get it at the beginning of the term."

"I'm sure of that," said John, gratefully.

"You don't look particularly bucked-up. A grin improves your face, my dear fellow."

At this John burst into explosive speech. Those beasts had got hold of Cæsar. The Caterpillar stared; he had never heard John let himself go. John's vocabulary surprised him.

"Whew-w-w!" he whistled. "Gad! Jonathan, you do pile on the agony. Cæsar's all right. Don't worry."

"He's not all right. I thought Cæsar had backbone, I——"

"Hold on," said the Caterpillar, gravely.

John thought he was about to be rebuked for disloyalty to a pal, an abominable sin in the Caterpillar's eyes.

"Well?" said John.

"I'm going to tell you something," said Egerton. "But you must swear not to give me away."

"I'll swear."

"You're a good little cove, Jonathan, but sometimes you smell just a little bit of—er—bread and butter. Keep cool. Personally, I would sooner that you, at your age, did smell of bread and butter than whisky. Well, you think that Cæsar is going straight to the bow-wows because he plays bridge. You accuse him in your own little mind of feebleness, and so forth. Yes, just so. And it's doosid unfair to Cæsar, because he's given up his walk to-day entirely on your account. Ah! I thought that would make you sit up."

"My account?" John repeated blankly.

"Yes; Cæsar would be furious if he knew that I was peaching, but he won't know, and instead of this—er—trifling affair weakening your good opinion of your pal, it will strengthen it."

"Oh, do go on, Caterpillar."

"Yesterday I was in Lovell's room. We were talking of the first House match. Scaife and Cæsar were there. I took it upon myself to say you ought to be given your 'cap'; and then Cæsar burst out, 'Oh yes, Lovell, do give him his "cap." If you knew how he'd slaved to earn it.' But Lovell only laughed. And then Scaife chipped in, 'Look here, Cæsar,' he said, 'do I understand that you put this thing, which after all is none of your business or mine, as a favour which Lovell might doyou?' And Cæsar answered, 'You can put it that way, if you like, Demon.' And then Scaife laughed. I don't like Scaife's laugh, Jonathan."

"I loathe it," said John.

"Well, when Scaife laughed, Lovell looked first at him and then at Cæsar. It came to me that Lovell was primedto say something. At any rate, he turned to Cæsar, and said slowly, 'Tit for tat. If I do this for you, will you do something for me?' And Cæsar spoke up as usual, without a second's hesitation, 'Of course I will.' And then Scaife laughed again, just as Lovell said, 'All right, I'll give Verney his "cap" before tea, and you will make a fourth at bridge with us to-morrow afternoon.'"

"Oh, oh!" groaned John.

"Dash it all, don't look so wretched. There's not much more. Cæsar hesitated a moment. Then he said quietly enough, 'Done!' Personally, I don't think Lovell was playing—well—cricket, but I do know that he wanted a fourth at bridge, because I'd just refused to make that fourth myself. They play too high for me."

"It's awfully good of you to have told me this."

"Pray don't mention it! Hullo! What's up now?"

John's face was very red, and his fists were clenched.

"Nothing," he gasped. "Only this—I'd like to kill Scaife. I'd like to cut off his infernal head."

The Caterpillar laughed indulgently. "Jonathan, you're a rum 'un. You think it wicked to play cards on Sunday; but you would like"—he imitated John's trembling, passionate voice—"you would like to cut off Scaife's infernal head."

"Yes—I would," said John.

That same week he had a memorable talk with Warde; recorded because it illustrates Warde's methods, and because, ultimately, it came to be regarded by John as the turning-point of his intellectual life. Since he had taken the Lower Remove, John's energies of mind and body had been concentrated upon improving himself at games. Vaguely aware that some of the School-prizes were within his grasp, he had not deemed them worth the winning. To him, therefore, Warde abruptly began—

"You pride yourself upon being straight—eh, Verney?"

"Why, yes," said John, meeting Warde's blue eyes not without misgiving.

"Well, to me, you're about as straight as a note of interrogation. I never see you without saying to myself, 'Is Verney going to bury his talents in the cricket-ground?'"

"Oh!"

"Some parents, too many of them, send their boys here to make a few nice friends, to play games, to scrape up the School with a remove once a year. That, I take it, is not what Mrs. Verney wants?"

"N—no, sir."

"You ought to be in the Sixth—and you know it. Twice, or oftener, you have deliberately taken things easy, because you wanted a soft time of it during the summer term, and because you wished to remain in the same form with Desmond, who, intellectually, is your—inferior. Is that square dealing with your people?"

John was silent, but red of countenance. Warde went on, more vehemently—

"I know all about your co-operative system of work. I have a harder name for it. And I know just what you can do, and I want to see you do it, for your own sake, for the sake of Mrs. Verney, and for the Hill's sake. I've pushed you on at cricket a bit, haven't I? Yes. You owe me something. Pay up by entering for a School-prize, and winning it!"

"A School-prize?"

"Yes; Lord Charles Russell's Shakespeare Medal. The exam. is next October. I'll coach you. Is it a bargain?"

He held out his hand, staring frankly, but piercingly, into John's eyes.

"All right, sir," said John, after a pause. "I'll try."

"And buck up for your remove."

John smiled feebly, and sighed.

FOOTNOTES:[27]There is a tablet on the wall of the Old Schools which bears the following inscription:—Near this spotAnthony Ashley CooperAfterwards the 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, K.G. While yet a boy in Harrow School Saw with shame and indignation The pauper's funeral Which helped to awaken his lifelong Devotion to the service of the poor And the oppressed.

[27]There is a tablet on the wall of the Old Schools which bears the following inscription:—Near this spotAnthony Ashley CooperAfterwards the 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, K.G. While yet a boy in Harrow School Saw with shame and indignation The pauper's funeral Which helped to awaken his lifelong Devotion to the service of the poor And the oppressed.

"The Avon bears to endless yearsA magic voice along,Where Shakespeare strayed in Stratford's shade,And waked the world to song.We heard the music soft and wild,We thrilled to pulses new;The winds that reared the Avon's childWere Herga's[28]nurses too."

That eveningJohn told Cæsar what Warde had said to him, and then added, "I mean to have a shot at 'the Swan of Avon.'" Cæsar looked glum.

"But how about the remove? We'd agreed to stay in the Second Fifth till Christmas. It's the jolliest form in the school."

"If we put our backs—and heads—into Trials,[29]we can easily get a remove."

"Blow Trials."

John turned aside.

"Look here, Jonathan," said Cæsar, eagerly. "To please me, give up your swatting scheme. We can't spoil the end of this jolly term."

He caught hold of John's arm, squeezing it affectionately. Never had our hero been so sorely tempted.

"We must stick together, you and I," entreated Desmond.

"No," said John.

"As you please," Cæsar replied coldly.

A detestable week followed. John tackled his Shakespeare alone, working doggedly. Then, quite suddenly,the giant gripped him. He had always possessed a remarkable memory, and as a child he had learnt by heart many passages out of the plays (a fact well known to the crafty Warde); but these he had swallowed without digesting them. Now he became keen, the keener because he met with violent opposition from the Caterpillar and the Duffer, who were of opinion that Shakespeare was a "back number."

John won the prize, and on the following Speech Day saw his mother's face radiant with pride and happiness, as he received the Medal from the Head Master's hands.

"You look as pleased as if I'd got my Flannels," said John.

"Surely this Medal is a greater thing?"

"Oh, mum, you don't know much about boys."

"Perhaps not, but," her eyes twinkled, "I know something about Shakespeare, and he's a friend that will stand by you when cricketing days are over."

"If you're pleased, so am I," said John.

Scaife got his Flannels; and at Lord's his fielding was mentioned as the finest ever seen in a Public School match. John witnessed the game from the top of the Trent coach, and he stopped at Trent House. But he didn't enjoy his exeat, because he knew that Cæsar was in trouble. Cæsar owed Scaife thirteen pounds, and the fact that this debt could not be paid without confession to his father was driving him distracted. Scaife, it is true, laughed genially at Cæsar's distress. "Settle when you please," he said, "but for Heaven's sake, don't peach to your governor! Mine would laugh and pay up; yours will pay up and make you swear not to touch another card while you're at Harrow."

"Just what hewilldo," Cæsar told John.

"And the best thing that could happen," John said bluntly. "If you don't cut loose now, it will be much worse next term."

"Rot," Desmond had replied. "I'm paying the usual bill for learning a difficult game. That's how the Demon puts it. But I've a turn for bridge, and now I can hold my own. I'm better than Beaumont-Greene, and quite as good as Lovell. The Demon, of course, is in another class."

"And therefore he oughtn't to play with you. It's robbery."

"Now you're talking bosh."

The Eton and Harrow match ended in another draw. Time and Scaife's fielding saved Harrow from defeat. The fact of a draw had significance. A draw spelled compromise. John had indulged in a superstitious fancy common enough to persons older than he. "If Harrow wins," he put it to himself, "Cæsar will triumph; if Eton wins, Cæsar will lose." When the match proved a draw, John drew the conclusion that his pal would "funk" telling the truth; an apprehension presently confirmed.

"I didn't tell the governor," said Cæsar, when John and he met. "My eldest brother, Hugo, is coming home, and I shall screw it out of him. He's a good sort, and he's going to marry a girl who is simply rolling. He'll fork out, I know he will. I feel awfully cheery."

"I don't," said John.

He had good reason to fear that Cæsar and he were drifting apart. Now he worked by himself. And his voice had broken. A small thing this, but John was sensible that his singing voice touched corners in Cæsar's soul to which his speaking voice never penetrated. More, Cæsar and he had agreed to differ upon points of conscience other than card-playing. And every point of conscientious difference increases the distance between true friends in geometrical progression. Poor Jonathan!

But we have his grateful testimony that Warde stood by him. And Warde made him see life at Harrow (and beyond) in a new light. Warde, indeed, decomposed the light into primary colours, a sort of experiment in moralchemistry, and not without fascination for an intelligent boy. Sometimes, it became difficult to follow Warde—members of the Alpine Club said that often it was impossible—because he jumped where others crawled. And he clipped words, phrases, thoughts so uncommonly short.

"You're beginning to see, Verney, eh? Scales crumbling away, my boy. And strong sunshine hurts the eyes—at first. Black spots are dancing before you. I know the little devils."

Or again—

"This remove will wipe a bit more off the debt, won't it? Ha, ha! I've made you reckon up what you owe Mrs. Verney. But there are others——"

"I'm awfully grateful to you, sir."

"Never mind me."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"New Testament; Matthew; twenty-fifth chapter—I forget verse.[30]Look it up. Christ answers your question. Make life easier and happier for some of the new boys. Pass on gratitude. Set it a-rolling. See?"

John had appetite for such talk, but Warde never gave much of it—half a dozen sentences, a smile, a nod of the head, a keen look, and a striding off elsewhere. But when John repeated what Warde had said to Cæsar, that young gentleman looked uneasy.

"Warde means well," he said; "and he's doing wonders with the Manor, but I hope he's not going to make a sort of tin parson of you?"

"As if he could!" said John.

"You're miles ahead of me, Jonathan."

"No, no."

"I say—yes."

"Cæsar," said John, in desperation, "perhaps wearesliding apart, but it isn't my fault, indeed it isn't. And think what it means to—me. You've heaps of friends, andI never was first, I know that. You can do without me, but I can't do without you."

"Dear old Jonathan." Cæsar held out his hand, smiling.

"I'm a jealous ass, Cæsar. And, as for calling me a parson," he laughed scornfully, "why, I'd sooner walk with you, even if you were the worst sinner in the world, than with any saint that ever lived."

The feeling in John's voice drove Cæsar's gay smile from his face. Did he realize, possibly, for the first time, that if John and he remained friends, he might drag John down? Suddenly his face brightened.

"Jonathan," he said gravely, "to please you, I'll not touch a card again this term, and we'll have such good times these last three weeks that you'll forget the rest of it."

"And what delights can equal thoseThat stir the spirit's inner deeps,When one that loves but knows not reapsA truth from one that loves and knows?"

The Manor played in the cock-house match at cricket, being but barely beaten by Damer's. Everybody admitted that this glorious state of affairs was due to Warde's coaching of the weaker members of the Eleven. Scaife fielded brilliantly, and John, watching him, said to himself that at such times the Demon was irresistible. Warde invited the Eleven to dinner, and spoke of nothing but football, much to every one's amusement.

"He's right," said the Caterpillar; "we're not cock-house at cricket this year, but we may be at footer."

John spent his holidays abroad with his mother, and when the School reassembled, he found himself in the First Fifthalone. With satisfaction he reflected that this was Lovell's last term, and Beaumont-Greene's, too. Warde said a few words at first lock-up.

"We are going to be cock-house at footer, I hope," he began, "and next term Scaife will show the School whathe can do at racquets; but I want more. I'm a glutton. How about work, eh? Lot o' slacking last term. Is it honest? You fellows cost your people a deal of money. And it's well spent, if,ifyou tackle everything in school life as you tackled Mr. Damer's last July. That's all."

"He's giving you what he gave me," said John.

"Good fellow, Warde," observed the Caterpillar; "in his room every night after prayers to mug up his form work."

"What?" Murmurs of incredulity.

"Fact, 'pon my word. And he never refuses a 'con' to a fellow who wants it."

"He's paid for it," sneered Scaife.

The other boys nodded; enthusiasm was chilled. Yes, of course Warde was paid for it. John caught Scaife's eye.

"You don't believe that he's in love with his job, as he told us?"

"Skittles—that!"

John looked solemn. He had a bomb to throw.

"Skittles, is it?" he echoed. The other boys turned to listen. "Do you think he'd take a better paid billet?"

Scaife laughed derisively. "Of course he would, like a shot. But he's not likely to get the chance."

"He has just been offered the Head Mastership of Wellborough. It's worth about four thousand a year."

"Pooh! who told you that?"

"Cæsar's father."

"It's true," said Cæsar.

"And he refused it," said John, triumphantly.

"Then he's a fool," said Scaife, angrily. He marched out of the room, slamming the door. But the Manor, as a corporate body, when it heard of Warde's refusal to accept promotion, was profoundly impressed. Thus the term began with good resolutions upon the part of the better sort.

Very soon, however, with the shortening days, bridge began again. John made no protest, afraid of losing his pal. He called himself coward, and considered the expediency of learning bridge, so as to be in the same boat with Cæsar. Cæsar told him that he had not asked his brother Hugo for the thirteen pounds. Hugo, it seemed, had come back from Teheran with a decoration and the air of an ambassador. He spoke of his "services."

"I knew that Hugo would make me swear not to play again," said Cæsar to John, "and naturally I want to get some of the plunder back. I am getting it back. I raked thirty bob out of Beaumont-Greene last night."

John said nothing.

Presently it came to his ears that Cæsar was getting more plunder back. The Caterpillar, an agreeable gossip, because he condemned nothing except dirt and low breeding, told John that Beaumont-Greene was losing many shekels. And about the middle of October Cæsar said to John—

"What do you think, old Jonathan? I've jolly nearly paid off the Demon. And you wanted me to chuck the thing. Nice sort of counsellor."

"Beaumont-Greene must have lost a pot?"

"You bet," said Cæsar; "but that doesn't keep me awake at night. He has got theImperishable Seamless Whaleskin Bootbehind him."

Next time John met Beaumont-Greene he eyed him sharply. The big fellow was pulpier than ever; his complexion the colour of skilly. Yes; he looked much worried. Perhaps the "Imperishable Boot" lasted too long. And, nowadays, so many fellows wore shoes. Thus John to himself.

Beaumont-Greene, indeed, not only looked worried, he was worried, hideously worried, and with excellent reason. He had an absurdly, wickedly, large allowance, but not more than a sovereign of it was left. More, he owed Scaife twenty pounds, and Lovell another ten. Both these younggentlemen had hinted plainly that they wanted to see their money.

"I must have the stuff now," said Lovell, when Beaumont-Greene asked for time. "I'm going to shoot a lot this Christmas, and the governor makes me pay for my cartridges."

"So does mine," said Scaife, grinning. He was quite indifferent to the money, but he liked to see Beaumont-Greene squirm. He continued suavely, "You ought to settle before you leave. Ain't your people in Rome? Yes. And you're going to join 'em. Why, hang it, some Dago may stick a knife into you, and where should we be then—hey? Your governor wouldn't settle a gambling debt, would he?"

This was too true. Scaife grinned diabolically. He knew that Beaumont-Greene's father was endeavouring to establish a credit-account with the Recording Angel. Originally a Nonconformist, he had joined the Church of England after he had made his fortune (cf.Shavings from the Workshops of our Merchant Princes, which appeared in the pages of "Prattle"). Then, the famous inventor of the Imperishable Boot had taken to endowing churches; and he published pamphlets denouncing drink and gambling, pamphlets sent to his son at Harrow, who (with an eye to backsheesh) had praised his sire's prose somewhat indiscreetly.

"You shall have your confounded money," said Beaumont-Greene, violently.

"Thanks," said Scaife, sweetly. "When we asked you to join us" (slight emphasis on the "us"), "we knew that we could rely on you to settle promptly."

The Demon grinned for the third time, knowing that he had touched a weak spot; not a difficult thing to do, if you touched the big fellow at all. A young man of spirit would have told his creditors to go to Jericho. Beaumont-Greene might have said, "You have skinned me a bit. I don't whine about that; I mean to pay up; but you'llhave to wait till I have the money. I'm stoney now." Scaife and Lovell must have accepted this as an ultimatum. But Beaumont-Greene's wretched pride interfered. He had posed as a sort of Golden Youth. To confess himself pinchbeck seemed an unspeakable humiliation.

Men have been known to take to drink under the impending sword of dishonour. Beaumont-Greene swallowed instead large quantities of food at the Creameries; and then wrote to his father, saying that he would like to have a cheque for thirty pounds by return of post. He was leaving Harrow, he pointed out, and he wished to give his friends some handsome presents. Young Desmond, for instance, the great Minister's son, had been kind to him (Beaumont-Greene prided himself upon this touch), and Scaife, too, he was under obligations to Scaife, who would be a power by-and-by, and so forth.... To confess frankly that he owed thirty pounds gambled away at cards required more cheek than our stout youth possessed. His father refused to play bridge on principle, because he could never remember how many trumps were out.

The father answered by return of post, but enclosed no cheque. He pointed out to his dear Thomas that giving handsome presents with another's money was an objectionable habit. Thomas received a large, possibly too large an allowance. He must exercise self-denial, if he wished to make presents. His quarterly allowance would be paid as usual next Christmas, and not a minute before. There would be time then to reconsider the propriety of giving young Desmond a suitable gift....

Common sense told Beaumont-Greene to show this letter to Scaife and Lovell. But he saw the Demon's derisive grin, and recoiled from it.

At this moment temptation seized him relentlessly. Beaumont-Greene never resisted temptation. For fun, so he put it, he would write the sort of letter which his father ought to have written, and which would have put him at his ease. It ran thus—

"My Dear Thomas,"No doubt you will want to give some leaving presents, and a spread or two. I should like my son to do the thing handsomely. You know better than I how much this will cost, but I am prepared to send you, say, twenty-five or thirty pounds for such a purpose. Or, you can have the bills sent to me."With love,"Your affectionate father,"George Beaumont-Greene."

"My Dear Thomas,

"No doubt you will want to give some leaving presents, and a spread or two. I should like my son to do the thing handsomely. You know better than I how much this will cost, but I am prepared to send you, say, twenty-five or thirty pounds for such a purpose. Or, you can have the bills sent to me.

"With love,"Your affectionate father,"George Beaumont-Greene."

Beaumont-Greene, like the immortal Mr. Toots, rather fancied himself as a letter-writer. The longer he looked at his effusion, the more he liked it. His handwriting was not unlike his father's—modelled, indeed, upon it. With a little careful manipulation of a few letters——!

The day was cold, but Beaumont-Greene suddenly found himself in a perspiration. None the less, it seemed easier to forge a letter than to avow himself penniless. Detection? Impossible! Two or three tradesmen in Harrow would advance the money if he showed them this letter. Next Christmas they would be paid. Within a quarter of an hour he made up his mind to cross the Rubicon, and crossed it with undue haste. He forged the letter, placed it in an envelope which had come from Rome, and went to his tailor's.

Under pretext of looking at patterns, he led the man aside.

"You can do me a favour," he began, in his usual, heavy, hesitating manner.

"With pleasure," said the tradesman, smiling. Then, seeing an opportunity, he added, "You are leaving Harrow, Mr. Beaumont-Greene, but I trust, sir, you will not take your custom with you. We have always tried to please you."

Beaumont-Greene, in his turn, saw opportunity.

"Yes, yes," he answered. Then he produced theletter, envelope and all. "I have here a letter from my father, who is in Rome. I'll read it to you. No; you can read it yourself."

The tailor read the letter.

"Very handsome," he replied; "veryhandsome indeed, sir. Your father is a true gentleman."

"It happens," said Beaumont-Greene, more easily, for the thing seemed to be simpler than he had anticipated—"it happens that Idowant to make some presents, but I'm not going to buy them here. I shall send to the Stores, you know. I have their catalogue."

"Just so, sir. Excellent place the Stores for nearly everything; except, perhaps, my line."

"I should not think of buying clothes there. But at the Stores one must pay cash. I've not got the cash, and my father is in Rome. I should like to have the money to-day, if possible. Will you oblige me?"

The tradesman hesitated. In the past there have been grave scandals connected with lending money to boys. And Harrow tradesmen are at the mercy of the Head Master. If a school-tailor be put out of bounds, he can put up his shutters at once. Still——

"I'll let you have the money," said the man, eyeing Beaumont-Greene keenly.

"Thanks."

The tailor observed a slight flush and a sudden intake of breath—signs which stirred suspicion.

"Will you take it in notes, sir?"

Here Beaumont-Greene made his first blunder. He had an ill-defined idea that paper was dangerous stuff.

"In gold, please."

He forgot that gold is not easily sent in a letter. The tailor hesitated, but he had gone too far to back out.

"Very well, sir. I have not twenty-five pounds——"

"Thirty, if you please. I shall want thirty."

"I have not quite that amount here, but I can get it."

When the man came back with a small canvas bag in his hand, Beaumont-Greene had pocketed the letter. He received the money, counted it, thanked the tailor, and turned to go.

"If you please, sir——"

"Yes?"

"I should like to keep your father's letter, sir. As a form of receipt, sir. When you settle I'll return it. If—if anything should happen to—to you, sir, where would I be?"

Beaumont-Greene's temper showed itself.

"You all talk as if I was on my death-bed," he said.

The tailor stared. Others, then, had suggested to this large, unwholesome youth the possibility of premature decease.

"Not at all, sir, but we do live in the valley of shadders. My wife's step-father, as fine and hearty a specimen as you'd wish to see, sir, was taken only last month; at breakfast, too, as he was chipping his third egg."

Beaumont-Greene said loftily, "Blow your wife's step-father and his third egg. Here's the letter."

He flung down the letter and marched out of the shop. The tradesman looked at him, shaking his head. "He'll never come back," he muttered. "I know his sort too well." Then, business happening to be slack, he re-read the letter before putting it away. Then he whistled softly and read it for the third time, frowning and biting his lips. The "Beaumont-Greene" in the signature and on the envelope did not look to be written by the same hand.

"There's something fishy here," muttered the tradesman. "I must show this to Amelia."

It was his habit to consult his wife in emergencies. The chief cutter and two assistants said that Amelia was the power behind the throne. Amelia read the letter, listened to what her husband had to say, stared hard at the envelope, and delivered herself—

"The hand that wrote the envelope never wrote theletter, that's plain—to me. Now, William, you've got me and the children to think of. This may mean the loss of our business, and worse, too. You put on your hat and go straight to the Manor. Mr. Warde's a gentleman, and I don't think he'll let me and the children suffer for your foolishness. Don't you wait another minute."

Nor did he.

After prayers that night, Warde asked Beaumont-Greene to come to his study. Beaumont-Greene obeyed, smiling blandly. Within three weeks he was leaving; doubtless Warde wanted to say something civil. The big fellow was feeling quite himself. He had paid Scaife and Lovell, not without a little pardonable braggadocio.

"You fellows have put me to some inconvenience," he said. "I make it a rule not to run things fine, but after all thirty quid is no great sum. Here you are."

"We don't want to drive you into the workhouse," said Scaife. "Thanks. Give you your revenge any time. I dare say between now and the end of the term you'll have most of it back."

Warde asked Beaumont-Greene to sit down in a particular chair, which faced the light from a large lamp. Then he took up an envelope. Suddenly cold chills trickled down Beaumont-Greene's spine. He recognized the envelope. That scoundrel had betrayed him. Not for a moment, however, did he suppose that the forgery had been detected.

"On the strength of this letter," said Warde, gravely, "you borrowed thirty pounds from a tradesman?"

Denial being fatuous, Beaumont-Greene said—

"Yes, sir."

"You know, I suppose, that Harrow tradesmen are expressly forbidden to lend boys money?"

"I am hardly a boy, sir. And—er—under the circumstances——"

Warde smiled very grimly.

"Ah—under the circumstances. Have you any objection to telling me the exact circumstances?"

"Not at all, sir. I wished to make some presents to my friends. I am going to give a large leaving-breakfast."

"Oh! Still, thirty pounds is a large sum——"

"Not to my father, sir. I—er—thought of coming to you, sir, with that letter."

"Did you?"

Warde took the letter from the envelope, and glanced at it with faint interest, so Beaumont-Greene thought. Then he picked up a magnifying glass and played with it. It was a trick of his to pick up objects on his desk, and turn them in his thin, nervous fingers. Beaumont-Greene was not seriously alarmed. He had great faith in a weapon which had served him faithfully, his lying tongue.

"Yes, sir. I thought you would be willing to advance the money for a few days, and then——"

"And then?"

"And then I thought I wouldn't bother you. It never occurred to me that I was getting a tradesman into trouble. I hope you won't be hard on him, sir."

"I shall not be hard on him," said Warde, "because"—for a moment his eyes flashed—"because he came to me and confessed his fault; but I won't deny that I gave him a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour. He sat in your chair."

Beaumont-Greene shuffled uneasily.

"Have you this thirty pounds in your pocket?" asked Warde, casually.

Beaumont-Greene began to regret his haste in settling.

"No, sir."

"Some of it?"

"None of it."

"You sent it to London? To buy these handsome presents?"

"Ye-es, sir."

"You hadn't much time. Lock-up's early, and you received the money in gold. Did you buy Orders?"

Beaumont-Greene's head began to buzz. He found himself wondering why Warde was speaking in this smooth, quiet voice, so different from his usual curt, incisive tones.

"Yes, sir."

"At the Harrow post-office?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah."

Again the house-master picked up the letter, but this time he didn't lay down the lens. Instead he used it, very deliberately. Beaumont-Greene shivered; with difficulty he clenched his teeth, so as to prevent them clicking like castanets. Then Warde held up the sheet of paper to the light of the lamp. Obviously he wished to examine the watermark. The paper was thin notepaper, the kind that is sold everywhere for foreign correspondence. Beaumont-Greene, economical in such matters, had bought a couple of quires when his people went abroad. The paper he had bought did not quite match the Roman envelope. Warde opened a drawer, from which he took some thin paper. This also he held up to the light.

"It's an odd coincidence," he said, tranquilly; "your father in Rome uses the same notepaper that I buy here. But the envelope is Italian?"

He spoke interrogatively, but the wretch opposite had lost the power of speech. He collapsed. Warde rose, throwing aside his quiet manner as if it were a drab-coloured cloak. Now he was himself, alert, on edge, sanguine.

"You fool!" he exclaimed; "you clumsy fool! Why, a child could find you out. And you—you have dared to play with such an edged tool as forgery. Now, do the one thing which is left to you: make a clean breast of it to me—at once."

In imposing this command, a command which he knew would be obeyed, inasmuch as he perceived that hedominated the weak, grovelling creature in front of him, Warde overlooked the possibility that this boy's confession might implicate other boys. Already he had formed in his mind a working hypothesis to account for this forged letter. The fellow, no doubt, was in debt to some Harrow townsman.

"For whom did youstealthis money? To whom did you pay it to-day? Answer!"

And he was answered.

"I owed the money to Scaife and Lovell."

Then he told the story of the card-playing. At the last word he fell on his knees, blubbering.

"Get up," said Warde, sharply. "Pull yourself together if you can."

The master began to walk up and down the room, frowning and biting his lips. From time to time he glanced at Beaumont-Greene. Seeing his utter collapse, he rang the bell, answered by the ever-discreet Dumbleton.

"Dumbleton, take Mr. Beaumont-Greene to the sick-room. There is no one in it, I believe?"

"No, sir."

"You will fetch what he may require for the night; quietly, you understand."

"Very good, sir."

"Follow Dumbleton," Warde addressed Beaumont-Greene. "You will consider yourself under arrest. Your meals will be brought to you. You will hold no communication with anybody except Dumbleton and me; you will send no messages; you will write no notes. Do you hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go."

Dumbleton opened the door. Young man and servant passed out and into the passage beyond. Warde waited one moment, then he followed them into the passage; but instead of going upstairs, he paused for an instant with his fingers upon the handle of the door which led from theprivate side to the boys' quarters. He sighed as he passed through.

At this moment Lovell was sitting in his room alone with Scaife. They had no suspicion of what had taken place in the study. In the afternoon there had been a match with an Old Harrovian team, and both Scaife and Lovell had played for the School. But as yet neither had got his Flannels. As Warde passed through the private side door, Scaife was saying angrily—

"I believe Challoner" (Challoner was captain of the football Eleven and a monitor) "has a grudge against us. If we had a chance—and we had—of getting our Flannels last year, why isn't it a cert. this, eh?"

Lovell shrugged his shoulders.

"It is a cert.," he answered; "and you're right. Challoner doesn't like us, and it amuses him to keep us out of our just rights. The monitors know I detest 'em, and they don't think you're called the Demon for nothing. Challoner is more of a monitor than a footer-player. How about a rubber? There's just time."

"I don't mind."

Lovell went to the door and opened it.

"Bo-o-o-o-o-o-y!"

The familiar cry—that imperious call which makes an Harrovian feel himself master of more or less willing slaves—echoed through the house. Immediately the night-fag came running; it was not considered healthy to keep Lovell waiting.

"Ask Beaumont-Greene to come up here and——" He paused. Warde had just turned the corner, and was approaching. Lovell hesitated. Then he repeated what he had just said, with a slight variation for Warde's benefit. "Tell him I want to ask him a question about the house-subscriptions."

"Right," said the fag, bustling off.

Lovell waited to receive his house-master. He had very good manners.

"Can I do anything for you, sir?" he asked.

"Yes," said Warde, deliberately. He entered Lovell's room and looked at Scaife, who rose at once.

"I wish to speak with you alone, Lovell."

"Certainly, sir. Won't you sit down?"

Warde waited till Scaife had closed the door; then he said quietly—

"Lovell, does Beaumont-Greene owe you money?"

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