Chapter Ten.

Chapter Ten.Special Service.My introduction to Low Heath at large next day turned out to be a far less formidable affair than I had anticipated. I had long since given up the notion that the whole school would rise at my appearance and salute me. I had even ceased to expect that they would all stare and make remarks. But I was hardly prepared for the absolute indifference with which I was permitted to answer to my name at “Great register.” Not a soul took any notice of me, even when Dr England explained to me publicly that as there were already three other Joneses in the School, I would please answer in future to the title of Jones iv., which I humbly promised to do. Brown, I was not sorry to hear, was to be designated as Brown iii. for similar reasons.The ceremony being over, the new boys were trooped up to the head master’s library, and there told off to their respective forms with a few words of warning and encouragement. It surprised me that, in spite of my scholastic honours, I was entered in the same form as Brown. But on the whole I was more pleased than disappointed, for I loved my old comrade dearly, and after all, if hewasplaced above his merits, it wasn’t his fault.“It’s a pity you aren’t a day boy,” said he, as he walked across afterwards; “we could have larks together.”“It’s a pity you aren’t in the school,” said I.“Oh, our chaps say it’s rather stale to be in the school. I don’t see why your fellows should be looked down on, but they are.”“Pooh! you should hear our chaps talk about the day boys. Do you know, Dicky, I’m president of a club, a Philosophical Club; and day boys aren’t eligible. I’m awfully sorry; I should have liked to have you in.”“That’s just what I thought about the Urbans. They don’t let in any fellow who’s in the school—only day boys—they’re obliged to draw the line somewhere, you know. Do you know Redwood, the captain, is a senior Urban?”“I know. Our chaps say it’s a soak for the school having a day boy for captain.”“Oh!Wedon’t think so! I say, do you see that chap there?”The youth at whom he pointed was the friendly senior of whom I had inquired the way to bed last night.“Rather; he’s a Sharper. Why, and what about him?”“He’s a hot man, they say, and the most popular chap at Low Heath. He’s captain of the Rifles.”“What’s his name? Do you know?”“Crofts, or Crofter, or something like that. What’s up?”He might well ask!“Crofter!” exclaimed I. “My word, Dicky, I’ve been and done it!”“Done what?”“Why, I called him a beast yesterday.”“You did? You’re getting on, Jones iv.”“No, without humbug, I did. I didn’t know it was Crofter, and I told him Tempest thought he was a beast.”“If Tempest says so, he probably is,” remarked the unemotional Dicky.“But what’s to become of me? How was I to know?”“I don’t know. Perhaps you’d better go and tell him you were mistaken.”“I don’t like to. I say, what a downer he’ll have on me! I half wish I was a day boy, after all.”“It’s a pity you aren’t. We’ve a jolly lot in the Urban Minors; quite a literary lot.”“Bother the Urban Minors!” said I, looking dismally after the retreating form of Crofter.“It’ll take you all your time to bother some of them. There’s Flitwick, he’s—”“Hang Flitwick! Whatever am I to do, Dicky?”“I wouldn’t advise you to hang Flitwick. Oh, about that fellow Crofter! Oh, it’ll be all right. He’s plenty else to think about.”It was poor comfort, but the best I could get, and our arrival at our class room cut short further discussion on this most unfortunate incident.But it weighed on my mind all day. When class was over, I was summoned by my fellow “Philosophers” to come out into the playing fields; I went in fear and trembling, lest I should encounter Crofter. But he was nowhere to be seen.My companions were evidently hand and glove with most of the juniors in the school, and I was favoured with a bewildering number of introductions, not always of the most gratifying kind.“What have you got there, Trim? A tame monkey?” asked one gorgeous youth, whose cap bore the badge of Mr Selkirk’s house.“Not exactly,” said Trimble; “haven’t had time to tame him yet.”“What’s his name?”“Sarah. Allow me. Muskett—Sarah Jones; Jones—Silly Muskett. Now you know one another.”“He’s only fooling about my name,” said I; “it’s Thomas.”“Oh, is it? Delighted to see you, Sarah Thomas.”And before I could put him right he was off, and I was led away by my rejoicing comrades.“Look here, Trimble,” said I, “it’s time you knew my name by now.”Trimble laughed, as did the others. They all thought it was high time.But everybody we met I was introduced to as Sarah.“Awfully sorry,” said Langrish, after the fourth or fifth offence. “I’ve such a bad memory for names.—Well kicked, sir.”This exclamation was addressed, not to me, but to a senior who had just appeared on the scene, and was kicking about the practice football with a friend prior to a match which was evidently due.It was a splendid kick, and the author of it was a splendid fellow—brawny of limb and light of foot, with fair hair and clear blue eyes—as one might picture one of the Norsemen of the story-books. You could see by the way he moved, and the spirit he put even into this practice kicking, that he was a sportsman every inch of him; and his good-natured laugh, as he exchanged greetings with this and that arriving friend, proclaimed him, even before you heard him speak, as good a gentleman as he was an athlete.“Redwood’s in form to-day,” said some one. “We’d better stop and see the play.”“Is that Redwood, the captain?” inquired I, in an awestruck way, of Warminster.“Rather,” was the reply, in a tone of pride which convinced me that Low Heath was proud of its chief, even though he had the misfortune to be a day boy.Just then Redwood turned and waved his hand to somebody near us.“Look out; he wants you,” said Langrish.“Me?” said I, flabbergasted.“Don’t you see him beckoning? Look alive, or you’ll catch it.”I could hardly believe it; and yet everybody near looked round at me in apparent wonder at my delay.Perhaps Redwood had heard something about me from Tempest and wanted to—“Go on,” said Trimble, giving me a shove. “If he wants to stick you in the Fifteen, tell him it’s not good enough.”“Look sharp,” called the others, encouragingly, as I started to obey the summons.By this time Redwood was strolling our way. Mahomet, thought I, is coming to the mountain. So, to save him trouble, I trotted up to meet him.At first he didn’t notice me. Then when I said, “Did you want me?” he stared me over from head to foot as a Newfoundland dog would inspect a pug. It was on the whole a benevolent stare, not unmingled with humour; especially when the cheers of my late comrades called his attention to my ingenuous blushes.“I didn’t,” said he; “but you’ll do, if you don’t mind. Cut home to my house. Number 3, Bridge Street, and ask them to send my leather belt. Look alive, there’s a good chap.”This speech, the first really polite speech I had heard since I entered Low Heath, took me by storm, and captivated me at once to the service of the captain of the school. I galloped off, as proud as a non-commissioned officer who has been sent to fetch his regimental flag on to the field of battle. The chaps behind might cheer and jeer and cry, “Gee-up, Sarah!” and “Mad dog!” as much as they liked. They would have been only too proud to be sent on my errand.It was a good ten minutes’ run to Bridge Street, and I was fairly out of breath when I rang at the bell of Number 3. It seemed a long time before any one came, and I was beginning to be afraid I should forfeit the reputation I hoped to acquire, when hurried footsteps announced that my ring had been heard.Mrs Redwood was out, said the servant, and she had been down the garden with the children.When I delivered my message, she asked me to wait; and with her little charges evidently on her mind, ran upstairs to fetch the belt.It was a nice house, although a small one. The garden door was open, and gave a beautiful peep over the little sloping lawn to the river and the woods beyond. I was not sure that, after all, a town-boy might not have a good time of it, living in a place like this, instead of in school.Suddenly my reflections were disturbed by a shrill scream from the garden, followed by a little girl of five or six crying—“Annie, Annie! Mamie’s tumbled in; Mamie’s tumbled in!”For a wonder I had my wits about me, and divined the truth at once. With a bound I was down the steps and across the lawn, half knocking down the panic-stricken little messenger on the way, and at the river’s edge, floundering piteously in about two feet of water, found the unfortunate little Mamie—evidently a twin-sister—more frightened than hurt, but perilously near to getting into deep water.Her yells redoubled when she found herself grabbed by the sash by a stranger, and lugged most unceremoniously on toterra firma.Scarcely had I achieved this gallant rescue, without even wetting my own shoes, when Annie, as white as a sheet, came flying on to the scene.“It’s all right,” said I; “she’s not hurt.”Whereupon Annie most inconsiderately leaned up against a post, clapped her hands to her heart, and went or threatened to go off into hysterics. And there was I, a poor unprotected male, left to face the squalling of two infant female children and a full-grown female nurserymaid!“Look here,” said I, appealingly, “Mamie’s soaking wet. You’d better take her and dry her, before she gets her death of cold.”This appeal had the desired effect. It stopped the nurse’s spasms and let loose her tongue.“Oh dear, oh my! And I told her not to go through the gate. Oh, you naughty girl you; and you. Miss Gwen, for letting her do it. Come in directly, you little hussies!”It struck me as grossly unfair of Annie; but I did not venture in her present state of mind to protest, for fear she should call me hussy too. I followed indoors, somewhat guiltily, at the tail of the procession, feeling myself in a very unpleasant situation, in which I would not on any account be caught by Redwood’s mother or by Redwood himself. To my delight, on the floor of the hall, where Annie had dropped it, lay the belt, at which I sprang greedily, and not waiting to say thank you, or put in a word for the doomed infants, which would have been quite inaudible in the volume of Annie’s philippics, I saved myself (as the Frenchman says), and ran at racing speed with my prize back to the school field.To my mortification I found the match had just begun, and it would be impossible to deliver my missive till half-time. What would the captain think of me? Would he suspect me of having dawdled to buy sweets, or look over the bridge, or gossip with a chum? I would not for anything it had happened, and felt not at all amiably disposed to Miss Mamie, as the inconsiderate cause of my delay.However, there was nothing for it but to wait. I resolved not to put myself into the clutches of the Philosophers till my mission was discharged, for fear of accident; so I seated myself on one of the pavilion steps and watched the play.It was evidently a hot match for a scratch one. As far as I could make out, the remnants of last season’s Fifteen, amounting to eleven veterans only, were playing the next Fifteen, who, having the best of the wind, were giving a dangerously good account of themselves. They were acute enough to make all the use they could of the favouring element by keeping open order and kicking whenever they had the chance, whereas of course the other side played a tight game, and ran with the ball. Even for a novice like myself, it was interesting to watch a contest of this kind. The Fifteen evidently hoped to rush the thing and carry their goal before half-time deprived them of the wind, whereas the Eleven were mainly concerned to keep on the defensive and risk nothing by over-haste.Among the veterans I could distinguish the big form of Redwood, always close to the ball, and near him with a shudder I recognised Crofter working hard, while hovering on the wing of the scrimmage was the genial Pridgin, looking as if he would fain be in bed, but, when the time for action came, making it very uncomfortable for the enemy. On the other side I was not long in finding out Tempest, with the glow of enthusiasm on his cheek as now and again he broke through the ruck and sent the ball into quarters. Wales, too, was there, spick and span as usual, playing neatly and effectively, and withal elegantly.As time wore on it was evident the veterans were being penned closer and closer by their antagonists. Presently a dangerous scrimmage was formed just in front of their goal. For some minutes the ball was invisible, then by an apparently preconcerted movement the forwards of the Fifteen loosened and let it dart back into the open behind them, where lurked Tempest ready to receive it. He did not wait to pick it up, but ran to meet it with a flying kick. For a moment it seemed doubtful whether it would clear the onward rush of Redwood and his forwards. But it did, and rose steadily and beautifully over their heads, and with the wind straight upon it, reached the goal and skimmed over the bar, amid the loud shouts of every one, conspicuous among which was my shrill voice.Half-time! Now was my chance; and before the shouting had ceased, or the discomfited Eleven had quite realised their misfortune, I darted into the sacred enclosure, and presented the captain with his belt.“I’m awfully sorry I wasn’t in time,” said I. “You’d just begun when I got back.”“Thanks, youngster, it’s all right,” said Redwood, wonderfully cheerful, as it seemed to me; “here, take care of this for me,” and he divested himself of the belt he was wearing and donned the new one.“You’ll have the wind with you now,” I ventured to observe.“Yes,” said he with a nod, “I think we shall do the trick this time, eh?”“Rather,” said I; and departed elated, not so much to have been spared the rebuke I expected, but to be talked to by such a hero, as if I was not a junior at all, but a comrade.My chums when I rejoined them were anxious to prevent my being too much puffed up by my exploit.“Good old Sarah Toady,” cried Trimble, as I approached. “Is he coming?”“Who? Where?” I inquired.“I thought you were asking Redwood to tea or something.”“No, I wasn’t—I only—”“There’s Jarman,” cried Langrish. “Run and cadge up to him. Perhaps he’ll pat you on the back too.”Despite these taunts I could not fail to notice the depressing effect of the new arrival on the onlookers generally. Mr Jarman, the gymnasium master, was a ruddy, restless-looking man of about thirty-five, with cold grey eyes, and the air of a man who knew he was unpopular, but was resolved to do his duty nevertheless. If I had heard nothing about him before, I should have disliked him at first glance, and instinctively tried to avoid his eye. And yet, as he stood there, talking to Mr Selkirk, the melancholy master of the reputedly “fast” house at Low Heath, he did not look particularly offensive.“Look out now; they’re starting again.”There was no mistaking the veterans now. Their backs were up, and the order had evidently gone out for no quarter to be given to the audacious Fifteen.Redwood’s kick off all but carried the goal from the middle of the field, and from that moment it never got out of the “thirties,” as the imaginary line between the two distance flags was called. To Crofter belonged the honour of first wiping off scores with the enemy. And after him Redwood dropped a goal, first from one side line, then from the other. Pridgin, too, scored a smart run in; but, unluckily, the kick fouled the goal post and saved the Fifteen a further disaster then. But before time was called a fourth goal was placed to the credit of the veterans. The vanquished fought gamely to the end. Once or twice Tempest broke away, but for want of effective backing was repulsed. And once a smart piece of dribbling down the touch line by Wales gave the Eleven’s half-backs an anxious moment. But that was all. The match ended, as every one expected, in a slashing victory for the old hands, together with a general verdict that Tempest and Wales, at any rate, had won their laurels and were safe for two of the vacant caps.In the stampede which followed I missed my opportunity of restoring Redwood’s property, as he vanished immediately after the game, and my comrades would by no means allow me out of their sight. Indeed, it was not till after evening chapel that I contrived to elude their vigilance and start on my second run to Bridge Street.But if I eluded them I was less fortunate with another sentinel. For at the gates I encountered the forbidding presence of Mr Jarman.“What are you doing here?”“Please, sir, this is Redwood’s belt, and I promised to give it to him.”“Go back. What is your name?”“Jones, sir.”“Whose house are you in?”“Mr Sharpe’s.”“Do not let me find you out of bounds again, Jones.”And he fixed me with his eye as if to impress me with the fact that he would certainly know me again.“But, sir, Redwood—”“Did you hear me, sir?”I capitulated, cowed and indignant. I was beginning to understand what the fellows said about Mr Jarman.“It’s all rot,” said the Philosophers, when I confided my grievance to them; “it’s not out of bounds before 6:30—and if it was, it’s no business of his. It’s the house master’s business, or the house captain’s. If you get lagged by them, all right; buthe’sgot no right to lag fellows, the cad.”In my present humour I was far from disputing the appellation.

My introduction to Low Heath at large next day turned out to be a far less formidable affair than I had anticipated. I had long since given up the notion that the whole school would rise at my appearance and salute me. I had even ceased to expect that they would all stare and make remarks. But I was hardly prepared for the absolute indifference with which I was permitted to answer to my name at “Great register.” Not a soul took any notice of me, even when Dr England explained to me publicly that as there were already three other Joneses in the School, I would please answer in future to the title of Jones iv., which I humbly promised to do. Brown, I was not sorry to hear, was to be designated as Brown iii. for similar reasons.

The ceremony being over, the new boys were trooped up to the head master’s library, and there told off to their respective forms with a few words of warning and encouragement. It surprised me that, in spite of my scholastic honours, I was entered in the same form as Brown. But on the whole I was more pleased than disappointed, for I loved my old comrade dearly, and after all, if hewasplaced above his merits, it wasn’t his fault.

“It’s a pity you aren’t a day boy,” said he, as he walked across afterwards; “we could have larks together.”

“It’s a pity you aren’t in the school,” said I.

“Oh, our chaps say it’s rather stale to be in the school. I don’t see why your fellows should be looked down on, but they are.”

“Pooh! you should hear our chaps talk about the day boys. Do you know, Dicky, I’m president of a club, a Philosophical Club; and day boys aren’t eligible. I’m awfully sorry; I should have liked to have you in.”

“That’s just what I thought about the Urbans. They don’t let in any fellow who’s in the school—only day boys—they’re obliged to draw the line somewhere, you know. Do you know Redwood, the captain, is a senior Urban?”

“I know. Our chaps say it’s a soak for the school having a day boy for captain.”

“Oh!Wedon’t think so! I say, do you see that chap there?”

The youth at whom he pointed was the friendly senior of whom I had inquired the way to bed last night.

“Rather; he’s a Sharper. Why, and what about him?”

“He’s a hot man, they say, and the most popular chap at Low Heath. He’s captain of the Rifles.”

“What’s his name? Do you know?”

“Crofts, or Crofter, or something like that. What’s up?”

He might well ask!

“Crofter!” exclaimed I. “My word, Dicky, I’ve been and done it!”

“Done what?”

“Why, I called him a beast yesterday.”

“You did? You’re getting on, Jones iv.”

“No, without humbug, I did. I didn’t know it was Crofter, and I told him Tempest thought he was a beast.”

“If Tempest says so, he probably is,” remarked the unemotional Dicky.

“But what’s to become of me? How was I to know?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps you’d better go and tell him you were mistaken.”

“I don’t like to. I say, what a downer he’ll have on me! I half wish I was a day boy, after all.”

“It’s a pity you aren’t. We’ve a jolly lot in the Urban Minors; quite a literary lot.”

“Bother the Urban Minors!” said I, looking dismally after the retreating form of Crofter.

“It’ll take you all your time to bother some of them. There’s Flitwick, he’s—”

“Hang Flitwick! Whatever am I to do, Dicky?”

“I wouldn’t advise you to hang Flitwick. Oh, about that fellow Crofter! Oh, it’ll be all right. He’s plenty else to think about.”

It was poor comfort, but the best I could get, and our arrival at our class room cut short further discussion on this most unfortunate incident.

But it weighed on my mind all day. When class was over, I was summoned by my fellow “Philosophers” to come out into the playing fields; I went in fear and trembling, lest I should encounter Crofter. But he was nowhere to be seen.

My companions were evidently hand and glove with most of the juniors in the school, and I was favoured with a bewildering number of introductions, not always of the most gratifying kind.

“What have you got there, Trim? A tame monkey?” asked one gorgeous youth, whose cap bore the badge of Mr Selkirk’s house.

“Not exactly,” said Trimble; “haven’t had time to tame him yet.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sarah. Allow me. Muskett—Sarah Jones; Jones—Silly Muskett. Now you know one another.”

“He’s only fooling about my name,” said I; “it’s Thomas.”

“Oh, is it? Delighted to see you, Sarah Thomas.”

And before I could put him right he was off, and I was led away by my rejoicing comrades.

“Look here, Trimble,” said I, “it’s time you knew my name by now.”

Trimble laughed, as did the others. They all thought it was high time.

But everybody we met I was introduced to as Sarah.

“Awfully sorry,” said Langrish, after the fourth or fifth offence. “I’ve such a bad memory for names.—Well kicked, sir.”

This exclamation was addressed, not to me, but to a senior who had just appeared on the scene, and was kicking about the practice football with a friend prior to a match which was evidently due.

It was a splendid kick, and the author of it was a splendid fellow—brawny of limb and light of foot, with fair hair and clear blue eyes—as one might picture one of the Norsemen of the story-books. You could see by the way he moved, and the spirit he put even into this practice kicking, that he was a sportsman every inch of him; and his good-natured laugh, as he exchanged greetings with this and that arriving friend, proclaimed him, even before you heard him speak, as good a gentleman as he was an athlete.

“Redwood’s in form to-day,” said some one. “We’d better stop and see the play.”

“Is that Redwood, the captain?” inquired I, in an awestruck way, of Warminster.

“Rather,” was the reply, in a tone of pride which convinced me that Low Heath was proud of its chief, even though he had the misfortune to be a day boy.

Just then Redwood turned and waved his hand to somebody near us.

“Look out; he wants you,” said Langrish.

“Me?” said I, flabbergasted.

“Don’t you see him beckoning? Look alive, or you’ll catch it.”

I could hardly believe it; and yet everybody near looked round at me in apparent wonder at my delay.

Perhaps Redwood had heard something about me from Tempest and wanted to—

“Go on,” said Trimble, giving me a shove. “If he wants to stick you in the Fifteen, tell him it’s not good enough.”

“Look sharp,” called the others, encouragingly, as I started to obey the summons.

By this time Redwood was strolling our way. Mahomet, thought I, is coming to the mountain. So, to save him trouble, I trotted up to meet him.

At first he didn’t notice me. Then when I said, “Did you want me?” he stared me over from head to foot as a Newfoundland dog would inspect a pug. It was on the whole a benevolent stare, not unmingled with humour; especially when the cheers of my late comrades called his attention to my ingenuous blushes.

“I didn’t,” said he; “but you’ll do, if you don’t mind. Cut home to my house. Number 3, Bridge Street, and ask them to send my leather belt. Look alive, there’s a good chap.”

This speech, the first really polite speech I had heard since I entered Low Heath, took me by storm, and captivated me at once to the service of the captain of the school. I galloped off, as proud as a non-commissioned officer who has been sent to fetch his regimental flag on to the field of battle. The chaps behind might cheer and jeer and cry, “Gee-up, Sarah!” and “Mad dog!” as much as they liked. They would have been only too proud to be sent on my errand.

It was a good ten minutes’ run to Bridge Street, and I was fairly out of breath when I rang at the bell of Number 3. It seemed a long time before any one came, and I was beginning to be afraid I should forfeit the reputation I hoped to acquire, when hurried footsteps announced that my ring had been heard.

Mrs Redwood was out, said the servant, and she had been down the garden with the children.

When I delivered my message, she asked me to wait; and with her little charges evidently on her mind, ran upstairs to fetch the belt.

It was a nice house, although a small one. The garden door was open, and gave a beautiful peep over the little sloping lawn to the river and the woods beyond. I was not sure that, after all, a town-boy might not have a good time of it, living in a place like this, instead of in school.

Suddenly my reflections were disturbed by a shrill scream from the garden, followed by a little girl of five or six crying—

“Annie, Annie! Mamie’s tumbled in; Mamie’s tumbled in!”

For a wonder I had my wits about me, and divined the truth at once. With a bound I was down the steps and across the lawn, half knocking down the panic-stricken little messenger on the way, and at the river’s edge, floundering piteously in about two feet of water, found the unfortunate little Mamie—evidently a twin-sister—more frightened than hurt, but perilously near to getting into deep water.

Her yells redoubled when she found herself grabbed by the sash by a stranger, and lugged most unceremoniously on toterra firma.

Scarcely had I achieved this gallant rescue, without even wetting my own shoes, when Annie, as white as a sheet, came flying on to the scene.

“It’s all right,” said I; “she’s not hurt.”

Whereupon Annie most inconsiderately leaned up against a post, clapped her hands to her heart, and went or threatened to go off into hysterics. And there was I, a poor unprotected male, left to face the squalling of two infant female children and a full-grown female nurserymaid!

“Look here,” said I, appealingly, “Mamie’s soaking wet. You’d better take her and dry her, before she gets her death of cold.”

This appeal had the desired effect. It stopped the nurse’s spasms and let loose her tongue.

“Oh dear, oh my! And I told her not to go through the gate. Oh, you naughty girl you; and you. Miss Gwen, for letting her do it. Come in directly, you little hussies!”

It struck me as grossly unfair of Annie; but I did not venture in her present state of mind to protest, for fear she should call me hussy too. I followed indoors, somewhat guiltily, at the tail of the procession, feeling myself in a very unpleasant situation, in which I would not on any account be caught by Redwood’s mother or by Redwood himself. To my delight, on the floor of the hall, where Annie had dropped it, lay the belt, at which I sprang greedily, and not waiting to say thank you, or put in a word for the doomed infants, which would have been quite inaudible in the volume of Annie’s philippics, I saved myself (as the Frenchman says), and ran at racing speed with my prize back to the school field.

To my mortification I found the match had just begun, and it would be impossible to deliver my missive till half-time. What would the captain think of me? Would he suspect me of having dawdled to buy sweets, or look over the bridge, or gossip with a chum? I would not for anything it had happened, and felt not at all amiably disposed to Miss Mamie, as the inconsiderate cause of my delay.

However, there was nothing for it but to wait. I resolved not to put myself into the clutches of the Philosophers till my mission was discharged, for fear of accident; so I seated myself on one of the pavilion steps and watched the play.

It was evidently a hot match for a scratch one. As far as I could make out, the remnants of last season’s Fifteen, amounting to eleven veterans only, were playing the next Fifteen, who, having the best of the wind, were giving a dangerously good account of themselves. They were acute enough to make all the use they could of the favouring element by keeping open order and kicking whenever they had the chance, whereas of course the other side played a tight game, and ran with the ball. Even for a novice like myself, it was interesting to watch a contest of this kind. The Fifteen evidently hoped to rush the thing and carry their goal before half-time deprived them of the wind, whereas the Eleven were mainly concerned to keep on the defensive and risk nothing by over-haste.

Among the veterans I could distinguish the big form of Redwood, always close to the ball, and near him with a shudder I recognised Crofter working hard, while hovering on the wing of the scrimmage was the genial Pridgin, looking as if he would fain be in bed, but, when the time for action came, making it very uncomfortable for the enemy. On the other side I was not long in finding out Tempest, with the glow of enthusiasm on his cheek as now and again he broke through the ruck and sent the ball into quarters. Wales, too, was there, spick and span as usual, playing neatly and effectively, and withal elegantly.

As time wore on it was evident the veterans were being penned closer and closer by their antagonists. Presently a dangerous scrimmage was formed just in front of their goal. For some minutes the ball was invisible, then by an apparently preconcerted movement the forwards of the Fifteen loosened and let it dart back into the open behind them, where lurked Tempest ready to receive it. He did not wait to pick it up, but ran to meet it with a flying kick. For a moment it seemed doubtful whether it would clear the onward rush of Redwood and his forwards. But it did, and rose steadily and beautifully over their heads, and with the wind straight upon it, reached the goal and skimmed over the bar, amid the loud shouts of every one, conspicuous among which was my shrill voice.

Half-time! Now was my chance; and before the shouting had ceased, or the discomfited Eleven had quite realised their misfortune, I darted into the sacred enclosure, and presented the captain with his belt.

“I’m awfully sorry I wasn’t in time,” said I. “You’d just begun when I got back.”

“Thanks, youngster, it’s all right,” said Redwood, wonderfully cheerful, as it seemed to me; “here, take care of this for me,” and he divested himself of the belt he was wearing and donned the new one.

“You’ll have the wind with you now,” I ventured to observe.

“Yes,” said he with a nod, “I think we shall do the trick this time, eh?”

“Rather,” said I; and departed elated, not so much to have been spared the rebuke I expected, but to be talked to by such a hero, as if I was not a junior at all, but a comrade.

My chums when I rejoined them were anxious to prevent my being too much puffed up by my exploit.

“Good old Sarah Toady,” cried Trimble, as I approached. “Is he coming?”

“Who? Where?” I inquired.

“I thought you were asking Redwood to tea or something.”

“No, I wasn’t—I only—”

“There’s Jarman,” cried Langrish. “Run and cadge up to him. Perhaps he’ll pat you on the back too.”

Despite these taunts I could not fail to notice the depressing effect of the new arrival on the onlookers generally. Mr Jarman, the gymnasium master, was a ruddy, restless-looking man of about thirty-five, with cold grey eyes, and the air of a man who knew he was unpopular, but was resolved to do his duty nevertheless. If I had heard nothing about him before, I should have disliked him at first glance, and instinctively tried to avoid his eye. And yet, as he stood there, talking to Mr Selkirk, the melancholy master of the reputedly “fast” house at Low Heath, he did not look particularly offensive.

“Look out now; they’re starting again.”

There was no mistaking the veterans now. Their backs were up, and the order had evidently gone out for no quarter to be given to the audacious Fifteen.

Redwood’s kick off all but carried the goal from the middle of the field, and from that moment it never got out of the “thirties,” as the imaginary line between the two distance flags was called. To Crofter belonged the honour of first wiping off scores with the enemy. And after him Redwood dropped a goal, first from one side line, then from the other. Pridgin, too, scored a smart run in; but, unluckily, the kick fouled the goal post and saved the Fifteen a further disaster then. But before time was called a fourth goal was placed to the credit of the veterans. The vanquished fought gamely to the end. Once or twice Tempest broke away, but for want of effective backing was repulsed. And once a smart piece of dribbling down the touch line by Wales gave the Eleven’s half-backs an anxious moment. But that was all. The match ended, as every one expected, in a slashing victory for the old hands, together with a general verdict that Tempest and Wales, at any rate, had won their laurels and were safe for two of the vacant caps.

In the stampede which followed I missed my opportunity of restoring Redwood’s property, as he vanished immediately after the game, and my comrades would by no means allow me out of their sight. Indeed, it was not till after evening chapel that I contrived to elude their vigilance and start on my second run to Bridge Street.

But if I eluded them I was less fortunate with another sentinel. For at the gates I encountered the forbidding presence of Mr Jarman.

“What are you doing here?”

“Please, sir, this is Redwood’s belt, and I promised to give it to him.”

“Go back. What is your name?”

“Jones, sir.”

“Whose house are you in?”

“Mr Sharpe’s.”

“Do not let me find you out of bounds again, Jones.”

And he fixed me with his eye as if to impress me with the fact that he would certainly know me again.

“But, sir, Redwood—”

“Did you hear me, sir?”

I capitulated, cowed and indignant. I was beginning to understand what the fellows said about Mr Jarman.

“It’s all rot,” said the Philosophers, when I confided my grievance to them; “it’s not out of bounds before 6:30—and if it was, it’s no business of his. It’s the house master’s business, or the house captain’s. If you get lagged by them, all right; buthe’sgot no right to lag fellows, the cad.”

In my present humour I was far from disputing the appellation.

Chapter Eleven.Cheap Advertising Extraordinary.I spent a bad quarter of an hour that evening before bed-time in inditing a letter of “explanation” to Crofter. I had come to the conclusion this would be easier and safer than a personal interview, and that the sooner it was done the better. How to do it was another problem. To write a letter in the raggery was out of the question. I tried it, but failed miserably. For either my paper was twitched away from under my pen, or some one looked over my shoulder and pretended to read expressions of endearment which were not there, or some one got under the table and heaved it about tempestuously to the detriment of my handwriting, or some one drew skeleton figures of spider-legged bipeds on the margin of the paper. Worse still, it was evident every word I wrote would be common property, which I did not desire. I had therefore to abandon the attempt till later on; when, finding myself in Pridgin’s study, I ventured to inquire if I might write there.Pridgin was good enough to express admiration of my cheek, but said if I spread one newspaper over his carpet and another over his table-cloth to catch the blots, and didn’t ask him how to spell any word of less than four letters, or borrow a stamp, I might.All which I faithfully undertook to do, and sat down to my delicate task. It took me a long time, considering the result, and I was by no means satisfied with the performance when it was done.“Dear Crofter,” I wrote; but that seemed too familiar, whereas “Dear Sir” from one schoolfellow to another was too formal. So I attempted my explanation in the “oblique oration”:—“Jones iv. is sorry he accidentally told Crofter he was a beast yesterday. He did not know it was him when he saw him, or he would not have told him what Tempest said about him, which was quite unintentional. He also must explain that what he said about his being expelled was in consequence of a dog’s death, about which there was a misunderstanding. He hopes Crofter will not tell him he told him, as he would be very angry with him.”“Done?” said Pridgin, who, comfortably ensconced in his easy-chair with his feet upon the window-ledge, was reading a comic paper.“Yes, thanks,” said I, half terrified lest he should demand to read my not too lucid epistle.“All right. Go and tell Crofter I want him, will you? Look alive, and then cut to bed.”Here was a blow! I had been at all this labour in order to avoid the painful necessity of an interview with Crofter, and here I was as badly off as ever.“Can’t you hear?” said Pridgin as I hesitated.“If you please, Pridgin,” said I, resolved to take the bull by the horns, “I’m awfully sorry, but I don’t want Crofter to catch me. The fact is—”Pridgin’s good-humoured reply was to shy a book at me, which I was fortunate enough to miss, but which Tempest, who entered the study at the moment, caught fairly on his forehead.“Hullo! Are you and the kid playing catch?” said he. “Sorry to disturb you, really; but my fag’s skulking somewhere, and I want to borrow yours to take a message to Crofter.”“Was it a plot, or what? I had far better have written in the faggery after all.”“That was exactly the subject about which the kid and I were playing catch just now,” said Pridgin. “I asked him to go to Crofter too.”“What, has he been sending you abillet-doux?” said Tempest.“Well, yes. He seems to be sore I didn’t ask him to tea yesterday, and says he’s afraid some one has been libelling him, though how he knew I had any one here last night I can’t imagine.”“That’s funny,” said Tempest; “he writes to me to say he is sorry I should take the trouble to call him a beast in public. He understands a fellow’s right to his private opinion, he says, and would be sorry not to be allowed his about me, but he thinks it imprudent to shout it out for every one to hear. Just his style.”“I was going to send him word to ask him to come in and make himself a cup of tea out of my pot, just to show there was no ill-feeling,” said Pridgin.“And I was going to say that I hope he won’t trouble to think better of me in private then I think of him in public. Though for the life of me I can’t imagine what he refers to.”“The fact is. Tempest,” said Pridgin, putting his feet up on the window-ledge again, “it’s just as well to be above board with Crofter. He’s a slippery customer, and if he knows what we think of him, and we know what he thinks of us, we shall get on much better.”“If he’d only give a chap a chance of a row with him,” said Tempest; “but he won’t. The more down on him you are, the more affectionate he is, and the sweeter he smiles. Ugh!”“But who on earth has been blabbing to him?” said Pridgin; “not Wales?”“Wales?” said Tempest; “rather not. He’s not that sort.”“I don’t think he is,” said Pridgin; “and yet, old man—the fact is—I—”“You don’t fancy Wales, I know.”“Hardly that. I don’t mind him; but he’s more of a pull over you than he has over me. I can’t be bothered with his fashions. It’s too much grind. But you aren’t lazy like me, and—well—you know he runs you into a lot of expense. That picnic last term, for instance. We could have had quite a jolly day for half the cost. Chicken and ham’s all very well, but cold boiled eggs are just as good for keeping a chap going.”“But Wales can’t stand things not being—”“Dear!” said Pridgin. “Don’t flare up, old chap. You’ve got your work cut out for you this term, and can’t afford to spend all your time paying bills, even if you had the tin.”“All very well for you who’ve let me in for cocking the house,” said Tempest, with a laugh. “Anyhow, you’ve a right to talk to me like a father. All the same, I fancy you’ve a little downer on old Wales. He’s a good sort of chap, and there’s nothing of the eel about him.”“Which brings us back to Crofter,” said Pridgin. “Some one has told him that he’s not popular in this study, and he doesn’t like it. I wonder who our candid friend is.”“It was me,” said I, coming out at last with my pent-up confession. “I’m awfully sorry, Tempest. It was this—”“Take a seat,” said Tempest, putting me off in the identical way that Crofter had done yesterday. But I was not to be put off; I took a seat and continued—“I met him and didn’t know who he was, and I mentioned that I’d come from here, and that a tea was going on, and that Crofter was out of it, and the reason was because Tempest thought him a beast. And—I’m awfully sorry, Tempest—I let out to him that we’d been expelled from Dangerfield, and I’d not the least idea it was him.”“He,” suggested Pridgin.“He; and I’ve just been writing to him to explain.”“Rather a tough job, eh?” said Tempest.“You may see the letter,” said I.The two seniors read it with a gravity which scarcely seemed genuine.“I think it may pass,” said Tempest, coming out at last with a laugh. “There are only about twelve ‘he’s’ and ‘him’s’ in it, and as it will be absolutely unintelligible it can’t possibly do harm.”“If Crofter has the least sense of literary taste, he will frame it,” said Pridgin. “I trust no dogs’ deaths will occur here.”My confusion was tempered by the relief I felt that they took my indiscretion in such good part, and saw only—what I failed to see myself—the humorous side of the incident.I begged hard to be allowed to tear up my letter, but this they would by no means allow. On the contrary, I was compelled to address it and stamp it then and there, and place it in the post-box in the hall. Then, with compliments and good wishes, I was dismissed to bed, and left the two friends talking school politics.I felt a good deal more humbled by the manner in which they had received my confession than if they had, as I had expected, roundly abused me. To be let down easy, as if I was barely responsible for my actions, was not conducive to my vanity; and if that was the object they had in view, it was amply attained. I went to bed on my second night at Low Heath with as little vanity in me as I could decently do with; and even that, as I lay awake for an hour or two, oozed away, and did not return till in a happy moment I fell asleep, and once more, and for a few unconscious hours, became a hero to myself.The next morning I tumbled out of bed at the call of the bell in no very light-hearted way. First of all, Crofter would receive my letter; secondly, I had still got Redwood’s belt; thirdly, I had not done my preparation; and fourthly, I felt concerned about Tempest and his alliance with the expensive Wales. Strangely enough, this last trouble weighed on me most as I dressed.Tempest, I knew, was not well off. But he was proud, and not the sort of fellow to shirk a thing on account of the cost. I could remember at Dangerfield his spending all his money at the beginning of the term on an absurdly expensive cricket bag, and having to go without spikes in his shoes because he could not afford a set. At Low Heath, where seniors were allowed to run up bills in certain shops, I was certain his ignorance about money matters, added to the friendly encouragements of an exquisite like Wales, would make it all the worse for him. Why, evenIknew more about money than he did, and could reckon that if I brought thirteen shillings up at the beginning of the term, I should have just a shilling a week to bless myself with till break-up. Whereas he, I verily believe, would consider that he had thirteen shillings a week. And the worst of it was he would never let any one know how hard up he was, or tolerate any remarks, except from a privileged chum like Pridgin, on the subject.As I joined my comrades in the faggery, in the fond hope of snatching a precious quarter of an hour for my neglected studies, I found great excitement and jubilation afoot. The printer had sent home the handbills of the Conversation Club.“That ought to do our business,” said Langrish, flourishing one of the documents in my face.I took it, and read it with mingled pride and concern. It ran as follows:—Under the distinguished Patronage of the Nobility and Gentry of Low Heath:A Philosophical Conversation Clubhas been started for conversation on Philosophy, Picnics, and Cross-country Runs. Meetings weekly; to be announced. Subscription: Two shillings in advance; every member to find himself. No town-boys or masters eligible. “Come in your hundreds!!! No questions asked. Evening dress or flannels. The Inaugural Picnic next week. Particulars on receipt of subscription. No connection with any other so-called club in Low Heath! For further particulars apply to the following:Sarah Jones, Esquire, Pr.Ph.C.C, President.Ted Langrish, Esquire, S.Ph.C.C, Secretary.Wilfred Trimble, Esquire, T.Ph.C.C, Treasurer.Jos. Warminster, Esquire, L.Ph.C.C, Librarian.Tom Coxhead, Esquire, A.Ph.C.C, Auditor.Michael Purkis, Esquire, R.Ph.C.C, Registrar.P.S.—As the membership is strictly limited to 500, early application is advised. No eligible cash offer refused! Our motto is “Mens sano in corpore sanae.”I naturally bridled up at the record of my own name.“Look here,” said I; “you’ve stuck it down wrong again.”“Awfully sorry,” said Langrish; “the printer chaps made a little slip over the Christian name, but all the rest seems right. It’s wonderful how sharp they are, isn’t it?”“But you’re going to have it corrected, surely?” said I.“Why, it would cost a frightful lot!” protested the company. “We might alter it in ink, but that would only call attention to it. Bless you, no one will notice it. They’ll put it down to a printer’s error.”I was by no means satisfied, but their delight at the whole performance was so unbounded that it was impossible to be as angry as I felt.“It’ll draw, and no mistake,” said Trimble, who had evidently never seen his name in print before. “Jolly well drawn up of you, Lang.”“Oh,” said Langrish modestly, “when you know what you want to say, it’s easy enough to stick it down.”“That’s why you stuck down ‘Sarah,’ I suppose,” said I, rather crossly.“I never knew such a kid as you,” retorted Langrish; “you seem to fancy nobody can think of anything but you and your washerwoman.”The conversation was drifting on to dangerous ground, and Warminster promptly changed the subject.“The thing now will be to put the papers about. I vote we each take a batch and give them round.”“We might shove them under the fellows’ doors,” said Coxhead.“The best way will be to do it in Big Hall,” said the more practical Purkis. “One or two of us can easily get in ten minutes early, and stick one on every chap’s place.”“But suppose you stick one on a day boy’s place?” I suggested.“What’s the odds? the paper tells him he’s out of it,” replied Purkis.It occurred to me that this would not cheer the day boy very much; still, on the whole, Purkis’s suggestion seemed the best.“I tell you what,” said Langrish, “I beg to move and second that the President be authorised to stick round the papers.”“I third and fourth that,” said Trimble.“Carried unanimously,” said Langrish.“Look here, one of you had better do it,” said I, feeling a little alarmed at this imposing honour; “you know the way better.”“That’s where you’ve the pull,” said Purkis; “you’re a new kid, they won’t interfere with you. Big Hall’s at five, and you can easily slide in at a quarter to, and do the trick. Hullo, there’s bell.”School that morning went uncomfortably for me. I escaped being “lagged” for my neglect of preparation, chiefly owing to the friendly prompting I received from Dicky Brown. But it was a time of anxiety and trepidation, and my nerves were somewhat strained before it was over.The shock of the day, however, awaited me as I got outside on my way to the fields.A small youth of my own size accosted me.“I say, are you the new chap?”“What new chap?”“The new chap that Redwood told to fetch his belt.”“Yes,” said I, turning a little pale.“All right. You’ve got to go to him, sharp.”“I tried to give it him back yesterday, really I did; but I was stopped,” said I. “Do you think I’ll get in a row?”“I wouldn’t be in your shoes, that’s all I know,” remarked the messenger brutally. “It’ll be all the worse if you don’t cut.”“Where is he?”“In the captain’s room at the School House.”I went off with my heart in my boots. And I had hoped so much to show up well to Redwood! It was all Jarman’s fault, and I wrote down yet another grudge against him in my mental book.The captain was alone, and evidently expecting me, as he rose and came to meet me when I appeared.“Here you are, then, youngster,” said he, in a tone which, if it meant a licking, was a very deceptive one.“I’m very sorry,” said I; “I tried to bring the belt round yesterday evening, but—”“Hang the belt!” said the captain. “That’s not what I want you for. Why didn’t you tell me what happened at home yesterday afternoon?”Then it was another row altogether I was in for! What, I wondered, had I done! Surely he didn’t suspect me of having pushed his young sister into the water?“I didn’t like, while the match was on. I didn’t know Mamie had tumbled in, or I would have stopped her.”“But you fished her out?” he asked.“I told Annie to take her and dry her,” said I, wondering where the blow was going to fall. “You see, she went upstairs for the belt, and it was when she had gone it happened. I don’t think it was her fault.”To my amazement Redwood laughed and clapped me on the back.“You young donkey, don’t you know you saved Mamie’s life, and I want to say ‘Thank you,’ to you?”This unexpecteddénouementalarmed me almost as much as my previous misgivings.“Oh no, really I didn’t,” said I; “she was close to the edge.”“Another inch or two and she would have been in six feet of water,” said he. Then, with a friendly laugh, he added—“You may not have meant to save her life; but you did, and must take the consequences. My mother wants you to come to tea to-morrow. Call here for me after evening chapel, and we’ll go together. Good-bye now, and thanks, youngster.”I could hardly tell if I was on my head or my heels as I walked back. It had never occurred to me till now that I had done anything out of the common in fishing Miss Mamie out of her muddy bath. Indeed, I still felt I was getting credit I did not deserve, and blushed to myself. As to the invitation for to-morrow, that seemed to me a burst of glory quite past my present comprehension, and I resolved to treasure it as a secret in my own bosom until at least I had made sure it was not a dream.Before then, however, I had less pleasant work on hand. My comrades did not fail to remind me several times during the afternoon of my “promise,” as they called it, to distribute the Conversation Club circulars in Great Hall, and adjured me not to run it too fine. The consequence was that, at a quarter to five, I was convoyed, with the bundle of papers under my arm, to the door of the dining-hall, and gently shoved inside, with all retreat cut off until my task was done.Some of the servants who were laying the tables objected to my presence, but on my explaining I had been sent to do it, they allowed me without interruption to lay a copy of the precious document on each of the five hundred plates. I had barely concluded this arduous duty when the bell commenced to ring, and the fellows in twos and threes began to drop in. It was all I could do to affect unconsciousness, as from a modest retreat near the door I marked the effect of the announcement on Low Heath generally. At first there was a note of surprise; then, as one after another read on, a titter, and finally a general laugh, which was only checked by the entrance of the masters and the call to grace.I had—being a stranger to the place—distributed my favours among the masters quite as liberally as among the boys, and presently, with horror, perceived Dr England rise in his place with his copy in his hand.“Whew!” whistled Langrish, “there’s a row on, I fancy.”“Serve you right if there is,” said Trimble. “Why ever did you put them onthattable?”“How was I to know?” groaned I.“What boy,” said the doctor, when silence prevailed, “what boy has been putting this foolish paper round the hall?”Oh dear! How I wished I was safe at home!“Please, sir, I did,” said I, rising meekly in my place.“Your name?”“Jones iv., please, sir.”“Then come at once, Jones iv., and collect them again, every one, and write out two hundred lines. Let dinner proceed now.”If the object of the promoters of the Philosophical Conversation Club had been cheap advertisement, they must have been amply gratified. Hercules never performed any labour equal to mine that afternoon. The masters handed me up their copies gravely and reproachfully; but the Low Heathens generally made sport of my misery. Scarcely one in ten would part with his rare broadside, and those who did made it manifest that they had the contents by heart. The unfortunate “misprint” of my Christian name, moreover, was the occasion for much ribald comment.When, finally, I reached the quarters of my own particular comrades, I received more kicks than papers. They were unkind enough to say I had mulled the whole thing, and to promise me untold penalties when they got me in the privacy of the faggery.At last, when the pudding was almost vanishing, I sat down to my hard-earned meal. But it mattered little, for I could have eaten nothing.Be that as it may, the Philosophical Conversation Club was able to boast that afternoon that it had attracted the attention and interest of every member of the school, from the headmaster down to the junior fag. And few school clubs can boast as much as that!

I spent a bad quarter of an hour that evening before bed-time in inditing a letter of “explanation” to Crofter. I had come to the conclusion this would be easier and safer than a personal interview, and that the sooner it was done the better. How to do it was another problem. To write a letter in the raggery was out of the question. I tried it, but failed miserably. For either my paper was twitched away from under my pen, or some one looked over my shoulder and pretended to read expressions of endearment which were not there, or some one got under the table and heaved it about tempestuously to the detriment of my handwriting, or some one drew skeleton figures of spider-legged bipeds on the margin of the paper. Worse still, it was evident every word I wrote would be common property, which I did not desire. I had therefore to abandon the attempt till later on; when, finding myself in Pridgin’s study, I ventured to inquire if I might write there.

Pridgin was good enough to express admiration of my cheek, but said if I spread one newspaper over his carpet and another over his table-cloth to catch the blots, and didn’t ask him how to spell any word of less than four letters, or borrow a stamp, I might.

All which I faithfully undertook to do, and sat down to my delicate task. It took me a long time, considering the result, and I was by no means satisfied with the performance when it was done.

“Dear Crofter,” I wrote; but that seemed too familiar, whereas “Dear Sir” from one schoolfellow to another was too formal. So I attempted my explanation in the “oblique oration”:—

“Jones iv. is sorry he accidentally told Crofter he was a beast yesterday. He did not know it was him when he saw him, or he would not have told him what Tempest said about him, which was quite unintentional. He also must explain that what he said about his being expelled was in consequence of a dog’s death, about which there was a misunderstanding. He hopes Crofter will not tell him he told him, as he would be very angry with him.”

“Done?” said Pridgin, who, comfortably ensconced in his easy-chair with his feet upon the window-ledge, was reading a comic paper.

“Yes, thanks,” said I, half terrified lest he should demand to read my not too lucid epistle.

“All right. Go and tell Crofter I want him, will you? Look alive, and then cut to bed.”

Here was a blow! I had been at all this labour in order to avoid the painful necessity of an interview with Crofter, and here I was as badly off as ever.

“Can’t you hear?” said Pridgin as I hesitated.

“If you please, Pridgin,” said I, resolved to take the bull by the horns, “I’m awfully sorry, but I don’t want Crofter to catch me. The fact is—”

Pridgin’s good-humoured reply was to shy a book at me, which I was fortunate enough to miss, but which Tempest, who entered the study at the moment, caught fairly on his forehead.

“Hullo! Are you and the kid playing catch?” said he. “Sorry to disturb you, really; but my fag’s skulking somewhere, and I want to borrow yours to take a message to Crofter.”

“Was it a plot, or what? I had far better have written in the faggery after all.”

“That was exactly the subject about which the kid and I were playing catch just now,” said Pridgin. “I asked him to go to Crofter too.”

“What, has he been sending you abillet-doux?” said Tempest.

“Well, yes. He seems to be sore I didn’t ask him to tea yesterday, and says he’s afraid some one has been libelling him, though how he knew I had any one here last night I can’t imagine.”

“That’s funny,” said Tempest; “he writes to me to say he is sorry I should take the trouble to call him a beast in public. He understands a fellow’s right to his private opinion, he says, and would be sorry not to be allowed his about me, but he thinks it imprudent to shout it out for every one to hear. Just his style.”

“I was going to send him word to ask him to come in and make himself a cup of tea out of my pot, just to show there was no ill-feeling,” said Pridgin.

“And I was going to say that I hope he won’t trouble to think better of me in private then I think of him in public. Though for the life of me I can’t imagine what he refers to.”

“The fact is. Tempest,” said Pridgin, putting his feet up on the window-ledge again, “it’s just as well to be above board with Crofter. He’s a slippery customer, and if he knows what we think of him, and we know what he thinks of us, we shall get on much better.”

“If he’d only give a chap a chance of a row with him,” said Tempest; “but he won’t. The more down on him you are, the more affectionate he is, and the sweeter he smiles. Ugh!”

“But who on earth has been blabbing to him?” said Pridgin; “not Wales?”

“Wales?” said Tempest; “rather not. He’s not that sort.”

“I don’t think he is,” said Pridgin; “and yet, old man—the fact is—I—”

“You don’t fancy Wales, I know.”

“Hardly that. I don’t mind him; but he’s more of a pull over you than he has over me. I can’t be bothered with his fashions. It’s too much grind. But you aren’t lazy like me, and—well—you know he runs you into a lot of expense. That picnic last term, for instance. We could have had quite a jolly day for half the cost. Chicken and ham’s all very well, but cold boiled eggs are just as good for keeping a chap going.”

“But Wales can’t stand things not being—”

“Dear!” said Pridgin. “Don’t flare up, old chap. You’ve got your work cut out for you this term, and can’t afford to spend all your time paying bills, even if you had the tin.”

“All very well for you who’ve let me in for cocking the house,” said Tempest, with a laugh. “Anyhow, you’ve a right to talk to me like a father. All the same, I fancy you’ve a little downer on old Wales. He’s a good sort of chap, and there’s nothing of the eel about him.”

“Which brings us back to Crofter,” said Pridgin. “Some one has told him that he’s not popular in this study, and he doesn’t like it. I wonder who our candid friend is.”

“It was me,” said I, coming out at last with my pent-up confession. “I’m awfully sorry, Tempest. It was this—”

“Take a seat,” said Tempest, putting me off in the identical way that Crofter had done yesterday. But I was not to be put off; I took a seat and continued—

“I met him and didn’t know who he was, and I mentioned that I’d come from here, and that a tea was going on, and that Crofter was out of it, and the reason was because Tempest thought him a beast. And—I’m awfully sorry, Tempest—I let out to him that we’d been expelled from Dangerfield, and I’d not the least idea it was him.”

“He,” suggested Pridgin.

“He; and I’ve just been writing to him to explain.”

“Rather a tough job, eh?” said Tempest.

“You may see the letter,” said I.

The two seniors read it with a gravity which scarcely seemed genuine.

“I think it may pass,” said Tempest, coming out at last with a laugh. “There are only about twelve ‘he’s’ and ‘him’s’ in it, and as it will be absolutely unintelligible it can’t possibly do harm.”

“If Crofter has the least sense of literary taste, he will frame it,” said Pridgin. “I trust no dogs’ deaths will occur here.”

My confusion was tempered by the relief I felt that they took my indiscretion in such good part, and saw only—what I failed to see myself—the humorous side of the incident.

I begged hard to be allowed to tear up my letter, but this they would by no means allow. On the contrary, I was compelled to address it and stamp it then and there, and place it in the post-box in the hall. Then, with compliments and good wishes, I was dismissed to bed, and left the two friends talking school politics.

I felt a good deal more humbled by the manner in which they had received my confession than if they had, as I had expected, roundly abused me. To be let down easy, as if I was barely responsible for my actions, was not conducive to my vanity; and if that was the object they had in view, it was amply attained. I went to bed on my second night at Low Heath with as little vanity in me as I could decently do with; and even that, as I lay awake for an hour or two, oozed away, and did not return till in a happy moment I fell asleep, and once more, and for a few unconscious hours, became a hero to myself.

The next morning I tumbled out of bed at the call of the bell in no very light-hearted way. First of all, Crofter would receive my letter; secondly, I had still got Redwood’s belt; thirdly, I had not done my preparation; and fourthly, I felt concerned about Tempest and his alliance with the expensive Wales. Strangely enough, this last trouble weighed on me most as I dressed.

Tempest, I knew, was not well off. But he was proud, and not the sort of fellow to shirk a thing on account of the cost. I could remember at Dangerfield his spending all his money at the beginning of the term on an absurdly expensive cricket bag, and having to go without spikes in his shoes because he could not afford a set. At Low Heath, where seniors were allowed to run up bills in certain shops, I was certain his ignorance about money matters, added to the friendly encouragements of an exquisite like Wales, would make it all the worse for him. Why, evenIknew more about money than he did, and could reckon that if I brought thirteen shillings up at the beginning of the term, I should have just a shilling a week to bless myself with till break-up. Whereas he, I verily believe, would consider that he had thirteen shillings a week. And the worst of it was he would never let any one know how hard up he was, or tolerate any remarks, except from a privileged chum like Pridgin, on the subject.

As I joined my comrades in the faggery, in the fond hope of snatching a precious quarter of an hour for my neglected studies, I found great excitement and jubilation afoot. The printer had sent home the handbills of the Conversation Club.

“That ought to do our business,” said Langrish, flourishing one of the documents in my face.

I took it, and read it with mingled pride and concern. It ran as follows:—

Under the distinguished Patronage of the Nobility and Gentry of Low Heath:

A Philosophical Conversation Clubhas been started for conversation on Philosophy, Picnics, and Cross-country Runs. Meetings weekly; to be announced. Subscription: Two shillings in advance; every member to find himself. No town-boys or masters eligible. “Come in your hundreds!!! No questions asked. Evening dress or flannels. The Inaugural Picnic next week. Particulars on receipt of subscription. No connection with any other so-called club in Low Heath! For further particulars apply to the following:

Sarah Jones, Esquire, Pr.Ph.C.C, President.Ted Langrish, Esquire, S.Ph.C.C, Secretary.Wilfred Trimble, Esquire, T.Ph.C.C, Treasurer.Jos. Warminster, Esquire, L.Ph.C.C, Librarian.Tom Coxhead, Esquire, A.Ph.C.C, Auditor.Michael Purkis, Esquire, R.Ph.C.C, Registrar.

Sarah Jones, Esquire, Pr.Ph.C.C, President.Ted Langrish, Esquire, S.Ph.C.C, Secretary.Wilfred Trimble, Esquire, T.Ph.C.C, Treasurer.Jos. Warminster, Esquire, L.Ph.C.C, Librarian.Tom Coxhead, Esquire, A.Ph.C.C, Auditor.Michael Purkis, Esquire, R.Ph.C.C, Registrar.

P.S.—As the membership is strictly limited to 500, early application is advised. No eligible cash offer refused! Our motto is “Mens sano in corpore sanae.”

I naturally bridled up at the record of my own name.

“Look here,” said I; “you’ve stuck it down wrong again.”

“Awfully sorry,” said Langrish; “the printer chaps made a little slip over the Christian name, but all the rest seems right. It’s wonderful how sharp they are, isn’t it?”

“But you’re going to have it corrected, surely?” said I.

“Why, it would cost a frightful lot!” protested the company. “We might alter it in ink, but that would only call attention to it. Bless you, no one will notice it. They’ll put it down to a printer’s error.”

I was by no means satisfied, but their delight at the whole performance was so unbounded that it was impossible to be as angry as I felt.

“It’ll draw, and no mistake,” said Trimble, who had evidently never seen his name in print before. “Jolly well drawn up of you, Lang.”

“Oh,” said Langrish modestly, “when you know what you want to say, it’s easy enough to stick it down.”

“That’s why you stuck down ‘Sarah,’ I suppose,” said I, rather crossly.

“I never knew such a kid as you,” retorted Langrish; “you seem to fancy nobody can think of anything but you and your washerwoman.”

The conversation was drifting on to dangerous ground, and Warminster promptly changed the subject.

“The thing now will be to put the papers about. I vote we each take a batch and give them round.”

“We might shove them under the fellows’ doors,” said Coxhead.

“The best way will be to do it in Big Hall,” said the more practical Purkis. “One or two of us can easily get in ten minutes early, and stick one on every chap’s place.”

“But suppose you stick one on a day boy’s place?” I suggested.

“What’s the odds? the paper tells him he’s out of it,” replied Purkis.

It occurred to me that this would not cheer the day boy very much; still, on the whole, Purkis’s suggestion seemed the best.

“I tell you what,” said Langrish, “I beg to move and second that the President be authorised to stick round the papers.”

“I third and fourth that,” said Trimble.

“Carried unanimously,” said Langrish.

“Look here, one of you had better do it,” said I, feeling a little alarmed at this imposing honour; “you know the way better.”

“That’s where you’ve the pull,” said Purkis; “you’re a new kid, they won’t interfere with you. Big Hall’s at five, and you can easily slide in at a quarter to, and do the trick. Hullo, there’s bell.”

School that morning went uncomfortably for me. I escaped being “lagged” for my neglect of preparation, chiefly owing to the friendly prompting I received from Dicky Brown. But it was a time of anxiety and trepidation, and my nerves were somewhat strained before it was over.

The shock of the day, however, awaited me as I got outside on my way to the fields.

A small youth of my own size accosted me.

“I say, are you the new chap?”

“What new chap?”

“The new chap that Redwood told to fetch his belt.”

“Yes,” said I, turning a little pale.

“All right. You’ve got to go to him, sharp.”

“I tried to give it him back yesterday, really I did; but I was stopped,” said I. “Do you think I’ll get in a row?”

“I wouldn’t be in your shoes, that’s all I know,” remarked the messenger brutally. “It’ll be all the worse if you don’t cut.”

“Where is he?”

“In the captain’s room at the School House.”

I went off with my heart in my boots. And I had hoped so much to show up well to Redwood! It was all Jarman’s fault, and I wrote down yet another grudge against him in my mental book.

The captain was alone, and evidently expecting me, as he rose and came to meet me when I appeared.

“Here you are, then, youngster,” said he, in a tone which, if it meant a licking, was a very deceptive one.

“I’m very sorry,” said I; “I tried to bring the belt round yesterday evening, but—”

“Hang the belt!” said the captain. “That’s not what I want you for. Why didn’t you tell me what happened at home yesterday afternoon?”

Then it was another row altogether I was in for! What, I wondered, had I done! Surely he didn’t suspect me of having pushed his young sister into the water?

“I didn’t like, while the match was on. I didn’t know Mamie had tumbled in, or I would have stopped her.”

“But you fished her out?” he asked.

“I told Annie to take her and dry her,” said I, wondering where the blow was going to fall. “You see, she went upstairs for the belt, and it was when she had gone it happened. I don’t think it was her fault.”

To my amazement Redwood laughed and clapped me on the back.

“You young donkey, don’t you know you saved Mamie’s life, and I want to say ‘Thank you,’ to you?”

This unexpecteddénouementalarmed me almost as much as my previous misgivings.

“Oh no, really I didn’t,” said I; “she was close to the edge.”

“Another inch or two and she would have been in six feet of water,” said he. Then, with a friendly laugh, he added—

“You may not have meant to save her life; but you did, and must take the consequences. My mother wants you to come to tea to-morrow. Call here for me after evening chapel, and we’ll go together. Good-bye now, and thanks, youngster.”

I could hardly tell if I was on my head or my heels as I walked back. It had never occurred to me till now that I had done anything out of the common in fishing Miss Mamie out of her muddy bath. Indeed, I still felt I was getting credit I did not deserve, and blushed to myself. As to the invitation for to-morrow, that seemed to me a burst of glory quite past my present comprehension, and I resolved to treasure it as a secret in my own bosom until at least I had made sure it was not a dream.

Before then, however, I had less pleasant work on hand. My comrades did not fail to remind me several times during the afternoon of my “promise,” as they called it, to distribute the Conversation Club circulars in Great Hall, and adjured me not to run it too fine. The consequence was that, at a quarter to five, I was convoyed, with the bundle of papers under my arm, to the door of the dining-hall, and gently shoved inside, with all retreat cut off until my task was done.

Some of the servants who were laying the tables objected to my presence, but on my explaining I had been sent to do it, they allowed me without interruption to lay a copy of the precious document on each of the five hundred plates. I had barely concluded this arduous duty when the bell commenced to ring, and the fellows in twos and threes began to drop in. It was all I could do to affect unconsciousness, as from a modest retreat near the door I marked the effect of the announcement on Low Heath generally. At first there was a note of surprise; then, as one after another read on, a titter, and finally a general laugh, which was only checked by the entrance of the masters and the call to grace.

I had—being a stranger to the place—distributed my favours among the masters quite as liberally as among the boys, and presently, with horror, perceived Dr England rise in his place with his copy in his hand.

“Whew!” whistled Langrish, “there’s a row on, I fancy.”

“Serve you right if there is,” said Trimble. “Why ever did you put them onthattable?”

“How was I to know?” groaned I.

“What boy,” said the doctor, when silence prevailed, “what boy has been putting this foolish paper round the hall?”

Oh dear! How I wished I was safe at home!

“Please, sir, I did,” said I, rising meekly in my place.

“Your name?”

“Jones iv., please, sir.”

“Then come at once, Jones iv., and collect them again, every one, and write out two hundred lines. Let dinner proceed now.”

If the object of the promoters of the Philosophical Conversation Club had been cheap advertisement, they must have been amply gratified. Hercules never performed any labour equal to mine that afternoon. The masters handed me up their copies gravely and reproachfully; but the Low Heathens generally made sport of my misery. Scarcely one in ten would part with his rare broadside, and those who did made it manifest that they had the contents by heart. The unfortunate “misprint” of my Christian name, moreover, was the occasion for much ribald comment.

When, finally, I reached the quarters of my own particular comrades, I received more kicks than papers. They were unkind enough to say I had mulled the whole thing, and to promise me untold penalties when they got me in the privacy of the faggery.

At last, when the pudding was almost vanishing, I sat down to my hard-earned meal. But it mattered little, for I could have eaten nothing.

Be that as it may, the Philosophical Conversation Club was able to boast that afternoon that it had attracted the attention and interest of every member of the school, from the headmaster down to the junior fag. And few school clubs can boast as much as that!

Chapter Twelve.A Committee of Ways and Means.“Where are you going?” demanded the faggery next afternoon, as I tried to desert them after afternoon chapel. “To take up your lines to England?”I should have preferred that they had not asked me the question, but having asked it I felt bound to answer.“No; I’m going to tea at a fellow’s.”“Who? The washerwoman’s?”“No; to Redwood’s.”I tried to pronounce the name with the unconcern of a man who is in daily communion with heroes, but I fear I betrayed my emotion. At least, their laughter made me think so.I was instantly greeted with all sorts of mock salutations and obeisances, and, whether I liked it or not, rushed off to the faggery to be tidied up. It was in vain I struggled, and explained that Redwood was waiting for me. They would not be put off.“You must wash your face for the credit of the Ph.C.C,” said Langrish.“And put on a clean shirt for the credit of your wash—”Here by a frantic effort I broke loose and made off, followed by the pack in full cry, with shouts of—“Stop thief!”“Welsher?”“Clear the course!” “Hurry up for tea there!” and other exclamations of a similar nature.It was not certainly a very dignified way of accepting a friend’s invitation; still, it would have been worse had I remained in their clutches.As it was, I only just made the schoolhouse door before Warminster and Coxhead were up to me, and presented myself to my host painfully out of breath and red in the face.“Been having a trot over?” said he, with a nod.“Yes, a little,” I gasped.“I’m ready; come along.”My heart sunk within me, as, on reaching the door, I saw my five comrades, all apparently by accident, hovering round to see me go out. They did their best, and very successfully too, to stare me out of countenance, and encourage my blushes by allusions to “Sarah” and my tin sleeve-links, and the smudges on my face, and by cries of “shrimps” and “muffins,” and other awkward allusions.Redwood, as became the cock of the school, affected not to hear their ribald remarks, though he must have caught a word or two, and inquired,—“Been playing football since you came?”“No, not yet,” said I, painfully aware that Trimble and Langrish were walking behind us critically; “that is, yes, a little.”I was glad when we reached the big gates, and were able to shake off the enemy, who continued audible comments till I was out of earshot, and finally went off on some new quest.At Number 3, Bridge Street, I found myself, much to my discomfort, quite a hero. Mrs Redwood, a gentle-looking lady, kissed me effusively, so did little Miss Gwen, who having once begun could scarcely be prevailed upon to leave off. The servants smiled approvingly, as did a lady visitor, who shook me by the hand. The only person who did not appear to rejoice to see me was the heroine of the occasion, Miss Mamie, who declined altogether to kiss me, and added I was a naughty big boy to spoil her nice sash, and ought to be sent to bed.To her mother’s protests and brother’s encouragement she was quite obdurate. No; she hated me, she said, for spoiling her nice sash, and wild horses would not draw from her a contrary declaration.After which we were summoned to tea, and I was consoled for this base ingratitude by plum jam and “sally-lunn” and sultana cake and other delicacies, which only a schoolboy, well on in the term, knows how fully to appreciate.The talk was limited; first because I made it a rule not to talk with my mouth full, and secondly, because, had that difficulty been removed, I had nothing to say. Redwood, fine fellow that he was, did not try to pump me, and the ladies, who kept up most of the talk, most conveniently worded their observations in such a form as not to call for a reply.After tea, however, I did find myself talking to Mrs Redwood about my mother, and presently to Redwood about Dangerfield and my previous acquaintance with Tempest and Brown.“Brown iii. is a town-boy,” said the captain. “I wish we’d had him in. Is he a member of your wonderful club, by the way?”I blushed. Of course Redwood had seen that fatal document yesterday!“Ah—well, you know, that is only for chaps in the school.”“Rather rough on us town-boys,” said Redwood, with a laugh.“I’m sure they’d be delighted to have you,” said I.“Ah, well, our fellows have a club of their own,” said he, “although they don’t talk philosophy. By the way, is your Christian name correctly printed?” asked he.“Oh, no,” said I; “that was Languish’s fault. He says it was a printer’s error, but I’m sure he did it on purpose.”“It helps to call attention to the club,” said the captain, laughing. “Your lot seems to be fond of its little joke, to judge by the specimens that came to see us off just now.”“I’m awfully sorry,” said I; “they do fool about so—I say, I hope you aren’t in a wax about it.”He certainly did not look it.I went up with him to his den, and we had quite a long talk, and somehow without seeming to mean it, he managed to knock a great deal of nonsense out of my head, and incite me to put my back into the work of the term.“I suppose,” said he, “you mean to back up Tempest now he’s cock of Sharpe’s? You kids can make it pretty hot in a house if you choose.”“Oh, we’re all backing up Tempest,” said I, “especially now he’s got his colours.”“All serene,” said the captain; “he’ll pull through well, then.”I stayed till it was time for Redwood to go over to the school for a committee of the Sports Club. I did not leave Number 3 without a standing invitation to come in whenever I liked, or without painful apologies for the contumacy of Mamie.Redwood and I had just reached the bridge when some one confronted us whom I recognised at once as Mr Jarman.“Ah, Redwood, you’ve a meeting on. Who’s this boy? Ah, I remember—Jones iv. What did I say to you yesterday, Jones?”“Jones has been to tea at my house,” said the captain, with a flush, and looking less amiable than I had yet seen him.“It’s after hours,” said Mr Jarman, coolly. “I cautioned him yesterday. A hundred lines, Jones iv., by to-morrow evening.”“It’s not his fault,” said Redwood; “I gave him leave, sir.”“We need not discuss this, Redwood,” said Mr Jarman, and walked away.I felt quite sufficiently avenged when I saw the captain’s face. He strode on some distance in silence, and then said,—“I’m sorry, youngster. It can’t be helped, though. Jarman’s strictly in the right, though it’s sharp practice. You’d better cut in now. Good night.”“Good night,” said I, making off. But he called me back.“You’d better do the doctor’s lines to-night. Leave Jarman’s till the morning.”“All right.”And I departed, not a little impressed with the incident.The captain had disappointed me a little. I should have liked to see him knock Jarman down, or at least openly defy him; whereas he seemed to back him up, although much against his will. The net result to me was that I had three hundred lines to write on my third day at school, and that, for a well-meaning youth, was tribulation enough.I took Redwood’s advice and wrote the doctor’s lines that evening, trusting to a chance next forenoon of satisfying the demands of Mr Jarman. To their credit be it said, some of the faggery helped me out with my task, and as we all wrote in the same style of penmanship, namely, a back-handed slope spread out very wide to cover as much ground as possible, it was very difficult when all was done to believe that the performance was a co-operative one.Before going to bed I told Tempest of my adventure, and had the satisfaction of receiving his complete sympathy.“That’s the worst of Redwood—he’ll let it all slide. I wish I’d been with you when it happened. There’d have been a row. There will some day, too.”All which was very consoling to me and helped me to sleep soundly.But the surprise of surprises happened next morning when I encountered the captain’s fag at the door before breakfast with a letter in his hand.“Here you are,” said he, thrusting the document on me. “I don’t see why you can’t come and fetch your own things instead of me having to run after you.”“You can walk,” said I, “I suppose.”I meant to be conciliatory, but he was highly offended and began to kick, and it took some little time to pacify him and induce him to return to the bosom of his house.When he had gone, I opened the envelope with some little curiosity. What was my astonishment when I found it enclosed one hundred lines written out in a bold clear hand, which it was easy to guess was that of the captain himself!There was no letter or message; but the explanation was clear enough. Redwood having got me into my row, had, like a gentleman, paid the penalty; and as I realised this I could have kicked myself for the unworthy thoughts I had indulged about him.I only wished Jarman, to whom in due time I handed the precious document, could have known its history.He evidently gave me credit for being an excellent writer, and perhaps for having an unusual acquaintance, for a boy of my age, with the works of the Immortal Bard. For Redwood had grimly selected the following passage to write out over and over again for the police-master’s benefit: “It is excellent to have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant.”I fear the satire was lost on its victim, and that he meekly concluded I had selected the passage because it happened to be in my lesson for the day, and was probably the first to come to hand.Tempest laughed when I told him.“It’s all very well,” said he, “but it’s encouraging the enemy. Redwood’s a dear old chap, but he’s too much of an anything-for-a-quiet-life fellow for captain. By the way, has Crofter replied to your polite letter?”“No,” said I, “not a word, and I haven’t seen him.”“Well, take my advice, kid. If he wants to kick you, consider yourself lucky. If he’s extra civil, cut him like mischief. Some day you may thank me for the tip.”It seemed queer advice at the time, but I had occasion to call it to mind later on, as the reader will discover.By the end of my first week I was pretty well domesticated at Low Heath. My chief regret was that I saw so little of Dicky Brown; and when we did meet the only thing we had in common was our lessons, which were not always congenial topics of conversation.Dicky was fully imbued with the superiority of the town-boy over the house boy, and irritated me sometimes by his repeated regret that I was not eligible for the junior Urbans.“What do you do?” I inquired.“Oh, hosts of things. We go in for geology, and part songs, and antiquities, and all that sort of thing; and have excursions—at least, we’re going to have one soon—to look for remains.”“Ah! it’s a pity you couldn’t come to our picnic next week. It’s to be no end of a spree.”“Oh, we’ve heard all about that,” said Dicky, with a grin. “Mens sano in corpore sanae—you should hear some of our chaps yell about that.”“I’m sure it’s not a bad motto,” ventured I.“I don’t know about that. But it’s not the motto, it’s the grammar.”I wasn’t quite pleased with Dicky for this. It seemed as if he thought he knew more than other people, which I held to be a reprehensible failing in any one—particularly a day boy. I flattered myself that, as an exhibitioner, he had hardly the right to talk to me about grammar. But it was Dicky’s way, and I knew he couldn’t help it.For all that, I referred to the subject in the faggery that evening. My comrades were in high glee. Half a dozen subscriptions had come in, with requests to be allowed to join the picnic, and a considerable number of others had asked to be allowed at half price or on the deferred payment system.“It’s going like anything, Sarah,” said Langrish, thumping me violently on the back.“Where’s the picnic to be?” I inquired.“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said the secretary.I said I would, and, as president, considered I was entitled to the information.“We’re not as green as we look; are we, you chaps?” said Trimble. “Why, you don’t suppose we’re going to let out and give you a chance of blabbing to the day-boy cads, do you?”“I’m not any more likely to blab than you are,” said I, warmly.“All serene. You keep your temper—you’ll know time enough.”“Suppose I resigned,” said I, feeling I must support my dignity.“Resign away. We’ve got your subscription.”“I don’t mean I shall,” said I; “but—”“Shut up, and don’t disturb the committee meeting.”“If I’m president, I suppose I’ve a right to speak.”“Not till you’re asked.”“All right,” said I, playing my trump card desperately. “When you do ask me what’s wrong with the grammar of your Latin motto, I sha’n’t tell you. Ha, ha!—corpore sanae. You should hear the fellows yell.”The effect of this announcement was electrical, Langrish turned white, and Trimble turned red. The others bit their nails in silence. It was a season of delicious triumph to me. I was master of the situation for once, and resolved to remain so as long as possible.“Why, what’s wrong with it?” said Warminster, presently.“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said I.“Corpore’sfeminine, isn’t it?” asked Coxhead.“Common gender, I fancy,” said Purkis; “depends on who the chap is.”“You mean if it was Sarah it would be feminine, and if it was one of us it would be masculine,” said Langrish.This was a nasty one for me, but I held my ground.“You’d better look it up in the dictionary,” said I.This was diplomatic; for although I knew the motto was wrong I could not quite say what it should have been.After much labour it was decided thatcorporewas neuter, and that the adjective in consequence must besanum.A resolution to that effect was proposed and seconded, but an amendment to the effect that as the document had gone out in the name of the president and every one knew it was his work, it was no business of the present company to help him out of the mess, was carried by a large majority.With which delightful solution of the difficulty—delightful to every one but myself—we proceeded to the order of the day, which was to arrange the details of our picnic next half-holiday.My colleagues remained obdurate on the question of revealing the place.“If the day fellows get wind of it they’ll be sure to try to do us,” was the unfailing reply.“Why shouldn’tIknow as well as you?” demanded I.Whereupon it was explained that nobody knew where the place was to be yet—nor indeed was he likely to know till the morning of the day, when lots would be drawn.Every member of the council would then be permitted to write the name of a place on a piece of paper, which would be shuffled in a hat and drawn for—the last paper drawn to be the place. I could not help admiring the elaborateness of the precautions, which had only this drawback, as far as I was concerned, that I did not yet know one place from another.I casually asked Dicky one day if he knew any of the places round.“What for, picnics and that sort of thing?” he demanded.“Well—that sort of thing,” said I, anxious not to betray my object too precisely.“I don’t know. I heard some chaps talking about Camp Hill Bottom—where the battle was, you know.”I did not know, but it sounded a likely place, and I made a mental note of it for the eventful day.Meanwhile there was much to be decided. First, as to the applicants for admission on reduced terms, it was agreed if these brought their fair share of provender, and in consideration of their being taken on the cheap would undertake to row or tow the boats up stream, they might come. Then as to the bill of fare, it was resolved that no one should be allowed to take more than he could carry in his pockets—great-coat pockets not to be used.Then as to the programme; this was drawn up with a view to combine entertainment and instruction in even quantities. For the entertainment was set down the President’s “Inorgural”—the spelling was Langrish’s—address, a part song of the committee, and a public open-air debate or conservation on “Beauty.” The credit of the last suggestion really belonged to Tempest, whom I unofficially consulted as to some good subjects for philosophical discussion. For the instructive part of the day’s proceedings there was to be the dinner, a boat race, a tug of war, and, if funds permitted, a display of fireworks.What concerned me chiefly in the arrangements was that I, as president, was held responsible for everything of a difficult or hazardous nature. For instance, I was sent down to select the two boats, and drive a bargain for their hire. Then again, when, owing to the prompt payment of two or three of the “paupers” (as the applicants for reduced terms were politely styled) rather than submit to the terms imposed, it was discovered that half-a-crown of the club funds remained unused, it was I who was sent into Low Heath to buy squibs and Roman candles; and it was I who was appointed to take charge of the explosives in my hat-box under my bed till the time arrived for letting them off.I began to be anxious about my numerous responsibilities (to which, by the way, was added that of replying in the negative on the question of Beauty), for every day something fresh was put on my shoulders, and every day I found my school work falling into arrears.Tempest and Pridgin both mildly hinted to me that I didn’t seem to be knocking myself up with work, and succeeded in making me uncomfortable on that score. What concerned me still more was to find that Dicky Brown, although not an exhibitioner, kept steadily above me in class, and put me under frequent obligations by helping me out of difficulties.Never mind, thought I, it will soon be all right—when once the Conversation Club picnic is over.The morning of the eventful day dawned at last; fair on the whole, but not brilliant. The faggery was astir early, and before breakfast the solemn ceremony of drawing lots for the scene of our revels took place. I faithfully set down Camp Hill Bottom on my paper and committed it to the hat.Tempest, who chanced to look in with an order for his fag, was requested as a favour to officiate as drawer, which he good-naturedly did. It was anxious work while he pulled out the first five papers and tossed them unopened into the fireplace. Then he drew the sixth and opened it.“Camp Hill Botton,” he read.Every one seemed pleased, first, because every one had written it on his paper, and secondly, because it was the only really good place for a river picnic.“There’s one comfort about it,” said Tempest, as we thanked him for his services, “we shall have a little quiet in this house for an hour or two. Take care of yourselves. Good-bye.”

“Where are you going?” demanded the faggery next afternoon, as I tried to desert them after afternoon chapel. “To take up your lines to England?”

I should have preferred that they had not asked me the question, but having asked it I felt bound to answer.

“No; I’m going to tea at a fellow’s.”

“Who? The washerwoman’s?”

“No; to Redwood’s.”

I tried to pronounce the name with the unconcern of a man who is in daily communion with heroes, but I fear I betrayed my emotion. At least, their laughter made me think so.

I was instantly greeted with all sorts of mock salutations and obeisances, and, whether I liked it or not, rushed off to the faggery to be tidied up. It was in vain I struggled, and explained that Redwood was waiting for me. They would not be put off.

“You must wash your face for the credit of the Ph.C.C,” said Langrish.

“And put on a clean shirt for the credit of your wash—”

Here by a frantic effort I broke loose and made off, followed by the pack in full cry, with shouts of—

“Stop thief!”

“Welsher?”

“Clear the course!” “Hurry up for tea there!” and other exclamations of a similar nature.

It was not certainly a very dignified way of accepting a friend’s invitation; still, it would have been worse had I remained in their clutches.

As it was, I only just made the schoolhouse door before Warminster and Coxhead were up to me, and presented myself to my host painfully out of breath and red in the face.

“Been having a trot over?” said he, with a nod.

“Yes, a little,” I gasped.

“I’m ready; come along.”

My heart sunk within me, as, on reaching the door, I saw my five comrades, all apparently by accident, hovering round to see me go out. They did their best, and very successfully too, to stare me out of countenance, and encourage my blushes by allusions to “Sarah” and my tin sleeve-links, and the smudges on my face, and by cries of “shrimps” and “muffins,” and other awkward allusions.

Redwood, as became the cock of the school, affected not to hear their ribald remarks, though he must have caught a word or two, and inquired,—

“Been playing football since you came?”

“No, not yet,” said I, painfully aware that Trimble and Langrish were walking behind us critically; “that is, yes, a little.”

I was glad when we reached the big gates, and were able to shake off the enemy, who continued audible comments till I was out of earshot, and finally went off on some new quest.

At Number 3, Bridge Street, I found myself, much to my discomfort, quite a hero. Mrs Redwood, a gentle-looking lady, kissed me effusively, so did little Miss Gwen, who having once begun could scarcely be prevailed upon to leave off. The servants smiled approvingly, as did a lady visitor, who shook me by the hand. The only person who did not appear to rejoice to see me was the heroine of the occasion, Miss Mamie, who declined altogether to kiss me, and added I was a naughty big boy to spoil her nice sash, and ought to be sent to bed.

To her mother’s protests and brother’s encouragement she was quite obdurate. No; she hated me, she said, for spoiling her nice sash, and wild horses would not draw from her a contrary declaration.

After which we were summoned to tea, and I was consoled for this base ingratitude by plum jam and “sally-lunn” and sultana cake and other delicacies, which only a schoolboy, well on in the term, knows how fully to appreciate.

The talk was limited; first because I made it a rule not to talk with my mouth full, and secondly, because, had that difficulty been removed, I had nothing to say. Redwood, fine fellow that he was, did not try to pump me, and the ladies, who kept up most of the talk, most conveniently worded their observations in such a form as not to call for a reply.

After tea, however, I did find myself talking to Mrs Redwood about my mother, and presently to Redwood about Dangerfield and my previous acquaintance with Tempest and Brown.

“Brown iii. is a town-boy,” said the captain. “I wish we’d had him in. Is he a member of your wonderful club, by the way?”

I blushed. Of course Redwood had seen that fatal document yesterday!

“Ah—well, you know, that is only for chaps in the school.”

“Rather rough on us town-boys,” said Redwood, with a laugh.

“I’m sure they’d be delighted to have you,” said I.

“Ah, well, our fellows have a club of their own,” said he, “although they don’t talk philosophy. By the way, is your Christian name correctly printed?” asked he.

“Oh, no,” said I; “that was Languish’s fault. He says it was a printer’s error, but I’m sure he did it on purpose.”

“It helps to call attention to the club,” said the captain, laughing. “Your lot seems to be fond of its little joke, to judge by the specimens that came to see us off just now.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said I; “they do fool about so—I say, I hope you aren’t in a wax about it.”

He certainly did not look it.

I went up with him to his den, and we had quite a long talk, and somehow without seeming to mean it, he managed to knock a great deal of nonsense out of my head, and incite me to put my back into the work of the term.

“I suppose,” said he, “you mean to back up Tempest now he’s cock of Sharpe’s? You kids can make it pretty hot in a house if you choose.”

“Oh, we’re all backing up Tempest,” said I, “especially now he’s got his colours.”

“All serene,” said the captain; “he’ll pull through well, then.”

I stayed till it was time for Redwood to go over to the school for a committee of the Sports Club. I did not leave Number 3 without a standing invitation to come in whenever I liked, or without painful apologies for the contumacy of Mamie.

Redwood and I had just reached the bridge when some one confronted us whom I recognised at once as Mr Jarman.

“Ah, Redwood, you’ve a meeting on. Who’s this boy? Ah, I remember—Jones iv. What did I say to you yesterday, Jones?”

“Jones has been to tea at my house,” said the captain, with a flush, and looking less amiable than I had yet seen him.

“It’s after hours,” said Mr Jarman, coolly. “I cautioned him yesterday. A hundred lines, Jones iv., by to-morrow evening.”

“It’s not his fault,” said Redwood; “I gave him leave, sir.”

“We need not discuss this, Redwood,” said Mr Jarman, and walked away.

I felt quite sufficiently avenged when I saw the captain’s face. He strode on some distance in silence, and then said,—

“I’m sorry, youngster. It can’t be helped, though. Jarman’s strictly in the right, though it’s sharp practice. You’d better cut in now. Good night.”

“Good night,” said I, making off. But he called me back.

“You’d better do the doctor’s lines to-night. Leave Jarman’s till the morning.”

“All right.”

And I departed, not a little impressed with the incident.

The captain had disappointed me a little. I should have liked to see him knock Jarman down, or at least openly defy him; whereas he seemed to back him up, although much against his will. The net result to me was that I had three hundred lines to write on my third day at school, and that, for a well-meaning youth, was tribulation enough.

I took Redwood’s advice and wrote the doctor’s lines that evening, trusting to a chance next forenoon of satisfying the demands of Mr Jarman. To their credit be it said, some of the faggery helped me out with my task, and as we all wrote in the same style of penmanship, namely, a back-handed slope spread out very wide to cover as much ground as possible, it was very difficult when all was done to believe that the performance was a co-operative one.

Before going to bed I told Tempest of my adventure, and had the satisfaction of receiving his complete sympathy.

“That’s the worst of Redwood—he’ll let it all slide. I wish I’d been with you when it happened. There’d have been a row. There will some day, too.”

All which was very consoling to me and helped me to sleep soundly.

But the surprise of surprises happened next morning when I encountered the captain’s fag at the door before breakfast with a letter in his hand.

“Here you are,” said he, thrusting the document on me. “I don’t see why you can’t come and fetch your own things instead of me having to run after you.”

“You can walk,” said I, “I suppose.”

I meant to be conciliatory, but he was highly offended and began to kick, and it took some little time to pacify him and induce him to return to the bosom of his house.

When he had gone, I opened the envelope with some little curiosity. What was my astonishment when I found it enclosed one hundred lines written out in a bold clear hand, which it was easy to guess was that of the captain himself!

There was no letter or message; but the explanation was clear enough. Redwood having got me into my row, had, like a gentleman, paid the penalty; and as I realised this I could have kicked myself for the unworthy thoughts I had indulged about him.

I only wished Jarman, to whom in due time I handed the precious document, could have known its history.

He evidently gave me credit for being an excellent writer, and perhaps for having an unusual acquaintance, for a boy of my age, with the works of the Immortal Bard. For Redwood had grimly selected the following passage to write out over and over again for the police-master’s benefit: “It is excellent to have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant.”

I fear the satire was lost on its victim, and that he meekly concluded I had selected the passage because it happened to be in my lesson for the day, and was probably the first to come to hand.

Tempest laughed when I told him.

“It’s all very well,” said he, “but it’s encouraging the enemy. Redwood’s a dear old chap, but he’s too much of an anything-for-a-quiet-life fellow for captain. By the way, has Crofter replied to your polite letter?”

“No,” said I, “not a word, and I haven’t seen him.”

“Well, take my advice, kid. If he wants to kick you, consider yourself lucky. If he’s extra civil, cut him like mischief. Some day you may thank me for the tip.”

It seemed queer advice at the time, but I had occasion to call it to mind later on, as the reader will discover.

By the end of my first week I was pretty well domesticated at Low Heath. My chief regret was that I saw so little of Dicky Brown; and when we did meet the only thing we had in common was our lessons, which were not always congenial topics of conversation.

Dicky was fully imbued with the superiority of the town-boy over the house boy, and irritated me sometimes by his repeated regret that I was not eligible for the junior Urbans.

“What do you do?” I inquired.

“Oh, hosts of things. We go in for geology, and part songs, and antiquities, and all that sort of thing; and have excursions—at least, we’re going to have one soon—to look for remains.”

“Ah! it’s a pity you couldn’t come to our picnic next week. It’s to be no end of a spree.”

“Oh, we’ve heard all about that,” said Dicky, with a grin. “Mens sano in corpore sanae—you should hear some of our chaps yell about that.”

“I’m sure it’s not a bad motto,” ventured I.

“I don’t know about that. But it’s not the motto, it’s the grammar.”

I wasn’t quite pleased with Dicky for this. It seemed as if he thought he knew more than other people, which I held to be a reprehensible failing in any one—particularly a day boy. I flattered myself that, as an exhibitioner, he had hardly the right to talk to me about grammar. But it was Dicky’s way, and I knew he couldn’t help it.

For all that, I referred to the subject in the faggery that evening. My comrades were in high glee. Half a dozen subscriptions had come in, with requests to be allowed to join the picnic, and a considerable number of others had asked to be allowed at half price or on the deferred payment system.

“It’s going like anything, Sarah,” said Langrish, thumping me violently on the back.

“Where’s the picnic to be?” I inquired.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said the secretary.

I said I would, and, as president, considered I was entitled to the information.

“We’re not as green as we look; are we, you chaps?” said Trimble. “Why, you don’t suppose we’re going to let out and give you a chance of blabbing to the day-boy cads, do you?”

“I’m not any more likely to blab than you are,” said I, warmly.

“All serene. You keep your temper—you’ll know time enough.”

“Suppose I resigned,” said I, feeling I must support my dignity.

“Resign away. We’ve got your subscription.”

“I don’t mean I shall,” said I; “but—”

“Shut up, and don’t disturb the committee meeting.”

“If I’m president, I suppose I’ve a right to speak.”

“Not till you’re asked.”

“All right,” said I, playing my trump card desperately. “When you do ask me what’s wrong with the grammar of your Latin motto, I sha’n’t tell you. Ha, ha!—corpore sanae. You should hear the fellows yell.”

The effect of this announcement was electrical, Langrish turned white, and Trimble turned red. The others bit their nails in silence. It was a season of delicious triumph to me. I was master of the situation for once, and resolved to remain so as long as possible.

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” said Warminster, presently.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said I.

“Corpore’sfeminine, isn’t it?” asked Coxhead.

“Common gender, I fancy,” said Purkis; “depends on who the chap is.”

“You mean if it was Sarah it would be feminine, and if it was one of us it would be masculine,” said Langrish.

This was a nasty one for me, but I held my ground.

“You’d better look it up in the dictionary,” said I.

This was diplomatic; for although I knew the motto was wrong I could not quite say what it should have been.

After much labour it was decided thatcorporewas neuter, and that the adjective in consequence must besanum.

A resolution to that effect was proposed and seconded, but an amendment to the effect that as the document had gone out in the name of the president and every one knew it was his work, it was no business of the present company to help him out of the mess, was carried by a large majority.

With which delightful solution of the difficulty—delightful to every one but myself—we proceeded to the order of the day, which was to arrange the details of our picnic next half-holiday.

My colleagues remained obdurate on the question of revealing the place.

“If the day fellows get wind of it they’ll be sure to try to do us,” was the unfailing reply.

“Why shouldn’tIknow as well as you?” demanded I.

Whereupon it was explained that nobody knew where the place was to be yet—nor indeed was he likely to know till the morning of the day, when lots would be drawn.

Every member of the council would then be permitted to write the name of a place on a piece of paper, which would be shuffled in a hat and drawn for—the last paper drawn to be the place. I could not help admiring the elaborateness of the precautions, which had only this drawback, as far as I was concerned, that I did not yet know one place from another.

I casually asked Dicky one day if he knew any of the places round.

“What for, picnics and that sort of thing?” he demanded.

“Well—that sort of thing,” said I, anxious not to betray my object too precisely.

“I don’t know. I heard some chaps talking about Camp Hill Bottom—where the battle was, you know.”

I did not know, but it sounded a likely place, and I made a mental note of it for the eventful day.

Meanwhile there was much to be decided. First, as to the applicants for admission on reduced terms, it was agreed if these brought their fair share of provender, and in consideration of their being taken on the cheap would undertake to row or tow the boats up stream, they might come. Then as to the bill of fare, it was resolved that no one should be allowed to take more than he could carry in his pockets—great-coat pockets not to be used.

Then as to the programme; this was drawn up with a view to combine entertainment and instruction in even quantities. For the entertainment was set down the President’s “Inorgural”—the spelling was Langrish’s—address, a part song of the committee, and a public open-air debate or conservation on “Beauty.” The credit of the last suggestion really belonged to Tempest, whom I unofficially consulted as to some good subjects for philosophical discussion. For the instructive part of the day’s proceedings there was to be the dinner, a boat race, a tug of war, and, if funds permitted, a display of fireworks.

What concerned me chiefly in the arrangements was that I, as president, was held responsible for everything of a difficult or hazardous nature. For instance, I was sent down to select the two boats, and drive a bargain for their hire. Then again, when, owing to the prompt payment of two or three of the “paupers” (as the applicants for reduced terms were politely styled) rather than submit to the terms imposed, it was discovered that half-a-crown of the club funds remained unused, it was I who was sent into Low Heath to buy squibs and Roman candles; and it was I who was appointed to take charge of the explosives in my hat-box under my bed till the time arrived for letting them off.

I began to be anxious about my numerous responsibilities (to which, by the way, was added that of replying in the negative on the question of Beauty), for every day something fresh was put on my shoulders, and every day I found my school work falling into arrears.

Tempest and Pridgin both mildly hinted to me that I didn’t seem to be knocking myself up with work, and succeeded in making me uncomfortable on that score. What concerned me still more was to find that Dicky Brown, although not an exhibitioner, kept steadily above me in class, and put me under frequent obligations by helping me out of difficulties.

Never mind, thought I, it will soon be all right—when once the Conversation Club picnic is over.

The morning of the eventful day dawned at last; fair on the whole, but not brilliant. The faggery was astir early, and before breakfast the solemn ceremony of drawing lots for the scene of our revels took place. I faithfully set down Camp Hill Bottom on my paper and committed it to the hat.

Tempest, who chanced to look in with an order for his fag, was requested as a favour to officiate as drawer, which he good-naturedly did. It was anxious work while he pulled out the first five papers and tossed them unopened into the fireplace. Then he drew the sixth and opened it.

“Camp Hill Botton,” he read.

Every one seemed pleased, first, because every one had written it on his paper, and secondly, because it was the only really good place for a river picnic.

“There’s one comfort about it,” said Tempest, as we thanked him for his services, “we shall have a little quiet in this house for an hour or two. Take care of yourselves. Good-bye.”

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