Ande Trembath: A Tale of Old Cornwall England

"Hallo, what's the row," said the squire, as he dis mounted and entered the cottage. Being a magistrate, he thought it was his duty to settle all quarrels, but he had scarcely got within when he was sorry he had meddled. Old Janey had been using the skirt of her gown to carry out the grate ashes, and beating Duffy, her stepdaughter, with the gown afterward; there was such a dust in the air that the squire went into a fit of coughing.

"'Tis Duffy," said old Janey. "She can't knit nor spin and does nothing for her living. She's that lazy, your honour," and Janey, the dust settling a bit, dropped a curtesy to the squire.

"'Tedn't so, your honour," said Duffy, as the tears gathered in her blue eyes. "My knitting and spinning is of the very best."

Well, the upshot of the matter was that the squire took Duffy home with him to Lovell Hall, and the hall housekeeper sent her into the attic to spin. Old Janey was glad to get rid of her stepdaughter, and Duffy was glad to get away and, though she had told an untruth to the squire, it didn't bother her much, until she found herself surrounded by the wool sacks in the upper part of Lovell Hall. There, casting herself down on the wool sacks, she said: "The devil may spin for the squire, but I can't and won't." Scarcely had she said this when a voice was heard:

"All right," said Duffy undaunted, and tossed up her head in disdain, and then fell to lolling on the wool sacks and idling and singing away the whole day. In the evening the little man in black handed to her the result of his day's spinning and she descended with it into the great hall below.

"Zounds! What a liar old Janey was," said the squire, as he viewed the fine amount of spun yarn, and casting a favouring glance on Duffy he said she was the finest spinner in Cornwall.

The next day Duffy took the yarn with her to the attic to knit the squire's hunting stockings, and the little man, true to his contract, performed the work for her and soon,——

But now came a worrying time for the old squire, for the lads from the whole country around had heard of Duffy's fine spinning and were not indifferent to Duffy's charms. The squire feared that she would marry one of them and then he should lose his fine stockings, and so resolved to forestall such a dire thing by marrying Duffy himself. They were married in the old parish church before a great assemblage from far and near. The old squire's heart was full of glee as he gazed at the young, disappointed men around him. "Ha! Ha!" thought he, "she soon shall be mine." But no sooner had he thought this than there was a terrible, distinct voice echoing the same thoughts.

The people in the church heard the voice, but no one knew who had spoken the words. The rector was indignant that the service should be interrupted and would have had the party, then and there, up before the gentlemen at the court if he could have found him. The supposition was that some jealous suitor had spoken, and the thing was soon forgotten by everyone but Duffy, or Lady Lovell, as we must now call her. She knew and was nigh to fainting had not the squire supported her with his sturdy arm. They were happy in their married life, for the squire loved his wife and Duffy had always a secret regard for him, but there was a dread in her mind that the words of the little man in black must soon come true. The year was nigh up and she had tried all plans to discover his name, but of little avail. She was nigh in despair when a person whom she had befriended relieved her of much of her anxiety. That person was old Betty of the mill, who was commonly supposed to be something of a witch.

She carefully inquired of Lady Lovell when the squire went on his next hunting trip, and having ascertained the time to the very hour, she obtained from her a jack of the squire's best beer.

That day the squire went hunting far from home and even at nightfall returned not to Lovell Hall. As the hours of nightfall came on, the dogs, one by one, came back all lathered in foam, but no Squire Lovell. At ten o'clock came the squire and he was visibly excited and seemed bubbling over with laughter.

"Duffy," said he, "I have had as great a lark as I have ever had in my life. I hunted all day over all the moors and downs, Trove, Trevider, Lemorna and Brene, and didn't catch a thing. The mare was tired out and so was I, when up jumped as fine a hare as I had ever seen, from a hedge along the road-side. She was away and so were the dogs instantly, and I followed. What a chase! This way and that way she doubled, and at length entered the mouth of Fugoe's dark cave."

"And there was old Bet of the mill a-thumping and a-beating her crowd, giving music for the dance, and, as I live, by her side was my best jack of beer, and each time old Nick would come around he would take a drink. The old witches sang as they danced,"

"Aye, and he kept shouting it as if he had lost his head with the drinking of too much of my beer. Then he jumped among the old witches, and such a sight!"

"Why doesn't 'ee laugh, Duffy?" said the squire. Duffy, who had turned pale at the mentioning of the little man's name, now regained her good spirits and laughed merrily and long, for she knew she was safe. The squire stretched out his limbs in weariness, for he had hunted far and wide and felt the need of sleep, so he soon retired. But not so Duffy, for she knew that in an hour or so the little man in black would come to claim his prize. First she said the Creed, and then she prayed, for she had resolved to become an exemplary woman could she escape the consequences of the rash vow she had made a year before. Then in the midst of her devotions there was heard the wild neighing of a horse without, and then the door, though shut with bolt and bar, opened, and in stepped the little man in black, bowing low, and yet with a cunning leer in his eyes.

"I 'ave come for 'ee, Duffy," said he, "unless"—and he paused,—"unless ye can guess my name."

"Terrytop!" said Duffy, with a confident look on her features.

"Correct, m'lady," said Terrytop with a sigh of regret, and then with a sweep of his tail he was gone.

The droll ceased his tale and was greeted by a round of applause, for it was not only the story, but the manner of the harper, at one time frank, ruddy and jovial like Squire Lovell, at another time with a cunning leer like the man in black, at another time disdainful or tearful, fearful or glad, according to the mood of Duffy, that drew forth the appreciation of his auditors. He calmly sipped a bowl of punch, while the auditors entered into conversation, though expecting more tales when the harper had rested himself.

CHAPTER XIV

ST. GEORGE AND FAIR SABRA

During the recital of the droll's tale where was Ande? Generally, he was interested in the tales of Uncle Billy, the droll, but this night he had eyes and ears only for the squire's daughter.

The latter was in her element. She was young, but the death of her mother had long made her the mistress of the great house. The presence of the guests inspired her to do her utmost as hostess, and she was not unequal to the task. The earlier part of the evening saw her flitting about, a fairy figure in lace and ribbons. During the entertainment of the droll she was at leisure, and sat on one side at a little distance, entirely engrossed in the narrative. Here it was that Ande found her.

"And is St. George welcomed by fair Sabra, the King of Egypt's daughter?" he said, as he sat himself near her.

In those weeks intervening between the squire's repa ration and the Christmas period, Ande had been a frequent visitor at the Manor. The squire could not easily forget his prejudice against the name stained with treason, but he was generous enough to smother it in the light of the youth's brave conduct in the runaway, and wished also to make some amends for the injustice of placing him in the stocks.

So the lad was found frequently in the neighbourhood of the Manor. The Manor walks were familiar to him. He had often assisted Mistress Alice in her garden work in her own favourite plot, and a warm and strong attachment had grown up between them. The old squire occasionally nodded to him and smiled, but beyond that there was little friendly conversation between them.

But to the squire's daughter how useful he became. Was there any work that would soil her dainty fingers? Ande must perform it. Was there any task that seemed too hard for her? Ande was in requisition. Once she had hurt her finger over a rose bush. It was Ande who heard the faint exclamation of pain and who flew instantly to her side, and how tenderly and with what a vague thrill, as if he himself were hurt, did he proceed to extract the jagged thorn. It was his own handkerchief that bound up the wound, and with what gallantry he had requested her to keep it as a remembrance of him. He knew not that that piece of linen was stored up among Mistress Alice's special treasures. She knew that her womanly intuition at the gate of the Primrose Cottage was true. This youth did love her, and it was not displeasing to her; but she knew something else. She was gradually knowing her own feelings, that she cherished a deeper sentiment than friendship for this brave youth who had saved her life. The thought of this sentiment would send the crimson waves o'er her countenance when she dwelt upon it, for a moment, in her own pretty rooms. She would not have him suspect such a thing—not for the world. She knew her father's hatred for treason, his strong loyal sentiments. No, she dare not think of it too often. Her father had revealed his plans for her future—the marriage with young Richard Lanyan. But she had neither acquiesced nor refused. Master Lanyan was a welcome visitor to the Manor, and she treated him well as her father's guest.

Lanyan and Ande had met once in her presence at the Manor. There was a gleam of hatred in each eye. This was the son of the hated family that had deprived the Trembaths of their rightful possessions, and now Ande could perceive the marked favour with which he was greeted by the old squire, and had a dim consciousness of the squire's hopes. It was as much as Mistress Alice could do to so conduct herself as to offend neither. Lanyan, after the first quick, sharp glance at Trembath, paid little heed to him. Calmly and tranquilly he ignored him and devoted his attention to Mistress Alice, taking the conversation into such scholarly, Etonian themes that Ande, finding himself out of his depths, was constrained to silence and soon moved homeward with bitter feelings within him.

He had not come near the Manor for a week after that, and somehow or other Mistress Alice had a foreboding that something was wrong. Did it pain her? She would not acknowledge that it did, even to herself. But how graciously she treated him when he did return. So had affairs been before the Christmastide, and on account of it there was not that strangeness between them that existed at the first.

With the remark above mentioned, the Knight, St. George, seated himself near Alice. She smiled pleasantly and responded:

"I am afraid fair Sabra and the King of Egypt are too far remote from our locality and times to be mixed up with us. I must congratulate you, Ande, for your able impersonation of St. George. By the way, who is that Turk that so murders the king's English?"

"Thomas Puckinharn, one of the village lads. He is a good fighter, but a blow or two harder than usual saps his courage. I had hard ado to make him fight at all," and he related their practice upon the village road and the strategy of allowing Tommy a squire as a balm to heal his wounded feelings. She laughed at his droll manner of reciting it, and her laugh seemed to be music to his soul and to quicken the beating of his heart within.

"Why," she was saying, "did you beat the Turk so savagely? I must confess I never saw a real battle, but I imagined I saw one all the time you were fighting. You beat down his guard and struck him over the head and shoulders, until I trembled. I believe you would make an excellent knight, had you lived in their times," and she shook her elfin locks in approbation of his fighting prowess.

"Well, I thought I was fighting for fair Sabra, and the reality of it seemed to put greater strength into my arms. A knight always fights more bravely in the presence of his lady."

"It must be nice to have such a brave knight. And who is the lady?"

"One surpassing fair and worthy of the crown of Egypt. One whom I have served, as a knight always serves his lady."

"I suppose you mean me," said the maiden, with a flush, and yet with some gaiety in her tones. "Well, be it so. You shall be my knight and defender and shall wear a pledge of your valour as a remembrance," and she plucked a hothouse blossom from the knot at her breast and presented it to him. "Fight bravely in life, and you will be a true knight."

"That I will," said Ande, as he received the flower, "and I shall remember this Christmas eve, throughout my life, as one of its best days. I shall even remove the stain of treason from our name. Treason that is so hateful to me!"

"I trust you may," said the girl, earnestly. "It has been a hard burden to bear. And with the ideas of our times, it is hard to advance under it to positions of honour and trust. But I believe you will succeed."

"You do not believe, then, in the current report, held true even by your father, of the truth of the accusation that has always clung to our name from my grandfather's times?"

"Knowing you as I do, no. If your father and your grandfather were at all like you, they could not have done what current report states. No. I do not believe it."

"I am glad that you do not believe it. It gives me courage to succeed." There was a light in the eyes of St. George, a gleam of genuine pleasure.

"The removal of that stain, which you have often told me of, will remove, perhaps, many barriers of which you are ignorant. My knight must do it."

"I am that knight," said Ande, warmly.

"The knight that I should admire would be one that will not despair at a few difficulties."

"I am that knight," eagerly.

"He must be truthful and scorn a lie."

"I do, from the bottom of my heart."

"He must be a worker, and brave and courageous."

"My principles exactly."

"He must not be satisfied to be an ordinary knight. He must be a leader."

"My ambition," emphatically.

"He must be an exceptional man, noble, upright, a defender of the weak, and—and—and—must be my knight, and no one else's." Her eyes were shining darkly with a happy gleam, and there was a glow on her cheeks that made her a thousand times more attractive to the enthralled soul before her. Her countenance was close to his. Ah! The magic of its influence!

His heart was beating so tumultuously he feared all heard it. He knew then and there the reason of his interest in her. Those vague feelings, which he had not taken the trouble to analyse, burst suddenly upon him like a revelation. He loved, yes, he knew it. Heretofore he had gone on blindly, driven by the subtile promptings within. Now he understood his own heart. There was a pang as he thought of the stain on his name, and then a joyous bound of his heart as he thought she believed in him, in his ability to eradicate the blot. She had called him her knight. He would be so. But then the thought of Master Lanyan emerged from the depths of the past, the squire's favour, and that scene when he was so contemptuously ignored by the haughty, young Etonian in the gardens. He had thought then that his hatred for him was due to the injustice to his family; now he knew. Her features, so close to his own, were the most prominent thing in the world to him then. What cared he for the twanging harp of Uncle Billy, the droll. He was ordinarily interested in the tales of Billy, but not now. That last sentence of hers of being her knight and a knight of no one else, sent a thrill through him. He longed to kiss her, then to throw himself at her feet and pour out the adoration of his soul. But he knew his situation and he simply said, "I am your knight, and no one else's."

Then the thought of Lanyan again came to his mind, "And since I am your knight and belong to no other, it is but fair to ask you to have no other knight," half doubtingly.

"Queens and ladies of old always had many knights to do them service," in mischievous, jesting tones.

Ande's heart died within him and the light left his features.

"And you intend to have many knights?"

"Perhaps."

"At least not Master Lanyan," fiercely, in an undertone.

"My knight must not be a dictator."

"But I must know," persistently.

"You are impertinent," with some dignity.

"He and his are the enemies of my house," doggedly.

"And the friends of ours," quickly.

"But he is an enemy of your knight."

"I will not be catechised." There was the gleam of a tear of vexation in her eyes and a quiver in her voice, that sent the militant spirit in the breast of Ande headlong in defeat. She turned her face from him in an effort to hide her feelings. An agony of remorse swept o'er his soul.

"I have hurt you," he said, timidly.

No answer.

"What have I done. I am a brute and a coward. I am not worthy to be called your knight," exclaimed Ande, in remorseful self-reproach.

No answer.

"Look at me, please. Speak to me," pleadingly. "You will not. I am the worst coward living—to hurt the feelings of the best of women," in doleful misery.

"You are hateful and unjust." An answer at length from the hidden face that made his countenance blanch and pierced even within, but he answered humbly:

"I am. I have been hateful and unjust to you."

"No. Hateful and unjust to yourself." The face again came into view and, could he believe it,—yes,—the tear was gone and the fun-light was twinkling in merriment.

"How?" in bewildered discomfiture.

"When you called yourself a coward and the worst of ones, you were unjust to yourself and hateful to yourself."

"I suppose you are right," humbly.

"Don't look so doleful; you may be noticed. I would have my knight cheerful and happy."

"And you are not angry?"

"No," and she shook her elfish curls and smiled.

"And you will have no other knight but me?"

"You must not be presumptuous," seriously.

"Mistress Alice, it is not presumptuous for me to speak to you on a subject that is dear to me," said with great earnestness, his eyes devouring her face. "And specially so here in the hall of my ancestors. Do you see the coat-of-arms o'er the mantelpiece, engraved in the oak?"

The girl was relieved by what she thought a change in the conversation. She brightened into new interest.

"Yes, and I wondered ever since a child what was the meaning of the horse with his rider surrounded by the waves of the sea. Oh, do tell me, please!"

"That is the coat-of-arms of our family. The earliest records speak of them as occupying the Lyonnesse country, which is now under the sea beyond Land's End. Sir Trembath, the head of the family, was overtaken by the flood, that happened about in the eighth century, and just had to gallop and swim his horse to the hills for refuge. He was the only one who escaped the inroads of the ocean. All the lands of his barony, together with others, and a hundred and forty parish churches, are now covered by the deep. My ancestry is as noble as any, and it is not presumption for me to speak to you on a subject that is very important to me. As my ancestry was then, so am I now. Mistress Alice, the last heir of the Trembaths needs a star of hope to guide him." He was speaking rapidly, although only loud enough for her to hear. The wild tempest of feeling was at length breaking forth.

"Listen," said the girl, demurely, "Uncle Billy is speaking now of the Lyonesse and Arthur."

The unruly tongue was silenced. Ande, though he listened, heard not. His eyes were on the squire's daughter, but seeing that she kept her gaze riveted on the harper, he grew moody and silent.

Whether she listened or not to the song of the droll is a question. Certainly there was nothing in the narrative of the droll, just then, to cause her cheek to glow with a damask hue.

The harper's song and tale was ended, and since the hour was late there was bustle and confusion to be gone.

"I have been unjust in dictating to you," said Ande, humbly.

"And I can have whatever knights I please?" archly.

"You are the best judge. But I would rather not," said he, with slightly woeful look.

"Then you choose to let me be my own judge?"

"To be sure."

"Then you are my knight. Master Lanyan is not and cannot be my knight. I choose so freely. Be upright, noble, and good."

Is it any wonder that the Knight of St. George departed with light footsteps. He was but a lad merging into manhood. Love was strong within him and flourished in keeping with the vigour of his youth. He knew not that she cared for him. Sometimes he thought so. He even dared to hope so when the doubts did not becloud his vision. It was something, though, to be her chosen knight. He knew by her last words that he was a closer friend at least than Lanyan. The thought lightened his spirits.

The Christmas players were the first on the way to the village. There was a chatter among them, some extolling the squire's generosity, others—the ability of the droll. Ande was silent. He was busy with his thoughts.

"Ah! The squire's maid gave 'ee as hard a drubbing as thee gave me. Edent it so?" said Tom Puckinharn, and he gave Ande a nudge in the side, as he whispered this in his ear.

"Ah! Get along, Tom, do!" replied Ande.

Tom was the only one who noticed the tête-â-tête of St. George and Sabra. Being a loyal friend of Ande, he prudently kept his own counsel. The remoteness of their situation, the voice and sound of the harp, the intense interest of the guests in the harper's entertainment, precluded any from hearing the conversation of that period.

Ande's dreams that night were very much confused. Now he was with King Arthur at Lyonnese; now against the dragon or the Turk; then on horse-back riding through the roaring waves of ocean, bearing in front of him the form of the fair Sabra, who appeared wonderfully like the squire's daughter. Then casting his eyes behind, he caught a view of the dragon, beating and lashing the waves into foam, in his rage, and somehow the dragon's head was that of Master Lanyan.

CHAPTER XV

Though the scholars loved and revered the head, yet the under-master, a certain Mr. Sherwood, received little or no affection from them. He was sharp-featured as a weasel, sarcastic in speech, a scholarly egotist, with the garment of dignity and a predilection to the use of euphonious words.

The new scholar, entering in the midst of the year, found himself sadly handicapped. In age and size, he should have been enrolled among the fifth form. His withdrawal from the parish school after the lamentable affair of the stocks placed him in no higher position than near the head of the fourth.

The head of the sixth, a certain William Jordan, a great scholar—almost a demigod—in the estimation of the lesser forms, and one of the school monitors, took Ande in charge after his examination, and courteously showed him around the school. The schoolroom with its row of desks and forms, the cloakroom, the dining hall, the library, the dormitory, all were successively inspected.

"This will be your sleeping apartment," said Jordan, as he opened a green baize door on the second floor. Within were several beds and other bedroom furniture. A few windows that opened toward the playground gave abundance of light.

The new scholar soon became accustomed with his new surroundings and set in to study with a zeal that surprised masters and pupils. He won the hearts of his fellows of the fourth by setting out a feast for them that first night in the fourth form dormitory. Mrs. Trembath had not forgotten a hamper of good things, among them several bottles of mild herby beer. These she had sent in with his luggage. The feast was spread on one of the beds, and his fellows, after it was terminated, promptly voted him a trump and proclaimed him, then and there, "King of the Fourth Form."

The king accepted his title by giving an entertainment that night in a noiseless manner. With the aid of a little phosphorus he caused many uncouth and laughable figures to appear upon the wall, to the great wonder of the smaller fourth form boys.

Before he had been in the fourth a month he had made such progress that Master Sherwood entertained seriously the thought of his promotion, and indeed, did promote him at the opening of spring. There was great sorrow among the fourth when the news became known, as he had been of great assistance to them in difficult points in the various lessons. A fifth form scholar was not so accessible as one in their own form.

The fifth were not near so desirable a set of fellows as those he had left. There was a difference between being king of the fourth, both in learning and strength, and occupying the lowest position in the fifth form. There were two in the form that were prominent, but in a different degree. One, a certain Albert Tenny, the head of the form, who made particularly bright recitations; the other, Richard Thomas, the one who was stationed next to him, the son of a well-to-do farmer of the Lizard Point. Thomas was heavy set, elephantine in size and strength, and on account of the latter and a dulness in study was named by the boys King Dullhead, although they never mentioned the latter in his presence, or dire would be his vengeance.

There was not much of a contest between Dick, as he was called, and Ande, to see which should be the head of the tail end of the form. The very first lesson Ande went above Dick.

"I see," said Mr. Sherwood, with a sarcastic smile on his sharp features; "I see, Master Thomas, you are resolved to maintain your old position."

There was a slight laugh on the part of the rest of the form. Dick squirmed under the sarcasm and half audible laughter of his fellows, and looked down in dogged silence, growling something under his breath. Sarcasm and taunts had made him sullen and revengeful, and the laughter at his mistakes had made him more stupid and awkward. He would sit at his desk in an idle manner with his large flat feet sprawling over the floor in different directions. Ambition had left his features, if, indeed, he ever had any. How he ever made the fifth was a wonder. He had tried year after year, but never succeeded in raising himself above the foot of the fifth.

The crisis between Dick, Tenny, and Ande came about in this way. The form had started in on the study of Virgil, and thought it exceedingly hard after the simple, narrative discourse of Cæsar's Commentaries. Master Sherwood was not sparing in his assigning of lessons, and had assigned a few lines in addition to the regular, allotted portion. There was much secret dissatisfaction, and especially from Dullhead Dick. The thing had occurred once before and they had universally decided not to read more than the generally allotted portion. Ande had been the soul of honour on that occasion, had refused to read, and the Master had passed him over lightly as he was a new fifth form lad. To his surprise several of the fifth arose when called upon and recited the extra portion. Now, disgusted with the whole fifth, he refused to assemble with them to consider their grievances. The secret conclave was called and the decision made, but they stupidly said nothing to their absent member.

The eventful recitation came, and the close of the allotted portion read by Ande himself. Then he paused.

"Proceed," said Sherwood.

"If you do," growled Dick, who was next in line, "you'll take a licking after school."

The whispered threat exasperated the reader, and he proceeded resolutely on. Dick gave him a sly kick under the bench in his rage.

"Stop there," said the master. "You may begin, Richard Thomas."

"We haven't got any farther," blurted out Dick.

"Ah! I thought I assigned to the eightieth line."

"We only take thirty-five lines," persisted Dick.

"Master Thomas, will you recite?" sternly asked the master.

Dick made no movement, but sat in dogged and sullen silence.

"Very well," said Mr. Sherwood, "you may write out the next thirty lines and commit them to memory."

"I'll pay you back," growled Dick to Ande, as he gave him a fierce nudge.

"Tenny, you may scan and translate."

Tenny, the head, did not dare disobey, although he had promised with the others not to read the extra portion, and even had not studied it. He, however, trusting in his natural ability, thought he could weather through. He began, but stumbled lamentably until Mr. Sherwood, incensed, gave his lines to the next, who made as bad a failure of them; and so it continued until Ande was again reached. Mr. Sherwood compressed his lips.

"Well, Trembath, we'll try you again."

Ande arose and scanned and translated in a truly commendable manner.

"Master Trembath, you have done credit to those lines," said Mr. Sherwood, well pleased. "You have saved the credit of the form; you may take your place at the head of the fifth."

The lads above were furious with jealousy, and burly Dick vowed threats of vengeance for his thirty lines.

The meeting was not long in appearing. Ande was on the Bowling Green that same evening, when Dick and a crowd of the fifth met him. The stupid and the bright had clasped hands against him; the bright ones out of jealousy, the dull ones out of revenge.

"Here's the red 'eaded Deane," said Dick, insultingly.

"I would just as soon be a descendant of the red-headed Danes, as an offspring of the Lizard[6] barbarians, who, if history is correct, didn't know enough to walk upright, but travelled on all fours like a donkey," said Ande, coolly surveying the crowd.

Dick was in a fury of rage. The legend had been frequently poked at him and it always reached a sore part.

"Wilt fight," he roared, "and I'll show 'ee a donkey's heels." Dick, before the masters, tried the best English he could use, for he had tasted the scorn of Sherwood often, but in a rage, and before the lads, the dialect was good enough for him. Now, I suppose he meant that he would make Ande feel the weight of his shoes, but that worthy responded in sarcastic vein.

"No need to fight for that, for I see them already," and he gazed contemplatively at Dick's large feet.

Even the duller ones could not refrain from a grin of delight, but they were determined to have Ande whipped, and so arrangements having been made, they wandered out some distance from the Bowling Green to secure a place. The news had been carried to the fourth form, and the whole form came as his supporters. Now, the fifth were certain of Dick's victory, for in size, age, and strength he seemed superior to Ande. The fourth were exceedingly anxious, while Ande himself had no doubts of the outcome. Dullhead, though heavier and larger than the redoubtable Bully Bob Sloan, had nothing but brute strength, and even Bully Bob would have made short work of him.

"Art ready?" said Dick, and an affirmative answer being given, "then come on," and with a bellow, Dick lowered his great head and charged like an enraged bull. His antagonist caught his head in a vice-like chancery grip, and hitting him a playful tap, released him with a spin that sent him some distance back. Dullhead shook his head, as if he wondered what had happened, and then again charged. This time Ande side-stepped, and tapping Dick with his right, and crooking his foot, sent him head over heels.

"Dost see the donkey's heels, lads?"

The fourth roared, and shouted their applause.

Then was Dick's blood at fever heat. He must get the desired underhold for a wrestle, of which he knew some tactics, and so again came the charge, which was met with no love-taps this time. A straight, hard, left-hander caught Dick full upon the nose, and then, crash, another upon the eye. Dick, dazed, still came on, for he was the soul of courage. This kind of fighting was new to him, however. To be hit again and again, without being able to get a grip on his foe, was maddening. Meantime, Ande's hands were playing a lively tattoo upon Dick's eyes, ears, and nose. At last, fairly unable to stand the punishment, Dick broke for his corner, but it was not in retreat; it was but to gain the impetus for a new rush, by which he sought to gain the desired grip for a throw. On he came, like a whirlwind, and then, no one knew how it happened, but there was a quick flash of an extended arm, and burly Dick went down as if he was shot, and laid motionless.

Some of the fifth rushed forward to assist Dick, but were withheld by the voice of his antagonist, who wished to know if any of the fifth desired to take up Dick's cause.

Not a one responded, and then he did a thing for which he was always admired, and rightly so. He had not forgotten his knighthood. He came forward and was the leader in bringing Dick to consciousness. Some, at his word, brought water from the river Cober and tenderly he chafed Dick's hands and forehead, until the unconscious fellow was fully restored.

"Much hurt?" said Ande.

"Hah—hah!" gasped Dick, as he opened his eyes, and caught his breath in gasps. "Not much—all right, soon."

Then followed more chafing and Dick was at length slowly assisted to his feet.

"No offence," said Ande, as he held out his hand, "you know I had to fight."

Dick took the outstretched hand, a little sheepishly, and shook it gingerly.

"No offence. Better luck next time."

"Come, now. Is there going to be a next time? I don't want to permanently cripple my hands by hitting such an ironsides as you are," laughingly.

Dick rubbed his great head tenderly, felt of his battered features, and then, with a slight smile: "No, I guess we've satisfied the code of honour."

Together, fourth and fifth, wended their way amicably back to the school grounds. Ande continued to hold his position as head of the fifth, and won the regard of all by championing the cause of the school against all outsiders. In the latter he was ably assisted by Dick, who, strange to say, became his most devoted and attached friend. Dick was a magnificent fellow physically, and there was a good bit of fine principle about him, but his strength, dulness, and awkwardness had made him heretofore a bully. Under the warm glow of Ande's friendship, new life and hope was implanted within him; he applied himself with diligence to his studies, and under his chum's fostering care, made progress. The two were now partners in the same study.

One night, when they were preparing the coming day's lessons, Dick looked up from his book.

"Ande, remember the fight we had?"

"Yes."

"Did you 'ave anything in your hand when you struck me that last time?"

"No. Why?"

"'Cause, I thought it was a club," and Dick grinned.

"I hated to hit so hard. But it seemed none of my former blows were having much effect. It was like hitting an elephant."

There was silence in the study room for the space of half an hour, and then Dick asked his companion to review him o'er his lesson. Ande did so, and was agreeably surprised; it was the best lesson that Dick had ever prepared.

"I'm much obliged," said Dick. "This hearing of a lesson helps wonderfully."

"Dick," said Ande, "a red-headed Dane is a pretty-fair sort of a fellow, after all. I say, he has some redeemable virtues."

"Yes, and I 'ave discovered something else."

"What's that?"

"A donkey has a head as well as a pair of heels," whereupon they both laughed heartily.

CHAPTER XVI