The Hero of Garside School

"'I am Mr. Moncrief,' said that gentleman, stepping forward."

"I've brought a letter from your brother, Mr. Henry Moncrief. He couldn't bring it himself, because of an accident——"

"An accident?"

"Nothing very serious, sir. A sprain, I think. He asked me to take the letter for him, and as he's the father of a school chum of mine, Stan Moncrief; I brought it along, and here it is," Paul explained rapidly, as he handed Mr. Moncrief the letter.

Paul had by this time entered the room. Directly Mr. Moncrief glanced at the letter his face became very grave. He went from the room, and his wife followed him, evidently as anxious as himself to know the contents. The servants retired, and Paul was thus left alone with the boy and girl.

There was not the least shyness about the former, for directly his parents left the room, he came forward and introduced himself.

"I'm Harry Moncrief—named after the uncle you brought that letter from. He was my godfather, you know. This is my sister, Connie." Connie, who was a pretty, fair girl, looked embarrassed at her brother's blunt method of introduction, but he rattled on. "Rather good for a girl. Not so slow as most of them. Can take a turn with the bells or clubs"—by bells and clubs was meant dumb-bells and Indian-clubs—"and she can scout at cricket. Didn't I hear you say you were a chum of cousin Stanley's?"

"Yes; we're in the same Form."

"What—at Garside School?" asked the boy eagerly.

Paul nodded.

"Hurrah!—hurrah!" cried Harry. "I'm going to Garside next term. I've left Gaffer Quelch's, thank goodness!"—Gaffer Quelch's was a college for juvenile scholars in the neighbourhood—"and I'm going to see life at Garside."

Paul could not help smiling at the boy's idea of "seeing life," and the high and exalted notion he seemed to have of Garside.

"Do you know young Plunger? He used to be my chum at Quelch's, but he left there a term ago, and went to Garside. That's another reason I'm going there. Things are awfully slow at Quelch's since Plunger left He's a big pot at Garside, isn't he?"

"Very," answered Paul drily.

Paul knew young Plunger well enough. He was in one of the junior Forms. Though he had been at Garside only a term, he had almost succeeded in creating a record for the number of scrapes into which he had got during that short period.

"Cousin Stan being so high up in the school, I don't want to let him down, you know, by making any mistakes when I get to Garside," Harry rattled on. "I want to do things in correct form, you see; for if I let myself down, I let Stan down. So I asked Plunger the right thing to do on going to Garside. Plunger's an awfully good sort of fellow, so he took the trouble to write down for me what ought to be done; but I wasn't to show it to any one here, for some of the things are school secrets, he tells me."

Connie had discreetly withdrawn from the room, leaving Paul and her brother together. The latter, however, glanced round to make sure they were quite alone before he drew from his pocket the mysterious document which Plunger had written for his instruction on entering Garside School.

"1. Trousers to be turned up at bottom three inches.

"2. Spats on boots (patents).

"3. White waistcoat. Eton jacket.

"4. Introduce yourself to Bax, the porter, by giving him two slaps on the back and a dig with right-hand forefinger in ribs. Give him following particulars: Age and weight. Whether vaccinated—show marks. Give also measurement of biceps and chest.

"5. On seeing Mrs. Trounce (matron) go down on right knee, and present her with your portrait (for school album). Write on bottom of card, in clear handwriting, 'With love and kind regards.'

"6. Two shillings to be left at Billiter's for 'footing,' etc."

Paul could scarcely refrain from smiling at the code of rules which the audacious Plunger had drawn up for his chum's instruction, the more so as Harry, who had never been to a public school, seemed to take them in all seriousness.

"You've been through it all, of course?" said Harry, as Paul handed the rules back to him. "Kind of Plunger to take so much trouble, isn't it?"

Paul was on the point of answering as Mr. Moncrief entered the room.

Harry hastily thrust the paper out of sight.

THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK

"What is your name, my lad?" Mr. Moncrief asked as he entered the room.

"Paul Percival," answered our hero.

"And he goes to the same school as Cousin Stan. Isn't that stunning, pa?" exclaimed Harry Moncrief.

"Many thanks for the great service you have done, Paul," said Mr. Moncrief earnestly. "You have not only done a great service for me and my brother, but for your country. A duty like that brings its own reward. But how was it you came by the back way?"

Paul then explained all that had happened since he had left Mr. Moncrief's brother. The stoppage on the way by the two men who had tried to wrest from him the letter, the death of poor Falcon, the loss of the letter and its recovery, his arrival at Oakville, and his discovery that Brockman was lying in wait for him at the house.

"The scoundrels!" cried Mr. Moncrief, with flashing eyes, as he paced rapidly to and fro the room. Then, pausing again, he clasped Paul by the hand.

"I gave you credit for a great deal, but I haven't given you half credit enough. So long as you do your duty as you have done it to-night, you have nothing to fear for the future. May God bless you, and have you always in His keeping, as He has had to-night. I will return with you home, and see that no harm befalls you by the way."

Mr. Moncrief had already given orders that his trap should be in readiness as quickly as possible, and shortly after the servant entered and announced that the coachman was awaiting his master.

"Good-bye, Paul! You'll look out for me at Garside, won't you?" cried Harry, as he went out.

"Oh, yes, I'll look out for you!" said Paul, as he thought with a smile of the instructions Plunger had given Harry on his introduction to Garside School.

Mrs. Moncrief kissed Paul as she wished him good-night, just as his mother did, and he could not help blushing. He wondered whether Connie Moncrief would do the same, and was much relieved on finding that she made no attempt to follow her mother's example.

Nothing was to be seen of the man Brockman when they got outside.

"He has smelt a rat, and when he found the horse was being harnessed, got away as quickly as possible," said Mr. Moncrief. "We shan't be troubled with him again to-night."

Mr. Moncrief's surmise turned out to be correct. No further adventure befel them on the homeward journey. Paul learned, by the way, that the man Zuker was a German Jew of great ability and cunning. He was suspected to be a spy in the service of a foreign Government—which Government Mr. Moncrief did not mention, but Paul guessed which was meant.

The spy's purpose in coming to England was to ascertain all he could as to the defences of the Thames and the Medway.

"Can't you have the man arrested?" Paul asked, deeply interested in all he heard, and feeling more and more convinced that this man Zuker was the spy whom his father had saved from the sea at the risk of his own life.

"He's too adroit. He's one of the craftiest spies the Admiralty has ever had to deal with. We can get no direct evidence against him. Neither do we know his exact whereabouts. He's like some nasty slug—you can only tell where he's been by the slime he leaves behind. Of course, he has one or two confederates to help him."

"I trust they aren't Englishmen, sir?" said Paul.

"I trust so, too. But I fear there are still Judases in the land—men who would betray their country, as Judas betrayed his Lord and Master, for money, though the price would be a great deal more than thirty pieces of silver. Our enemies would give a great deal to get a draft of some of the plans in the archives of the Admiralty, I can tell you, Paul."

By this time they had reached Paul's home, to the great relief of Mrs. Percival and Mr. Henry Moncrief, who had begun to fear that some mishap had befallen Paul by the way. By the latter's request nothing was said to his mother about the peril in which he had stood, for fear of alarming her.

The two brothers had a short interview together. Then, as Mr. Henry Moncrief's leg was still painful, it was decided that he should remain at Rosemore—Paul's home—that night, and return to his own home the next morning. His brother returned to Oakville that same night.

The next morning a carriage came for Mr. Henry Moncrief, to which he was able to limp by the assistance of a manservant.

"I shan't regret the accident which has introduced me to you and your son, madam," said he, as he wished Paul and his mother good-bye through the carriage window. "I have to thank you for your hospitality, and him for the great service he has done me. God bless him and you!"

It was almost an echo of words Paul had heard before, but they fell none the less sweetly on his ears. That night he dreamed he was hard at work on the prize essay, "The Invasion of Great Britain," and that just as he had finished it, a shadow fell across the room. He turned round to see whence the shadow came, and saw that it was—Zuker! Then he melted into thin air. When Paul turned to his essay he found that that had disappeared, too. In the shock of the discovery he awoke. Some one was bending over him, but it was not Zuker. It was his mother.

"What is it, dear?" she asked anxiously. "You cried out so loudly that I thought something dreadful had happened."

"Cried out! What?"

"Help! help!"

"Oh," said Paul, laughing, but shivering in spite of himself, "I was dreaming—that is all! I'm sorry to have disturbed you, mother."

The day following, the vacation was at an end, and Paul returned to Garside. It was an old, turreted building, dating a couple of centuries back. Flying from the west turret was a flag, known as the "old flag at Garside." It had a history which was dear to every boy in the school. It had been taken by Captain Talbot in the Crimea. The captain had formerly been a scholar at Garside. He died soon after of his wounds, and left the flag as a legacy to the school.

"Keep the flag flying at the old school," he said, almost with his last breath. And then God received his spirit.

The flag was very much stained, and had scarcely any of the original pattern remaining; but, none the less, the boys were prouder of that flag than any other decoration in the school.

Just as Paul came in sight of it flying from the turret, a timid voice sounded in his ear:

"Is that Garside, please?"

Paul, looking down at the speaker, saw a weak-looking, wizen-faced boy, with pale, thin cheeks, and one shoulder slightly higher than the other. In a word, he was a hunchback. Paul could not help a slight start as he looked at him. The boy was quick to notice it, and a slight wave of colour came to the pallid cheek. Paul was annoyed at himself for having betrayed astonishment, and answered kindly:

"Yes; that is Garside. Are you going there?"

The boy nodded.

"Very well; we'll go along together. Do you mind taking my arm? The fellows are rather a rough lot till you get to know them. Your first term, isn't it?"

The boy looked his gratitude as Paul took him by the arm.

"Yes; my first term," he said.

"Do you know anybody at the school?"

"Nobody. I'm quite a stranger."

He spoke with a foreign accent, and Paul wondered who he could be. At the same time he could not help pitying the solitary boy. He would have rather a sorry time of it amongst the other "Gargoyles."

"Well, youngster"—a junior was always "a youngster" in the eyes of his senior—"if I can be of help to you at any time, don't be afraid to come to me. What is your name?"

"Hibbert—Tim Hibbert. And—and if you don't mind, I'd like to know yours?"

Paul told him his name, and they entered the grounds together. A number of the boys had already arrived. Some stood in small groups, talking and laughing about incidents that had happened during the vacation. Others were playing at leapfrog, or chasing each other from pillar to post.

Those nearest to the gates paused in their games as Paul entered, and stared at the hunchback. Newall, a senior, said something about "Percival and his camel." The remark was as cruel as offensive. Paul did not mind for himself, but he did for his companion. He glanced at Hibbert, and again noticed the delicate colouring mount to the pale cheek. He had evidently caught the sense of Newall's remark, too.

"They have rough speech as well as rough ways, haven't they?" the boy remarked quietly.

"Some of them—yes; but you mustn't mind that. They're not such a bad lot, take them altogether."

Newall was one of the most arrogant boys at Garside. He had a rough tongue, and loved to domineer. You will always find your Newalls in every public school, no matter where it be. They are terrors to the nervous, sensitive boy; but they always succeed in attracting to themselves followers, lads of like dispositions to themselves.

Paul knew well enough that Newall intended the remark for his benefit, but he paid no heed to it. He looked round the ground in the hope of finding Stanley Moncrief, but saw nothing of him.

"Perhaps he's gone to meet that young cousin of his," he said to himself, as his mind went back to Oakville, and the never-to-be-forgotten evening on which he had met Harry Moncrief. Hibbert wished to be taken to Mr. Weevil the science master, as he was to receive his introduction to the school through that gentleman.

Paul accordingly took him to Mr. Weevil's rooms. He was fortunate enough to find the master in. He was a sallow-complexioned man, with thin, clean-shaven lips. He had a restless, hungry-looking pair of eyes, which went up quickly to Paul as he entered the room.

"What is it, Percival?"

"I've brought along a new boy, sir—Hibbert."

"Hibbert?" Mr. Weevil at once rose from his seat, and eyed the boy keenly; then his hand went out to the lad: "Welcome to Garside. You can leave us, Percival."

Thus summarily dismissed, Paul went out, leaving Hibbert and the science master together. It seemed as though the master were favourably impressed with the new boy—in spite of the fact that he was a hunchback.

"Bravo, Weevil! That's a point in your favour, at any rate. I didn't think that you had much pity for any one. Poor little chap!"

His heart went out in sympathy to the little hunchback. What a shadow his deformity must cast upon his life?

"They say that hunchbacks are spiteful, and I don't wonder at it. But Hibbert doesn't seem a spiteful sort of fellow. Where did he pick up that foreign accent, I wonder?"

As he thought of him, he could not help thinking how thankful he ought to be to God that he was healthy and straight of limb. It was not till he came in contact with poor, deformed creatures like Tim Hibbert that he understood God's goodness to himself.

he said softly to himself as he returned to the ground.

He had not gone far before he saw Stanley Moncrief coming towards him. He was about Paul's age and height, with a like ruddy complexion, and frank, open face. The two chums were delighted to meet again, especially as so much had happened since their last meeting. Arm in arm they walked about the ground talking eagerly, when their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a shout of laughter from the other end of the ground.

"I say, Paul, that looks very much like my young cousin coming towards us," said Stanley, looking in the direction whence the laughter came. "What on earth has the little ass been doing with himself?"

HARRY MONCRIEF ARRIVES AT GARSIDE

Well might Stanley ask the question. His young cousin had attired himself in the most extraordinary fashion. His trousers—plaid ones—were turned up three or four inches at the bottom, as though for the purpose of displaying to the utmost advantage the white spats on his patent shoes, while surmounting the lower half of him was a gorgeous white waistcoat, cutaway jacket, and tall hat. Paul could not help smiling, for he at once saw the reason of this remarkable attire. Young Moncrief had followed out precisely the instructions sent him by his friend Plunger.

"He seems to have got himself up regardless of expense, Stan," smiled Paul. "He means making an impression on the school. But you needn't scowl so, old fellow. It's all done for your sake. He thinks it the correct form, and doesn't want to let you down."

"Correct form—don't want to let me down!" repeated Stanley, bewildered. "What on earth are you driving at?"

Thereupon Paul related to Stanley the conversation he had had with Harry on the day he had visited Oakville, and the mysterious document he had shown him from Plunger as to the correct way to dress, and what to do on entering Garside.

"And the little soft has nibbled at Plunger's bait," laughed Stanley. "It isn't a bad joke, and I suppose I mustn't spoil it."

So Stanley and Paul kept out of the way of the throng of boys who, with Harry Moncrief in their midst, were making their way across the grounds in the direction of the schoolhouse. Harry, with his arm linked in Plunger's—a dark boy, with mischief-sparkling eyes—seemed quite unconscious of the fact that the boys were laughing at him.

"Bax is busy with some of the other freshers," Plunger was saying; "so you'd better get over your introduction to Mrs. Trounce, and we'll hunt up old Bax after."

"All right, Freddy," answered Harry, quite elated at the thought that he had at last entered a public school where there were boys bigger and older than himself, and that he was being initiated into its mysteries and ways. "After that I suppose I can find my cousin?"

"Oh, yes!"

"And there's a chum of his I met at home during the vac.—Paul Percival. Do you know him?"

"Ra-ther. He's one of the seniors—in the same form as your cousin. I didn't know that you knew him."

"I've only met him once, but I should like to meet him again. Pater thinks no end of him."

"Oh, you'll see plenty of him at Garside—a good deal too much. Those Upper Form fellows think no end of themselves, I can tell you. This way to the divine Trounce. You haven't forgotten?"

"Of course not; I've got all the rules by heart. See, here's the photo."

He drew from his pocket a photograph of himself as he spoke, with some writing on the bottom, which he handed to Plunger. The boys following behind grew black in the face trying to choke down their laughter.

"Jolly good of you, Harry!" exclaimed Plunger, regarding the photograph admiringly. "I didn't know you were such an awfully good-looking fellow. Trounce will think a lot of it, I can tell you."

The matron's rooms were a modern addition to the school, at the end of the building. Mrs. Trounce, who was at heart rather an amiable woman, was busily engaged in her room sorting out an endless array of boys' wearing apparel. Her motherly face, therefore, wore an unusually severe and worried expression as the boys entered the room. The windows outside were suddenly darkened with innumerable faces peering through the window.

"I have the honour—the distinguished privilege," said Plunger, with an elaborate bow to the matron, "of presenting to you Master Henry Moncrief, of Oakville."

Upon this he gave Harry a nudge, and Harry promptly fell on his right knee before the matron, and drawing from his pocket the photograph he had just shown to Plunger, presented it to Mrs. Trounce with a bow, and "Allow me, madam."

A titter came from the faces pressed against the windows outside. Mrs. Trounce took the photograph. The severity of her face did not relax, nor did it soften when, looking from the photograph, she saw the words beneath it, "With love and kind regards."

She looked for the moment as though she were about to administer to Harry a sound box on the ears, but, altering her mind, she bestowed it instead on the ears of Master Plunger.

"With my love and kind regards, Master Plunger!" she exclaimed.

The titters outside grew louder.

"Oh, thanks—so much!" said Plunger, with his hand to his ear at this totally unexpected reception, which he had anticipated to be the portion of his chum. "Come along, Harry; we won't waste any more of Mrs. Trounce's time. She's very busy. I'll show you your sleeping quarters, and then we'll hunt up Bax."

He beat a hasty retreat from the room, half anticipating that if he stayed longer the matron might seek to balance matters by boxing the other ear.

"Why did she do that, Freddy?" asked Harry, when they had got safely from the room.

"It was your photo that did it, Hal; that's quite certain. I noticed how she changed colour when she looked at it. It must have reminded her of some unhung scoundrel she's met with in the course of her career, and she took it out of me. She knows I like to suffer for my friends. That's my great weakness. I hope you'll make a better impression on Bax."

He led the way as he spoke through a winding passage and up the staircase to the dormitories. He entered one on the door of which was painted "E." It was a good-sized room, with six cubicles, side by side, with their heads to the windows. Over each was a text of Scripture, while on a larger card, at one end of the dormitory, in illuminated letters, were the words, "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet." At the other end was a corresponding card, on which was printed, "Motto for the year, 'Be ye stedfast, unmovable.—1 Cor. xv. 58.'"

"There's your cubicle—next to mine; so that'll be jolly," said Plunger, pointing to a couple of beds at the end of the room. "The other fellows in the dorm. are Baldry, Sedgefield, and Viner."

"But that only makes three. There are four beds."

"Oh, yes! The fourth bed was Mellor's, but his pater took him away for some reason or other last term. He's gone over to the enemy."

"The enemy?"

"Don't you know who the enemy is? The Beetles—the bounders at St. Bede's. Pretty saints they are, too! You'll know enough of them before you've finished here, I warrant. They call us 'Gargoyles.' Cheeky bounders, aren't they?"

Before Hal had finished there! Lightly the words were spoken. Neither paid much heed to them. But how much was to happen before Hal Moncrief had finished at Garside. Neither could see into the future—behind that veil which young and old are ever trying to peer through, but which God in His infinite love and mercy keeps ever close drawn. That lamp of His—the lamp of which the card spoke at the end of the dormitory—is for ever burning, however, and there is no fear of our footsteps stumbling so long as we walk by its light. Then the dark veil which hides the future need have no terror for us, boys and girls; for we know that when it is at last lifted it will only reveal to us the still greater light beyond.

"Baldry and Sedgefield are decent fellows. I don't care much for Viner. He's rather deep, and does fagging now and then for Newall—a chap in the same form as your cousin. By the by, don't mention Newall to your cousin. It's like waving a red flag before a mad bull. They're this way."

He crossed his two forefingers as he spoke, as an indication of Stanley and Newall's attitude to each other.

Hal pondered over this information for a moment. His cousin, then, had his enemies? By the brief glimpse which Plunger had given him of the life at Garside, he could see that it was not all plain sailing. There were deeper currents than any he had seen at Gaffer Quelch's school. The waves beat with stronger force, and there were shoals and rocks.

"Who'll take the empty bed? Will it be left empty?"

"There's not much fear of that. I wish there would, but they're sure to put some fresher in it. I hope he's a decent chap, that's all! If he isn't, we must make it warm for him. But come along, let's get outside!"

They turned to the door, but as they did so it opened, and Mr. Weevil entered, followed by Hibbert, the weak little hunchback, whom we have already met with in the grounds. The deep-set eyes of the science master went to Plunger, from Plunger to Hal, whom he had never seen before.

"Who are you? What are you doing here, sir?"

He spoke in a sharp, quick voice, and Harry knew at once that he was in the presence of one of the masters, and the same instinct somehow told him that the master was Mr. Weevil, of whom he had heard, but never seen.

"I'm Harry Moncrief, cousin of Stanley Moncrief, sir."

"Oh!" The master half closed his eyes as he spoke. Hal thought that he was going off to sleep as he stood there. Plunger knew better. He knew that Mr. Weevil had the habit of seeing a good deal more through his half-closed eyes than when they were wide open, and that he was taking "full stock"—a mental inventory—of Harry. He kept them closed for so long that Harry felt more and more certain that he was going to sleep. When he thought he was right off, the master startled him by opening them to their widest extent, as much as to say, "Thought me napping, did you? But I'm not! I'm awake!—wide awake!—very much awake!"

"Glad to meet you!" he said in a softer voice. "Trust you will get on well at Garside. Your father is a gentleman of some distinction. I hope you will follow in his footsteps. This is Hibbert"—introducing the hunchback. "He also is a new boy. I trust you will be friends—close friends. He has no friends or relatives in England. His father is abroad on foreign service. That appeals to your sympathy, as it has appealed to mine—does it not?—and will draw you closer to Hibbert. He will occupy this dormitory—the bed vacated by Mellor." Then, turning to Hibbert: "I hope you will prove more loyal to Garside than your predecessor—Mellor, I mean—and that you will endeavour, along with Moncrief here, to keep up the best traditions of Garside. You see our motto for the year"—he pointed to the motto as he spoke—"'Be ye stedfast, unmovable.'"

"Yes, sir."

"Keep to that, and you won't go far wrong."

When he had given this advice, the master left the dormitory with Hibbert, who, occupied in observing his new quarters and companions, had not spoken during the interview.

"A queer sort of chap, our new bedfellow, isn't it, Freddy?"

"And Weevil's a beastly fraud!" said Plunger, with a shrug of the shoulders. "But, come, we must hurry up! You haven't yet been introduced to good old Bax."

Soon they were in the grounds again. The same crowd of boys that had followed them to the matron's was hanging about the door as they went out, and began tittering again as Harry came in sight.

Harry did not notice them, nor did he notice the wink that Plunger gave them as he glanced in their direction.

"Great Scott!" he suddenly exclaimed. "There's Bax! Hurry up, Hal!"

And, linking his arm in Harry's, he hurried him in the direction of a short, somewhat corpulent man in buttons, who was just coming from the lodge.

"Is it the porter?" asked Harry.

"Yes, the porter. You haven't forgotten the rules? Hurry up!"

A BAD COMMENCEMENT FOR THE TERM

No need to tell Harry to hurry up. He was as anxious to introduce himself to the porter as Plunger could have been. So, running forward, he quickly gained the porter's side, and brought his hand down twice, vigorously, upon that worthy's shoulder, and, before Bax had recovered from his astonishment, dug the forefinger of his right hand sharply into his side, exclaiming:

"How do you do, Mr. Bax? Age, twelve—just turned; weight, five stone ten; biceps, eight inches; chest, twenty-eight; vaccinated, three places!"

The little porter grew purple in the face. He gasped for breath. When he had recovered, he returned the vigorous slaps he had received upon the back by a still more vigorous slap upon the head of Harry.

"Vaccinated in three places, are you, young gent. That will vaccinate you in four. Don't get practising any of your larks on Bax. He's not the one to stand it, young gent."

And, so saying, the porter strutted indignantly off. Harry had reeled under the vigorous blow of the porter; but just before he recovered, a hand came down on his top-hat, and crushed it over his ears, while a voice cried, amid roars of laughter, "Vaccinated in four places!"

As Harry with difficulty drew himself from under the crushed hat, he found himself confronted by the boy who had crushed it. It was Robert Newall—the boy who had taunted the hunchback. He was a big, strong-looking fellow, with sandy hair, prominent nose, prominent teeth, and bold, self-confident face.

"Vaccinated in four places!" repeated Newall, with a mocking laugh. "What asylum have you escaped from, kiddie?"

"Who are you? What did you do that for?" gasped Harry indignantly, smoothing out his hat, and looking round helplessly for his friend Plunger. But now that one of the Senior Form had taken up the baiting, Plunger had been compelled to give way to him. He was only a cipher in the mob of laughing, jeering boys who had gathered round Harry.

"Chest, twenty-eight inches. What a Samson it is!" jeered Newall. "All your own?" He tapped Harry smartly on the chest with his knuckles, as though he were testing it. "Yes, genuine article. You're a wonder—a perfect wonder! And what's the biceps! Eight inches! Why, it's a regular Hercules! It isn't every day that a marvel like you comes to Garside; so walk round and show your muscle, kid."

Harry now saw that they were poking fun at him. His face was scarlet; he was quivering with indignation. He was choking. The tears seemed very near the floodgates. It was only with a strong effort he kept them back. He did not answer his tormentor, but stared at him blank-eyed.

"Did you hear what I said?" went on Newall. "Come, wake up—walk!"

With a flip of his hand he sent the hat which Harry had been trying to smooth out whirling amongst the throng of boys. There was a shriek of laughter as the hat was caught, and sent whirling in turn to another part of the throng. This was the finishing stroke to Harry. He burst into a flood of passionate tears. The public school boy holds in contempt the boy who cries. He regards it as girlish, unmanly.

"Oh, the fresher's a soft!" came from one in the throng.

"A soft, a soft!" passed from lip to lip. Plunger alone was dumb. He had not wished that the joke which he had begun at Harry's expense should go so far; but now that it had been taken from his hands he was powerless to stop it.

"Oh, it's a squealer—a dear little squealer! Has it brought its bib and tuck and feeding-bottle?" went on Newall, amid the laughter of his companions.

Harry tried to choke back the scalding tears, which were coursing down his cheeks.

"You're—you're a cruel brute!" came bursting from his lips.

"Oh, the little squealer's got a tongue, and it can speak! Come, come, walk!"

Harry did not stir. So Newall gave him a push which sent him over to one side of the throng, where another push sent him quickly back again. The sport was only at its commencement, when it was suddenly checked by Stanley Moncrief forcing his way through the throng, closely followed by Paul Percival.

They had been in the fives court while Plunger and Harry had been inside the schoolhouse, and it was not till their return to the ground that they caught sight of the throng of boys, of which Harry was the centre. On making their way towards it, Paul soon saw what was happening.

"They're baiting a fresher!" he exclaimed.

"And it's my young cousin!" cried Stanley.

He had no objection to a little fun at Harry's expense. Indeed, it was the ordeal which every new-comer to Garside had to go through in some form or other. But this seemed more than fun—more than a joke. Otherwise, his cousin would not be in tears. And it was not only the sight of his cousin in tears—it was the sight of his tormentor—Newall, whom he cordially disliked.

"Stop that!" he cried, with flashing eyes and clenched fists, as he reached the centre of the throng. "He's my cousin!"

"Oh, your cousin, Moncrief!" answered Newall, resenting this intrusion on Stanley's part. "Nice little girl, isn't she? Heard her squeal?"

At a gesture from him, Viner—one of the boys who belonged to the dormitory in which Harry had been placed—stooped down at the back of the unsuspecting lad. Newall gave him a sudden push, with the result, of course, that he came to the ground over Viner's back. Unfortunately his head struck on the gravel, and when he scrambled to his feet again blood was flowing freely from a cut in his head.

Stanley Moncrief was a quick, hot-tempered lad, and his temper was now thoroughly aroused. Before Paul could check him, he sprang at Newall, when he saw what had happened to his cousin. The two wrestled for a moment, then separated.

Paul stepped in to stop fighting, but before he could do so Stanley had shot out his arm blindly. It passed over Paul's shoulder, caught Newall on the mouth, and sent him reeling to the ground.

Angry passions thus roused, it is impossible to say how the quarrel would have ended; but Mr. Weevil appeared on the scene, just as Newall had leapt to his feet, eager to return the blow Stanley had given him.

"What does this mean?" he demanded sternly. "Fighting?"

Not a word fell from the boys. The tumult had ceased as by magic.

"Do you hear me? I will stand no trifling! A nice commencement of the term. Taking advantage of the absence of Dr. Colville, eh?" came the stern voice of the science master, as his eyes went round the group. Dr. Colville, the Head of Garfield, had been taken ill during the vacation, and had been ordered complete rest from his duties for another month or so by his medical adviser. In his absence the reins of government had fallen into the hands of Mr. Weevil, as second in command.

Still no answer from the boys. They were as silent as before. It seemed as though they had been smitten with sudden dumbness.

"Lost your tongues, eh? They were going briskly enough a minute since!" went on the master grimly. Then he paused, and fixed his eyes upon Stanley. "Moncrief major! It was you who started this disturbance. You struck Newall!"

"Yes, sir, I struck Newall," assented Stanley.

"Why?"

"Ask Newall, sir."

"I am asking you, sir!" came the sharp retort. "Why did you strike Newall? Quick, your answer!"

Stanley waited for Newall to speak; but Newall's lips, bleeding and swollen from the blow, were tightly compressed. He scarcely heard the master's words. He could only think of the blow he had received. It was rankling in his mind, and turning to bitter hate the ill-feeling that already existed between him and Stanley. It was the first seed of hate that in the time to come was to bring forth a bitter harvest of tares. Ah, boys, beware of the first seeds of hate! Pluck them from you, as you would your hand from the fire. Otherwise they will spring up so quickly that they will wind themselves, like poisonous weeds, round every fibre of your being, blighting and strangling all the better impulses of your nature, killing, above all, the choicest blossom that comes to us from the Divine garden—the blossom of love. Where hate flourishes, love cannot be. There is no room for the two. Never since the world began have they ever flourished side by side—never since the seeds of hate were planted by the serpent in the first garden, the Garden of Eden. Beware, then, of the seeds of hate!

From a fine sense of honour, Stanley remained silent. Now that he had struck Newall he had no wish to implicate him. He began to feel some pity for him as he saw the blood slowly trickling from his mouth.

"Am I to understand that you refuse to speak, Moncrief?" demanded Mr. Weevil angrily. Stanley remained obstinately silent.

"Perhaps you will allow me to explain, sir!" began Paul.

Instantly Mr. Weevil swung round to him.

"Not a word, sir! Have the goodness to speak when you're spoken to. The explanation must first come from Moncrief. If he has not yet learned the lesson of obedience, he must begin to learn it. When he has given me his explanation, I shall be quite willing to hear whatever else has to be said. Now, Moncrief, I am waiting. It is your last chance."

He waited, but Stanley remained obstinately silent. Mr. Weevil's sallow face darkened.

"Very well; I'm very sorry, but I must teach you that I'm not to be defied simply because Dr. Colville is away. I must teach you that I mean to be obeyed during his absence. Perhaps a few hours in Dormitory X will bring you to your senses."

Dormitory X—a shortened form for "Extra Dormitory"—was a dormitory apart from all the rest in which, on rare occasions, a pupil was confined. It was not, as Mr. Weevil had said, a very good commencement for the term; but Stanley saw that it was useless rebelling, so he submitted to his fate as cheerfully as he could.

"You haven't acted very well over this matter," said Paul, crossing over to where Newall was standing, as Stanley walked away a prisoner.

"Acted very well!" exclaimed Newall, all the passion that had been rankling within him surging up. "How do you mean?"

"You ought to have spoken up. Moncrief was waiting for you to speak."

"Speak!" cried Newall contemptuously. "Why should I have spoken? I didn't want to speak. All I wanted was to get that blow back that Moncrief gave me; and I'll have it back yet, if—if I die for it!"

He turned on his heel and walked away. There was so much passion and hatred in the words that even the lightest-hearted amongst the boys were impressed by them.

"Newall's got his dander up," said Sedgefield, a rather good-looking, fair boy, another of the occupants of Harry's dormitory. "And Weevil looked as though he meant business. What a start for the term!"

They strayed away one by one. Paul, turning over in his mind what had happened, thought he was alone. But presently he was conscious that some one was standing by his side. It was Harry Moncrief.

"Have you forgotten me, Percival?" the boy asked timidly, for his confidence in himself had been shaken by the events of the last half-hour.

"Oh, no; I beg pardon for not speaking to you. I'm glad to see you at Garside."

"And I—I'm beginning to be very sorry that I ever came here. I've made an ass of myself, and got Stan into a mess in the bargain. What's to be done?"

"Nothing—just yet. It won't hurt Stanley to be by himself a little while. I'm as much to blame as anybody, perhaps, as I ought to have put you on your guard against Plunger. But it's bad form here to spoil the fun of any one, and that is why I was silent. We shall all survive it. It doesn't hurt us to be laughed at sometimes. Most of us have had our turn at it; so don't be down in the mouth."

He linked his arm in Harry's, and under the influence of Paul's cheerful talk the younger boy threw off the depression that had begun to steal over him, and was more cheerful. And all the time he was speaking a strong resolve was silently forming in Paul's breast. Whatever happened he would visit Stanley in Dormitory X that night!

FOR THE SAKE OF A CHUM

Nine—half-past! The clock in the tower had chimed the half-hour when lights were out in Paul's dormitory. In the senior dormitories there were only four beds—two less than in the junior. In that where Paul slept there were, therefore, three other occupants beside himself—Stanley Moncrief, Waterman, and Parfitt.

Parfitt was not on particularly good terms with most of the fellows. He was one of Newall's cronies. Waterman was an easy-going fellow, who was on friendly terms with everybody, so long as they did not disturb him too much. He was one of those indolent boys, with plenty of talent, if they only care to exercise it. The disposition to do so, however, only came by fits and starts. In another respect, too, he was like a great many other boys—ay, and girls, too—and that was—he would often go to a great deal more pains to avoid a difficulty than it would have caused him by boldly facing it. So true is the proverb that lazy people often take most pains.

Ten o'clock! Paul looked from his bed. There was the bed in which Stanley ought to have been sleeping—empty! Next to that, Waterman. He had been asleep for some time. Beyond his bed was Parfitt's.

Was he sleeping? Paul was not quite certain, but he thought he was. It would be better to wait a little longer, however. There was no hurry.

He could see in outline, on the wall beyond Parfitt's bed, the motto for the year, "Be ye stedfast, unmovable." He liked that motto. It had appealed to him when he had first seen it on the wall, and he had often repeated it to himself since. He had repeated it frequently to himself that night.

"Be ye stedfast"—stedfast to his friend.

The empty bed beside him made him sad. Stan ought to have been resting there. By the stern decree of Mr. Weevil he had been turned from his bed, and was at that moment a prisoner, in solitary confinement. For what? Simply because he had refused to speak. Oh, it was bitterly unjust. If any one ought to have been sent to Dormitory X it was Newall, but he had escaped without even a word of blame.

Half-past ten! Paul listened again. He felt certain that Parfitt was at last sleeping; so he slipped out of bed as he had slipped into it—with his trousers and stockings on. He drew on his coat; opened the dormitory door, and glanced along the corridor. As he did so, the figure in the end bed moved, and glanced in the direction of Paul; then breathed hard, as though it were sleeping.

Paul, unconscious that Parfitt had seen him, passed into the corridor. Dormitory X was in the room next to that occupied by Mr. Weevil, on the floor above. Paul crept up the stairs. They seemed to creak horribly, but it was the silence of the building that magnified the sound to Paul's ears. He glanced along the passage. A light was still burning in Mr. Weevil's room. He could see it stealing faintly through a crack in the door.

"Studying late. Trying some scientific experiment, I expect. The fellows say that he burns the midnight oil a lot. That's what gives him such a sleepy look sometimes, I suppose. No wonder he's such a dab at science."

Paul knew that it was useless to try to get to Stanley along the passage. He might succeed in getting past the master's room, but what then? The door would be locked, and he could not pass through a locked door. Dormitory X had a window looking on to the parapet outside, and it was by this window he hoped to gain Stanley's room. There was a small lavatory at the end of the corridor, and this likewise had a window leading to the roof.

"Be stedfast!" he whispered to himself, as he climbed through the window to the parapet. It was a rash thing to do—a wrong thing. Though Paul might have questioned the justice of what Mr. Weevil had done in putting his chum in Dormitory X., he had no right, from a chivalrous feeling of friendship, to run the risk of a foolhardy adventure at night. But Paul thought that he was right, and that, by visiting Stanley, he was interpreting in the best way he could the school motto, "Be stedfast."

There were but few stars in the heavens as he stepped on to the parapet. The wind blew freshly, and the clouds were scurrying quickly across the moon. It was a plain Gothic parapet, in keeping with the time-worn building. It rose a couple of feet above the gutter, and the latter, in turn, was nearly of the same width; so that there was not much difficulty in walking along it to the dormers.

Glancing along the gutter, Paul saw that the light was still burning in Mr. Weevil's room. The window beyond was in darkness. That was where Stanley was? Would it be possible for him to reach it without being seen by Mr. Weevil? He meant trying. Stealing cautiously along the gutter, he stopped within a yard or so of the master's window.

What was that? The sound of voices, and it came from Mr. Weevil's room.

"Chewing over science with one of the other masters," thought Paul. "It's jolly late to be talking that dry stuff. But hanged if I don't think Weevil talks it in his sleep; he's so hot on it. He ought to be amongst the fossils in the museum. I don't believe he's got any warm blood in him. He was never meant for a human being. Steady—steady."

He knelt on the gutter, and stretched himself along till he was just able to peer into the room. A lamp was burning on the table, on which were strewn a number of papers and documents. Over these two men were leaning, as though they were earnestly discussing their contents.

"Some musty old parchments from the Assyrians or the lost Ten Tribes, I expect," Paul told himself. "But who's the other fossil? I don't seem to know him. Not one of the masters here."

He could not see either of the faces very clearly as they bent over the documents; but one he knew to be Mr. Weevil's. The other was a stranger's.

"Why doesn't he look up?" Paul asked himself, growing curious.

The man was tracing something with his finger on the document before him, and Mr. Weevil was following the direction of his finger with the closest attention. Presently the man raised his head. In spite of himself Paul cried out. The men heard the cry, and he had only just time to draw back as they turned to the window.

Paul lay there breathing hard. Would he be found out? His heart beat violently as he heard footsteps approach the window. It was opened, and the head of the master thrust out. Paul thought that he must be found out. There seemed no help for it. He gave himself up for lost. Fortunately, the light of the moon was quite obscured at this moment, and Paul seemed only a part of the shadows that were flitting over parapet and roof.

"It sounded very much like the cry of a human being," said the master, peering out, "but it couldn't have been. It must have been the wind, or a night-bird."

Then, to Paul's inexpressible relief, he heard the window close. Some seconds elapsed, however, before he ventured to look up. He feared, in spite of the closed window, to find the eyes of the master fixed upon him. Should he turn back? No; that would be acting the coward's part. Besides, he must catch another glimpse of the face he had seen.

Presently he heard the murmur of voices within, and knew that the two had resumed their interrupted interview. So, taking his courage in both hands, Paul peeped once more into the room.

Yes, he was sure of it. The man with whom Mr. Weevil was talking was Israel Zuker, the German Jew—the man who had tried to wrest from him Mr. Moncrief's letter—the man for whom he believed his father had sacrificed his life!

Why had Zuker come there? Paul would have given a good deal to know what the two were talking about, but not a word of their conversation reached his ears. They were bending low, and spoke in little more than whispers. For one thing, that was an advantage. They were so earnestly engaged in conversation, that they were the less likely to notice anything that happened outside. Paul therefore determined not to put off any longer the effort to reach Stanley.

He crept quickly to the other side of the window, then waited. He could still hear the hum of voices, so he felt sure that he had not been seen.

"Now for old Stan. I'm sure he won't be asleep."

Paul crept close to the window, and tapped on it with his nail.

"Who's there?" said Stanley.

The window was cautiously opened, and Paul slipped into the room.

"Paul! You don't mean to say it's you!" exclaimed Stanley as their hands met in the darkness. "What's brought you here?"

"To see you, of course."

"Well, you can't see much of me, I'm thinking, by this precious light; so, if you won't mind me saying it, old chap, it was silly of you to come."

"No it wasn't. I couldn't bear the thought of your moping here by yourself, and it was a ghastly shame of Weevil to send you."

"Oh, come to think of it quietly, he was right enough! I dare say I could have got out of the pickle by speaking, but I was obstinate. Solitude isn't so bad," he added cheerfully. "It helps you to chew the cud of reflection."

"And a bitter cud it is sometimes. That's why I've come. It's better for two to try their teeth on it than one."

"It's very good of you, Paul, coming to me. Is Harry all right?"

"Oh, he's all right, though he was rather cut up at your having to come here for him. It's Newall you'll have to look out for. He won't be satisfied till he's paid back that blow you gave him. He told me as much."

"What did he say? Tell me the exact words."

"After you had gone away with Mr. Weevil, I told Newall what I thought—that he had acted meanly in not speaking up. 'Why should I have spoken?' he burst out. 'I didn't want to speak. All I wanted was to get that blow back that Moncrief gave me; and I'll have it back, if I die for it!'"

A sound of footsteps could be heard in the next room. In his desire to console Stanley in his solitude, Paul had said nothing about what he had seen in the master's room, though it had been uppermost in his mind all the time he had been speaking to Stanley.

"Hallo! What's that? Weevil's guest on the move. Who is he, I wonder?"

"Hush! Not so loud!" cautioned Paul, clutching Stanley by the arm. "You would never guess. You remember what happened to me on the night I took that packet to Oakville?"

Paul had confided to his chum all that happened on that night.

"Don't I? And I'm not likely to forget it in a hurry. I only wish that I'd been with you then, just as you're with me now. What about it?"

"What about it? Why, the man in the next room is Israel Zuker."

"Paul!" cried Stanley, rising to his feet in amazement.

"Hush—don't I tell you!"—again clutching him by the arm, and pressing him to his former position. "Israel Zuker! I'm sure of it."

"But what can he want with Mr. Weevil, and what can Weevil want with him?"

"Ask me another. That's what floors me. Listen! Weevil is letting him out."

They remained perfectly silent, as they listened to the footsteps in the passage; at first they were quite close, then they died away. Presently they heard Mr. Weevil returning alone. He paused as he was on the point of entering his own door, as though struck with an idea.

"What's he up to now?" whispered Paul.

They could hear the master enter the next room; then come out again. He stopped at Dormitory X.

In another moment the light of a candle could be seen through a crevice in the door, and a key was put in the lock.

"He's coming here!" exclaimed Stanley.

GOOD ADVICE

Instantly Paul crept under the bed, while Stanley as quickly crept in. Not an instant too soon, for the next moment the door opened and Mr. Weevil, candle in hand, entered. He held the light up, and glanced round the room; then came softly to the bed, and glanced down at Stanley.

Stanley feigned sleep, but directly the light fell on his face he started up as though suddenly wakened, and, staring at the master with bewildered eyes, cried:

"Where—where am I? What—what's the matter? Oh, it's Mr. Weevil. I beg your pardon, sir; but you so startled me. Is anything wrong?"

"No; nothing wrong." Then the master added with a grim smile: "I only wanted to see if you were quite—comfortable."

"As comfortable as one can be in a place like this, sir."

"It was your own fault you came here, remember, and it is an easy matter for you to come out. I hope you've decided to give me an explanation to-morrow of that disgraceful scene I witnessed in the grounds."

Stanley did not answer; and Mr. Weevil went out, locking the door once more behind him. It was not till he had gained his room that Paul crept from under the bed.

"I put him off the scent, didn't I?" whispered Stanley. "If I hadn't started up like I did, he would have looked under the bed. I'm certain he would."

"Very likely. The fat would have been in the fire then, with a vengeance. But how about the explanation he asks for? Why not? A few words will do it."

"It's not coming from me, if I stick here the term through," came the dogged answer. "Let Newall speak first; I'll follow."

Paul knew that it was extremely difficult to move Stanley from his purpose, when once he had decided on it. So he did not press the matter further just then, hoping that the morning would bring some change in the situation. His mind went back to the scene in the next room, and Stanley's went in the same direction, for the next moment he changed the subject by asking:

"How did Weevil get to know that man Zuker, I wonder?"

"That's what puzzles me. The only explanation I can see is that Weevil came across him in his travels, and is rubbing up his German by talking with him. Or perhaps they're interested in the same branch of science."

"It's rather a late hour to patter German or science, isn't it?"

The same thing occurred to Paul, but he could think of no other explanation of the mystery.

"I wonder if the light's out now?"

Paul climbed to the dormer, and, gently opening the window, looked along to that of the next room. It was now in darkness.

"Well, now you had better get back to your own bed," said Stanley, when Paul had communicated to him the news.

"I've come here for a night's lodging, and you're not going to be so hard-hearted as to turn me out."

Stanley did not speak—in fact, he would have found it difficult at that moment. The fidelity of his friend appealed to him as few things could have done. It made him feel awfully soft, like a big girl or one of the kids in the junior forms. A senior schoolboy has always a great aversion to the display of emotion. He has a notion that it's unmanly and weak; so that when Stanley did speak he assumed a gruffness he was far from feeling.

"Well, you're a muff—that's all I've got to say. I kick in my sleep sometimes—fearfully; so if you should find yourself on the floor in the night time, don't say that I haven't warned you."

Paul smiled as he coiled himself up by the side of his chum; and soon they were fast asleep. Paul woke up at daybreak, and having expressed a hope that he would see Stanley back in his place that day, returned without mishap to his dormitory. The light was only just stealing into the room as he entered. His three companions seemed to be sleeping as placidly as they had done when he left them.

"I wonder if I've been missed?" he asked himself, as he looked at the sleepers. "I don't think so."

Had he seen the figure in the end bed—the same that had watched him the night before—open his eyes cautiously, and watch him curiously when his back was turned, he would have come to a different conclusion. However, he was just as unconscious that Parfitt was watching him as he had been the night before. He lay down for another hour, then rose before first bell had sounded, washed, dressed, and went out into the grounds.

Early as it was he found Harry Moncrief there before him. He wore rather a dejected appearance.

"I've had a beastly night, Paul," he said, coming forward to greet him. "I couldn't sleep thinking of Stan. It's the longest night I've ever had, and all the other fellows were snoring like steam-engines, except that new chap, Hibbert. I rather fancy Plunger had been playing pranks with his bed, but he didn't shout out or take on; so he was pluckier than I was. Do you think the fellows here will look down on me for snivelling?"

"I cannot say. I hope so. Is young Hibbert out?"

"He's somewhere about the ground, I think."

Paul searched about the ground, but could see nothing of him. He turned into the field adjoining, and there he found him, sitting on the trunk of a tree, quite apart from the other boys, with his face resting on his hands.

"He's just as soft as young Moncrief, but he's too proud to show it. He's been crying, I know."

If the boy had been, he brushed away all sign of it when he heard Paul's footsteps, and started quickly to his feet. The frightened look in his eyes disappeared when he saw who it was. They grew quite bright in an instant.

"What are you doing here, youngster?" said Paul kindly, placing a hand upon the boy's shoulder. "You're not going to be a moper, are you? That will never do."

"A moper? No; but I'm different, I think, from most other boys. God has made me different, you see"—with a feeble attempt at a smile, as he glanced at his shoulder, "I don't care for the games most boys care for, and—and I like quiet places like this, away from the crowd."

Paul could not help a feeling of pity as he followed the boy's glance to his deformed shoulder. He was acutely sensitive to his deformity, and that, perhaps, was the main reason why he shrank from the society of other boys—why he preferred solitude.

"Have the youngsters in your dormitory been ill-treating you?" he asked, regarding Hibbert closely as he put the question.

"Oh, no!" came the quick answer. "They've had their fun, of course, which I enjoyed as much as any of them. I never mind a joke—indeed I don't; so don't think they put upon me."

Paul did not inquire what the jokes were. It was not well to inquire too curiously into the jokes of the juniors. He had been through that mill himself. Besides, though he pitied Hibbert, he didn't want to encourage him to tell tales out of school, especially as the boy seemed averse to the practice.

"You're a plucky little chap and as good as you're plucky, I'll warrant."

"Good—good? No, don't say that!" cried Hibbert, so earnestly that Paul could not help regarding him in wonder.

He stood with his thin hands pressed tightly into each other, so that the nails seemed piercing into his flesh; and the eyes that looked into Paul's were quite wild and restless. In that moment it flashed into Paul's mind that he had seen eyes like Hibbert's before, but where he could not for the life of him make out.

"Well, I won't say it if you don't like it," he laughed; "but you're the first one I've ever met with who objected to being thought good. I won't ruffle your feathers again. Come, let's get back to the ground!"

On entering the ground one of the first they came across was Newall, along with his crony, Parfitt. Remembering the cruel jibe Newall had flung at Hibbert on the previous day, and what had afterwards happened between him and Stanley, Paul tried to avoid him. He felt as though he could hardly trust himself in his presence. But Newall would not be avoided. He came straight to them, and great was Paul's surprise when he said:

"I think the advice you gave me yesterday was right enough, Percival. I ought to have spoken when the master asked for an explanation of the shindy between Moncrief and me. It might have saved him a night in that solitary hole—Dormitory X. But I mean speaking up this morning."

"I'm very glad to hear it. I'm sure it's the right thing. Moncrief will be as pleased as I am."

"Do you think so? Well, I'm glad of that; and I'm glad you think it's the right thing. I've slept on it, and that's what it's come to. Do you know, Percival, I'm beginning to think you an authority on the right thing to do? Parfitt is of the same mind. We were talking it over as you came up, so your ears must have been burning."

Paul regarded him quickly. Was he in jest or earnest? His face was perfectly grave; so was the face of Parfitt.

"Thanks for your flattering opinion. I shall know exactly how much to take to myself after you've spoken to Mr. Weevil."

In spite of the apparent frankness of his manner and sincerity of tone, Paul could not help thinking that Newall was quietly mocking him—that he had no intention whatever of speaking to the master.

"That's the boy who called me a dromedary," said Hibbert, as they turned away. "I shan't forget him. He has a cruel face."

Hibbert spoke with more bitterness than Paul had yet heard from him, and there was a sparkle in his eyes, which sometimes had so much pain in them, that Paul had never seen in them before.

"Now, look here, youngster, if you're going to remember every rough word you hear at Garside, you'll have to have a very good memory. So take my advice, forget all the things that aren't worth remembering, and remember only those that are. The jibe that fell from Newall isn't worth remembering. It's one of the things to forget. Promise me that you'll forget it?"

"I'll try, as you ask me," said the boy sincerely, "though it'll be jolly hard. Things worth remembering! Yes, I know of one—your kindness. I shall always remember that."

And before Paul could answer him he was gone.

"A queer little beggar!" thought Paul. "He's got a good heart, though, in spite of the queer outside of him. Poor little chap, how lonely he seems!"

Paul was more anxious than he had been for a long time for school to begin that day. It seemed for the sole purpose of thwarting him that it commenced later instead of earlier. Instead of commencing at the usual hour only one of the masters out of the six entered as the clock struck nine. Ten minutes elapsed, and still no masters. The boys commenced talking in whispers. What had happened? Something was wrong. An accident must have happened. Or could it be that the illness of the Head had taken a turn for the worse?

Paul feared that the absence of the masters must be in some way due to Stanley. Perhaps they had discovered the visit he—Paul—had paid him in the night. Perhaps they were discussing what was to be done with him. These and a hundred other suspicions flashed through his mind as he waited the entrance of the masters.

The hubbub in the school had grown louder. The boys no longer talked in whispers; their tongues were wagging loudly. Mr. Travers, the master in charge, made no effort to restrain them. He was himself talking to one of the Sixth Form boys.

Suddenly, however, he broke off, and pressed the bell.

"Silence!" he cried.

In an instant the hubbub of voices ceased, as the door opened and the masters, headed by Mr. Weevil, entered the room.