The Hero of Garside School

"As ill-luck would have it, Hibbert ran full tilt against Mr. Weevil, just as he reached the outer door."

"Hallo! Where are you running to in such a hurry?" he asked, in that gentle voice he always used to Hibbert—softer than that used by him to any other boy in the school.

"Out—in—the grounds, sir."

In stumbling, Hibbert's hand had been jerked from his breast, and Mr. Weevil caught sight of the letter.

"What's that—a letter?"

Hibbert did not answer. It was useless denying it.

"Step this way."

Mr. Weevil's tone had now become quite stern. He led the way into one of the class-rooms; then closed the door.

"Now have the goodness to hand me that letter," he said, gazing at Hibbert through half-closed eyes.

Hibbert dared not refuse; so he handed him the letter.

Mr. Weevil's eyes opened to their fullest extent when he saw the address on it:

"For whom were you posting this letter—Moncrief major, or Moncrief minor?"

"Neither," came the low answer.

"Who, then? Come; no harm shall befall you if you speak the truth."

"I don't mind myself, but—but—I don't want any harm to happen to—to——"

"The one who sent you—eh? Well, we'll see. Just tell me frankly who sent you with this letter? It is quite easy for me to find out by opening it, you know; but I would much rather hear it from you."

"Percival," answered the boy, hesitatingly, seeing there was no help for it.

"Percival!" echoed the master. "Wait here a moment."

He left the room with the letter. Hibbert wondered what he intended doing with it. Would he open it, or would he send for Percival? He was on thorns. Percival had particularly wished to keep the note from Mr. Weevil. The very first thing he had asked him to do—and that so simple—he had made a mess of.

"How stupid of me! How stupid of me! Percival will never trust me with anything again."

In a few minutes Mr. Weevil returned. His face had not lost its sternness.

"In sending you with that letter, Percival knew well enough he was acting against the rules of the school."

"I—I—dare say it slipped his memory, sir."

"Nothing of the sort. He knew well enough he was breaking the rules of the school, and, worse still, that he was making you an accomplice in the act. However, I do not intend to deal severely with the case, for your sake. You are quite new to the ways and rules of this place. Take the letter. Post it; but don't say a word to Percival that I stopped you. Do you understand?"

"Yes; I understand," said the boy, as he took the letter, and ran off with it to the post. He looked at the letter as he ran. Was it the same? Yes, the very same—the same address, in Paul's handwriting. It was very kind of Mr. Weevil, and he would always be grateful to him for his kindness.

Paul, meanwhile, had gone to Mr. Travers, wondering what he could want with him. The master of the Fifth was a man of about thirty, who led a studious, secluded life. He was a capable master, but had not succeeded in winning the sympathies of the scholars. One of the chief reasons was that, though he took an interest in their studies, he took little interest in their sports. He preferred instead long, solitary rambles. Paul was, therefore, the more surprised when he found that the object of Mr. Travers in sending for him was to question him as to the relations between him and his class-mates.

"I've noticed that you do not appear to be on very good terms with the Form, Percival," he said. "I should not have said anything about it, only I happened to be near the Common Room this afternoon when you entered, and found that that was a signal for the others to march out. I don't like a feeling of that kind in my Form. I know well enough that boys will have their quarrels, and that they can be usually trusted to settle them alone; but this seems to me deeper than an ordinary quarrel, otherwise I should not have spoken. I have no wish to press for your confidence, but if you will tell me what the cause of this ill-feeling is, I might do something to bring about a better understanding between you and the Form."

"Oh, it's only a bit of a dispute between me and Moncrief major."

"And for a dispute between you and Moncrief major all the Form are against you?"

"They take his side, sir. They think that he is right and I'm in the wrong—that is all."

"That is all!" echoed the master. "And that is all the explanation you can give? Remember, I'm not forcing an explanation from you. I'm not asking you as your master, but as your friend."

Paul was drawn to him as he had never been drawn before, such is the power of sympathy. He regretted more than ever that he had sent the letter to Mr. Moncrief; but it was impossible to recall it. Hibbert was on his way with it at that moment to the post.

"That is all the explanation I can give, sir."

"Very well, Percival"—the manner of Mr. Travers changed as the words fell from Paul's lips; he was again the master, and frigid as ice—"then there is nothing more to be said. I regret that I sent for you."

Thus curtly dismissed, Paul went out, feeling miserable. At the time when he so wanted a friend he had lost one. And yet how else could he have acted? There was no other way. He must wait and see what the letter to Mr. Moncrief would bring forth. And with this thought uppermost in his mind he went to the writing-room to await the return of Hibbert.

THE SCHOOL OF ADVERSITY

Paul took up a pen as he sat and waited, and idly traced words upon the blotting-paper. But his thoughts were far away. He was thinking of the interview he had just had with Mr. Travers. He was still thinking of it when the door opened and Hibbert entered.

"Have you posted the letter?" Paul asked.

"Yes; the postman was just clearing the box when I slipped it in."

Paul would almost as soon that he had not succeeded in posting it—that he had brought the letter back with him. Perhaps it was best as it was, however.

"Thanks, Hibbert."

He did not notice that the boy was looking uncomfortable—as though he had something on his mind but dared not speak it.

"You have seen Mr. Travers?"

"Yes." Then noticing for the first time the nervous, apprehensive look in the boy's eyes, and thinking it was due to the fear that he had got into further trouble with the master, he added: "Nothing happened. He was quite nice with me."

"I'm glad of that."

By this time Hibbert was standing by Paul's side. Suddenly an exclamation came from his lips.

"Hallo! What's wrong?"

Paul, looking at the boy, saw that his eyes were fixed upon the blotting-paper.

"That—that! Do you know anybody of that name?" he asked, as he pointed to a name Paul had unconsciously traced on the blotting-paper—that of Zuker.

"Why? Do you?" Paul asked.

"Y-yes," answered the boy, with hesitation. "I—I once knew a boy of that name."

"Where?" asked Paul, at once interested.

"When I was at school in Germany; but there are a good many Zukers there, you know, and the boy I speak of is dead."

"Dead! Did you know his father?"

Hibbert shook his head. Paul tore up the blotting-paper. It was just possible that Mr. Weevil might catch sight of the name, just as Hibbert had done.

"You—you don't like the name?" the boy asked, as he watched Paul.

"Oh, it's as good as any other, I suppose."

"You must have known some one of that name—I'm certain of it," persisted the boy.

"Well, I don't mind telling you, Hibbert—you've been such a good little chap to me—it was through a man of that name my father lost his life."

"A man of the—of the name of Zuker?" stammered Hibbert.

"Yes."

"Tell me—do tell me—all about it?" pleaded the boy, clutching Paul suddenly by the arm.

"Oh, it's a sad tale, and it won't interest you."

"Indeed it will—very, very much. Anything that has to do with you interests me. Tell me."

Without intending to compliment Paul, the boy had paid him the most delicate compliment he could have done. Besides, Paul was now very much alone, and in his loneliness it was nice to have some one to speak to; so he told his eager listener the tragic circumstances that had cost his father his life. Hibbert scarcely spoke or moved all the time Paul was telling the story. He hung upon every word.

"How noble of your father to jump overboard and save the man—the man Zuker," said the lad, when Paul had finished. "There's not many who would have risked their life to save an enemy. I think you said Zuker was an enemy."

"Well, I don't know about an enemy. He seems to have been a wretched, contemptible spy; but what's wrong with you?" he suddenly exclaimed, as his eyes went to the boy's face. It was of an ashen pallor, and he was trembling in every limb.

"Nothing wrong, except—except that I can't help thinking what a lot you and your mother must have suffered after your father's death."

"I didn't suffer much, because I was too young to remember him. I was only a little more than a year old when it all happened. Still, I should so like to have known my father. They say he was very brave, and kind, and true, and one of the best captains in the Navy; and when sometimes I think of him, and what he might have been to me, I feel very bitter against the man for whom he gave his life. Then I battle against the feeling, and a better takes its place. I think to myself—What nobler death could a man die than in trying to save the life of one who had done him wrong."

"Yes, Percival," said the boy, looking away; "it was a noble death—very noble—and your father must have been a noble man. What was it the spy did?"

"Got into my father's cabin, and tried to get at his private despatches."

"And where were they taking this man—the spy—when he jumped overboard?"

"To Gibraltar, where he was to be tried by court-martial."

"And after they'd tried him by court-martial?"

"If the court-martial had found him guilty, they would have shot him."

"Shot him?"

"Yes, they showed no quarter at that time, I believe, to one who stole, or tried to steal, State secrets."

"Oh, how horrible!" cried the boy, covering his face with his hands.

"Don't you think that a man like that deserves to die, Hibbert? Remember, it isn't only one life he places in peril, but hundreds—thousands. He betrays a country."

"Yes, yes, I dare say you are right, Percival—I'm certain you are right; but none the less, it sounds very terrible. Is it the same now as it was then—that no quarter would be given to a spy, I mean?"

"I think so. But I'm sorry I told you the story," said Paul, looking at the boy apprehensively. His face was still deathly pale, while he trembled in every limb. "I didn't think it would cut you up so. Any one would think," he added, with a sad smile, "that it was your father's death I'd been talking about instead of mine."

"Yes, my father"—and the boy gave a little, stifled laugh. "I—I've been putting myself in your place, you see. How was it the spy got away?"

"He was tried by court-martial, but nothing could be proved against him, you see; for my father was the principal witness, and he was at the bottom of the sea."

"At the bottom of the sea," repeated the boy, as a tear stole slowly down his cheek. "And you don't know what became of the spy?"

"Oh, I suppose he returned to his own country after that," said Paul carelessly; for he did not want to tell Hibbert his suspicions that Zuker was still in England and not so far away. "But be off now, and have a good run in the open. You've had enough of my yarn, and will be dreaming about spies and drowning all night."

Hibbert brushed the tear from his eye. It seemed as though his heart were too full for speech; for he went out without a word.

"What a sensitive little chap he is!" thought Paul. "He was full to overflowing as I told him that story. I wonder what his people are like?"

He got up as he spoke and went out. A throng of boys were playing in the grounds. Too absorbed in their games, they took no notice of Paul, for which he was devoutly thankful. He walked out of the grounds, along the road leading to St. Bede's. Scarcely noticing the direction in which he was travelling, he was rudely awakened from his reverie by the shout of "A Gargoyle—a Gargoyle!" And before he could move a step farther he found himself surrounded by a dozen boys, who danced wildly round him, shouting the name of contempt again and again, as though they were a band of savages, and had suddenly discovered a victim for the sacrifice.

Paul saw at a glance that he had fallen into the hands of the enemy—in other words, into the hands of the rival school. There were senior boys and junior boys. Prominent amongst the latter he noticed Mellor, who was quite ecstatic with delight at having trapped a Gargoyle.

"Why, hanged if it isn't the fellow who turned tail and ran!" cried one of the seniors.

"Yes, Percival. Didn't you see that?" said Mellor.

"So it is," came in a chorus.

"The noble champion of the Gargoyles—ho, ho!" cried the senior.

"Ho, ho!" came in a chorus, and they commenced dancing round Paul, in a wilder, madder fashion than before. "Ho, ho, ho! The noble champion of the Gargoyles."

"'And he bared his big right arm,'" cried one, when this chorus had ceased.

"And cried aloud, 'Come on,'" shouted another.

shouted a third.

A scream of laughter greeted this sally, and then the dancing was resumed to the old chorus.

"Ho, ho! ho! The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"

Paul stood motionless as a statue and as white as one in the midst of the jeering, mocking throng. He made no answer to the jibes, but waited until they had exhausted themselves. It was some time before that happened. At length the cries grew feebler, the wild dancing slackened.

"Well, have you nearly finished?" Paul asked.

"Listen. The noble champion of the Gargoyles is speaking. He's got a tongue," exclaimed the senior who had first spoken.

"And legs as well," said a second.

"And doesn't he know how to use them!" added a third—an observation which drew out another shriek of laughter. From white Paul turned scarlet.

To keep silent under provocation, more especially provocation that is undeserved, is one of the hardest lessons that can be learned, boys and girls. Paul was only a boy, with a boy's impulses, passions, and feelings. But some time was to pass before he was to learn the great lesson of how to keep these passions under perfect control—and many things were to happen in the interval—but he had begun the task. Rough and bitter though the schooling was, in no better way could the lesson have been taught than in that school of adversity through which he was now passing.

"When you've quite finished," said Paul, as they once more came to a pause, "I would like to go on my way."

"Where? To the sand-pit?" came a voice.

"No; he'd rather keep away from that. He'll always give that a pretty wide berth," some one answered.

"Why not take him there? He doesn't know what a nice place it is for a picnic."

The suggestion was hailed with delight.

"The sand-pit—the sand-pit!" was the cry.

Immediately a rush was made for Paul. It was more than flesh and blood could stand. Paul had kept wonderfully calm and cool up to the moment; but directly they tried to put hands upon him he struck out right and left. With so much vigour did he strike that he might have made his way through the howling, struggling pack, but just at the moment he had got himself free, Mellor, who was one of those who had been knocked to the ground, caught him by the legs and brought him with a crash to the ground.

"On him—on him!" was the cry.

"Back—back! Cowards all!"

At the instant they were about to seize Paul a figure dashed into their midst, scattering the struggling pack to right and left.

WYNDHAM AGAIN TO THE RESCUE

"Back, back! Twelve to one—cowards, cowards!"

The Bedes fell back as the youth fell among them, and cleared a passage to Paul. Paul, momentarily stunned by his fall, breathed freely again, and leapt to his feet.

"Why, it's Percival!" said the new-comer. "Are you hurt?"

Paul could scarcely believe his eyes, as he found himself again confronting Gilbert Wyndham.

"No, thanks," he answered stiffly.

He would rather have been indebted to any one than to Wyndham. He had wished to clear off the debt between them, but instead of that he found himself more indebted to him than ever. For a second time he had been placed under an obligation to him.

"You don't see who it is, Wyndham," came a voice from the ranks of the Bedes, disappointed of their prey. "It's a Gargoyle—the wretched Gargoyle who showed such a clean pair of heels at the sand-pit."

"Yes, I do see who it is; but, whoever he is, that's no reason why a dozen of you should set on him at once. That's not fair play, Murrell."

"Half a dozen of 'em set on me," came the voice of Mellor. "What's good enough for the Gargoyles ought to be good enough for us."

"That's just where you're wrong, Mellor," answered Wyndham coolly. "What's good enough for a Gargoyle isn't good enough for a Bede—is it, Bedes?"

A murmur of ready assent went up at this appeal—from all except Mellor.

"You see, you are half a Gargoyle yourself, Mellor, or you would have known that. You belong to the amphibia at present. When you've grown out of that you will know better, won't he, Bedes?"

A laugh went up—from all except Mellor. The storm which had looked threatening began to clear under the ready tact of Wyndham. Still, the boys did not like the idea of letting Paul go scot-free.

"Yes, you'll know better than that by-and-by, Mellor," said the youth addressed as Murrell. "Your education was neglected as a Gargoyle. You'll improve as you go along. But, I say, Wyndham, what are you going to do with the specimen you've got? You can't stick it in the museum, you know. So turn it over to us again. We won't hurt it. We'll only give it a run to the sand-pit, and a roll down. It will do it good. Eating sand is better than eating dirt."

"Yes, hand him over," came in a chorus.

"No," came the decided answer, as Wyndham twined his arm in Paul's. "The Gargoyle is my property."

"What are you going to do with him?" demanded Murrell.

"I want to have a little quiet talk with him, that's all."

What could Wyndham want with a little quiet talk with a Gargoyle? It could only be for one purpose—to gather information which might be of use to the Bedes in any future campaign against Garside. So the boys reluctantly turned away, and left Wyndham and Paul together.

"Why have you come a second time to my help?" came in a choking voice from Paul when they were alone.

"Really, I don't know," smiled Wyndham. "Does it matter much? Do you mind?"

"Mind! After what happened at the sand-pit the other day. Mind! I would rather have been under an obligation to any one than you."

"Do you mean it?" asked Wyndham, now quite grave.

"Of course I do. I was never more in earnest in my life. I had hoped to clear off the debt that was between us, and now you have placed me in your debt a second time."

"If you mean by debt that little service I was only too pleased to do for you at the well, I thought it was quite cleared off."

"How?"

"By the service you did for me at the sand-pit the other day."

"You are mocking me?"

"I was never more serious in my life," answered Wyndham, using Paul's words. "When I saw you standing before me at the sand-pit—saw who your fellows had selected as their champion—I was staggered. You were the last in the world I dreamt of seeing. I could see that you were bewildered, but not more than I was. I knew not how to act. Fight you? Impossible! Go away—turn on my heel? That seemed impossible, too. I should be stamped as a coward. I could not explain, because that would have meant giving away your secret. Then, as the thoughts flashed through my mind, you solved the riddle. You had the courage to do what I couldn't—you walked away."

Paul regarded Wyndham in wonder. The thoughts which had passed through Wyndham's mind were almost the same thoughts that had passed through his. The same struggle had gone on in both. For the moment the hard, bitter feeling that had stirred within him softened, and he was on the point of holding out his hand, when he remembered that it meant clasping the one that had so severely punished Stanley.

"I walked away," he echoed; "and then?"

"Why, then," smiled Wyndham, "things couldn't have happened better. Some bounder amongst your mob was anxious to bound into your shoes. He jumped up in an awfully excited way, muttering something about 'the honour of the Form.' He insisted on fighting me, and I didn't mind in the least. You know how it ended."

"Too well—too well," repeated Paul sadly. "Better far had I stayed. That was my friend you punished so."

"Your friend!"

"The best friend I had at Garside. We are friends no longer. Instead of that, he looks upon me now as his worst enemy, while all the school look upon me as a cur. But it isn't that I mind so much, it's losing the friendship of Stanley Moncrief."

"I'm sorry. I did not dream things were as bad as that. Who is this Stanley Moncrief?"

"He is the son of that gentleman for whom I took the letter to Redmead on the night you met me, and did me so great a service."

"If it was a service, I've undone it now," answered Wyndham sorrowfully. "I could not have done a worse one than I did you at the sand-pit. Why couldn't you explain to your friend?"

"I've tried to, but he won't listen. He is smarting under his defeat, and I don't wonder at it."

There was silence between them for a minute or two, then Wyndham exclaimed:

"Are you going back to Garside?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because I am going with you. Moncrief won't listen to you. He will listen to me."

"No, no!" said Paul firmly. "It is very kind of you, but I would rather not. If Stanley Moncrief and I are ever to be friends again, he will have to find out for himself that I'm not the cur he thinks me. I've tried to explain, but he would not hear. I shall never try again, unless he comes round and asks me."

"I think you are right," said Wyndham, after a pause. "None the less, I'm sorry—deeply sorry—that you should have lost your friend through me."

"Oh, things will work round presently," said Paul lightly. "I suppose, after that affair at the sand-pit, you were quite the hero of your school?"

"I don't know about hero. They made a lot of fuss over me, because, as you know well enough, there's no love lost between us and Garside. But if anybody deserves to be the hero of a school, it is you."

"Nonsense!"

"It is easy enough to flow with the tide, but awfully hard to struggle against it. That's what you're doing just now, Percival."

He walked with Percival for some distance on the road to Garside, and when they separated they shook hands, unaware of the fact that they had been seen by one of the Third Form. After Wyndham's explanation, how was it possible for Paul to refuse the hand held out to him?

Now, Stanley Moncrief was at this time in his dormitory, very miserable. He had been so, in fact, ever since he had broken with Paul. He had a real affection for him. He had loved him as he might have loved a brother; then, after his defeat at the sand-pit, he felt that there was only one thing to be done, and that was to—hate him. So he had broken off the friendship, and rushed into the arms of the two whom he disliked—Newall and Parfitt.

But when Stanley began to reflect a little more deeply, he began to see that he could not altogether shake off the old link that bound him to Paul. He had always been comfortable and at ease with him—could sit with him, as it were, in his shirt-sleeves and slippers. He had felt at home with him from the first day they met. He could not feel the same with Newall or Parfitt, try as he might. He seemed to be ever acting a part when he was with them, and they seemed to be doing the same when they were with him. For instance, he would have liked to have read the letter Paul sent him by Waterman; but the eyes of Newall were upon him, so he tore it up in bravado, and scattered the fragments in the way already described. It was not Stanley's real self did that—he was acting a part.

Again, when Paul entered the common room, looking so sad and miserable, Stanley's heart prompted him to stay and speak to his old friend. Perhaps he might have done so had he been alone; but he felt that the eyes of the others were upon him, especially Newall's. Something was expected of him. He was to give the lead; so he gave the lead, by walking from the room, and the rest followed him, with the solitary exception of Waterman.

Then he joined in the laughter and the jeers of his new-found friends when they got outside, all at the expense of Paul. Again, Stanley was acting a part. At heart he felt miserable. The sadness of Paul's face haunted him, and as soon as he could he escaped from his companions to the solitude of the dormitory.

He had been puzzled all along how it was Paul had acted in such a cowardly way at the sand-pit. He knew that he had no love for fighting; but once having taken up the gage of battle, he was not one to shrink from it. What was it his father had said? That no braver youth could be found than Paul Percival. His uncle had the same opinion, and they were not the men to make mistakes. Had his nature suddenly altered, or what had happened? More and more he regretted that he had not opened Paul's letter. It might have given him the answer to the riddle.

So Stanley sat on the side of the bed for a long time, very miserable. Indeed, I very much question whether of the two he was not the more miserable. It is true that nearly all Paul's companions dropped away from him; but perhaps it was better to lose companions than to have those you did not really want.

"It is all a hideous mistake. I'll go and make it up with Paul," he thought.

As he was thus thinking, the door opened, and his cousin entered.

"Well, Harry, what do you want?" he asked gruffly, as though resenting the intrusion.

Harry eyed him for a moment without answering.

"Can't you speak? Have you lost your tongue, Harry?"

"I saw Percival a little while ago, Stan."

"Well—what of it? What's that to me?"

"Nothing much, I suppose."

"Where did you see him?"

"Not very far from here. He was with that fellow—that beastly Beetle—who fought with you."

"What were they doing?"

"Oh, they were walking and talking together—very chummy. When they left, they shook hands—almost kissed each other."

"Shook hands! You are sure?"

"Positive."

"Run off, youngster. Leave me," cried Stanley hoarsely.

Harry ran out, wondering at the effect his information had had upon his cousin.

"Shook hands with him!" echoed Stanley, as he sank with a groan upon the bed.

THE CHASM WIDENS

Unintentionally Harry Moncrief had made deeper the chasm between the one-time friends. It was quite evident to Stanley, from Harry's description of what he had witnessed, that there was an understanding between Paul and Wyndham, otherwise they would never have shaken hands with each other. The fact that Paul could take the hand of one who had thrashed him set the blood tingling in Stanley's veins. That showed plainly enough that Paul was on friendly terms with his enemy—with an enemy of the school. What was to be done?

Stanley got up and paced the room. The softer feelings that had been working in his breast vanished.

"I will never speak to Paul Percival again—never!" he said fiercely. "Perhaps the whole of that business at the sand-pit was a trap of his into which I was fool enough to fall. How else could they have shaken hands together?"

It seemed to him, thus blinded by suspicion against his friend, that it could only have one meaning—they were gloating over his defeat.

Meanwhile, Harry Moncrief had no sooner descended the stairs leading from the dormitories than he came sharply into contact with Plunger, who was hurrying along the corridor as though he were rushing full speed up a cricket pitch to prevent himself from being run out.

"Hallo, Harry, just the fellow I was looking for!" he exclaimed.

"Are you, Freddy? Then I wish you'd look for me with your eyes instead of your elbows," answered Harry, rubbing his ribs, which were aching from the blow they had just received from the boniest part of Plunger's elbows. "What is it?"

"You know that twaddle in the Gargoyle Record about the poet being stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger'?"

"Yes," laughed Harry, as he recalled Plunger's confusion when the paragraph was read aloud in the common room.

"What are you grinning at? You don't mean to say you saw anything funny in it?"

"Oh, no; but you're bound to laugh when the other fellows laugh, you know. It's like the measles—catching. I'm all right now. Go on. You were saying——"

"I believe that paragraph was sent in to the editor—Dick Jessel, you know—by Baldry."

"Oh! What makes you think that?"

"He's been worrying about rhymes ever since that paragraph was read out—that's why. You see, he sent in the paragraph so that he might have another shot at me with the answer. Baldry's a deep 'un."

"But why should he send in paragraphs to the Record against you?"

"Well, I make fun of his name, so he's trying to score off me in return. But he can't do it, for 'Plunger's' no sort of rhyme to 'hunger.' And there's another thing I've got to tell you in confidence, Harry. I believe that cartoon of me on the Forum window was Baldry's work."

"Oh!" answered Harry drily. "What makes you think that?"

"Baldry once said that if the glue business failed"—Plunger's father was a glue and size merchant in a large way of business—"I could always pick up my living as an artist's model."

"How?"

"Well, he had the cheek to tell me I had a funny sort of face. And Baldry's smart with the pencil, you know; so, putting this and that together, I believe Master Baldry not only sent in that paragraph to the Record, but put my face on the Forum window."

"Very wrong of him, Freddy," said Harry sympathetically. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Well, I've got a lovely old basket, once the property of a dear and highly-respected friend of yours, Mrs. Trounce, and this basket is filled with a lovely collection of feathers. Along with these feathers will be mixed a little glutinous substance, as the chemistry master calls it, which I brought last term from the pater's works. This basket will be fixed directly over the Forum door, by means of a string, the end of which will be held by some one hidden in a tree at the back of the Forum. That some one in the tree will be you. Are you listening?"

"Ra-ther. That some one in the tree will be me. Go on."

"My dearly beloved and much respected chum, Sammy Baldry, will receive a message calling him to the Forum at half-past six. Someone will be at the side of the Forum, so as to know the exact moment Baldry appears on the scene. Directly he nears the door that some one will whistle. That will be a signal to you up in the tree. Baldhead will open the door. Then you'll pull the string. Over will go the basket, and down will come the pretty feathers over Baldhead. In the information Baldry was good enough to supply to the Gargoyle Record, affectionate inquiries were made, you remember, after the Missing Link, last seen in all his native beauty in the Forum. What price for Baldry, eh? When he gets these feathers on him he'll be a puzzle. No one will be able to tell which kingdom he belongs to—animal, vegetable, or mineral."

And Plunger chuckled so that it seemed as though he would never be able to stop himself. Just to keep him company, Harry chuckled too.

"Splendid little joke, isn't it, Harry?"

"Splendid."

"I told you what fun you'd have when you got to Garside. Better than Gaffer Quelch's, eh? Things were awfully slow there, weren't they, Harry?"

"Awfully."

But, so far as fun was concerned, Harry couldn't see that he had had very much of it, except at his own expense. Plunger had, in fact, made him his butt, and now he wished to score off Baldry through his instrumentality.

"I didn't quite understand you, Freddy," said Harry presently, as Plunger went on chuckling. "Who do you say was to be up in the tree at the back of the Forum and pull the string?"

"You, Harry. I'm giving you the post of honour, because you deserve it. Baldry has poked fun at you a lot. Now it's your turn, old fellow."

"It's very kind of you, Freddy—it really is. I don't know how to be grateful enough. I'm to be in the tree, you say: but where will you be?"

"Oh, I'll do the whistling."

"The whistling?"

"Yes, to let you know up in the tree when Baldry comes along. Then, directly Baldry opens the door, you pull the string, and—there you are. Baldry in full plumage. It's all clear enough, isn't it?"

"All clear enough;—but——"

"But what? You're not going to cry off, are you?"

"I'm not going to cry off; but suppose we change places."

"How do you mean?"

"You go up the tree and do the pulling, and let me do the whistling."

"Why, it'll be ever so much more fun to pull the string. I want to give you the best position, you see."

"I know you do, Freddy. I know your good nature; but I'm not going to let you make the sacrifice. I'll do the whistling."

"Very well, if you wish it. I don't mind which I do," said Plunger, in a lofty tone. "Only don't make a mess of it."

"Oh, my part's so simple, I can't make a mess of it. Mind you don't make a mess of yours, Freddy."

Now Harry decided, immediately on quitting Plunger, that he would acquaint Baldry with the joke that Plunger intended to play upon him. It was he who had drawn that cartoon in the Forum that had stirred Plunger to wrath, and Harry came to the conclusion that it was not right that Baldry should suffer for him. Besides, as Plunger had so often scored over him, he thought it only right that he should begin to equalize matters. So he hunted up Baldry, and informed him of Plunger's kind intentions towards him.

"Oh," said Baldry, when Harry had ended, "that's Plunger's little game, is it? I thought he was getting a bit cross, but I didn't think he meant showing his teeth. The beauty of it is, I hadn't anything to do with that portrait of him on the Forum window. I know no more about it than you do."

"Than I do!" echoed Harry, smiling to himself.

"He made a better guess when he told you that I inspired those paragraphs in the Record. I just gave a hint to Jowett. Jowett passed it on to Jessel, and Jessel put in the smart bits that touched Plunger on the raw. Plunger's all right when he's going for other people, but he doesn't like it when others go for him."

Harry quite sympathized with this view of things.

"There's my name," went on Baldry. "I can't help my name. I didn't christen myself, and was never asked whether I liked it or not. That's the worst of names. You never are consulted. It's all done for you by your ancestors, and your godfathers and godmothers—and people of that sort. I don't know why it should be, but it is; and there you are—fixed up for life with a name, unless you happen to be a girl, and get married, then you drop it for another, but it may be ever so much worse than the one you've got. Now, what I say is this—Baldry isn't such a bad name, as names go, is it, Moncrief?"

"Better than Plunger, any day," remarked Harry, in his most sympathetic manner.

"Better than Plunger, as you say, Moncrief. Where Plunger's ancestors picked up a name like that, goodness only knows. It must have come out of the Ark. And yet he's always calling me 'Baldhead,' 'Bladder of Lard,' 'The Lost Hair,' and telling me to go in for hair-restorer, Tatcho, and making feeble jokes of that sort. But I think I went one better when I got that paragraph in the Record, eh?"

"Yes, Baldry you scored there; but what we've got to think about is, how to prevent Plunger from scoring back. Some one will have to go to the Forum in answer to his invitation, when it comes. It won't matter who, because Plunger won't be able to see; he'll be up in the tree, waiting for my whistle. So who's to be the victim?"

Baldry became thoughtful. He ran through the list of his acquaintances whom he thought most deserving of the honour that Plunger proposed to bestow on him. He thought of one or two in his form who might have been available for his purpose, but it was just possible that they were in the confidence of Plunger. So he turned from his own form to the Fifth—"the bounders of the Fifth."

"I've got it," he suddenly exclaimed. "Percival!"

"Percival!" echoed Harry.

"Yes; that's the ticket; the very thing—Percival. If it comes off all right, it'll be a big hit. We shall be covered with glory, and he'll be covered with feathers—ha, ha! It couldn't be better. Do you see how it fits in? A nice little present of feathers for the fellow who showed the white feather at the sand-pit. Isn't it splendid, Moncrief?"

Harry was silent. Percival had been far from his thoughts. He never imagined that Baldry would suggest Percival. For the moment his mind went back to that night when Paul came to Redmead. Once again he could hear the low, earnest tones of his father—"Many thanks for the great service you have done, Paul. You have not only done a great service for me and my brother, but for your country."

"Well, Moncrief; why don't you answer?" came the voice of Baldry. "It's the finest idea that has come to me for a long time. Feathers for the fellow who showed the white feather."

At the words, the image of his father faded from Harry's mind. He could no longer hear the echo of his words. He only saw his cousin's bleeding face as he rose vanquished from the sand-pit; and, side by side with that picture, he saw Percival walking and talking, and shaking hands with "the wretched Beetle—Wyndham," as he had seen him walking and talking and shaking hands with him that afternoon.

"A fine idea—splendid!" he cried. "Nothing could be better. Let Percival be the victim."

HATCHING A PLOT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT

"Nothing could be better. Let Percival be the victim!"

Scarcely were the words out of Harry's lips than Viner come up to Baldry with the notice he was expecting. It was a hectograph copy, announcing that a meeting of the more important members of the Third Form would be held in the Forum at half-past six prompt to consider a matter of pressing importance.

Baldry thanked Viner. Viner smirked and retreated.

"Viner's in the know, that's certain," said Baldry, when he was out of earshot. "Viner's a crawler."

Harry had no great reason to like Viner. It was he who had gone behind him on the day that he had entered Garside, so that Newall might push him over his back. From that incident the quarrel had arisen between Stanley and Newall, and other troubles had followed in its train.

"You're right there; but now what's to be done?"

"Oh, that's easy enough. We've only got to rub out 'Third Form' and put in 'Fifth,' and then send it on to Percival; and there you are."

With the aid of a knife and some hectograph ink this alteration was soon made. The next question was how to get it to Percival without arousing suspicion. As they were considering this point Baldry caught sight of Hibbert crossing the ground.

"There's our messenger," he exclaimed. Then he shouted, "Hibbert, Hibbert!"

Hibbert looked round. Baldry beckoned him, and he came to where they were standing.

"I want you to give this note to Percival. If he asks you where it came from, tell him he will see inside. Then come away. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Hibbert, looking suspiciously at the note.

"Well, run along. It won't bite you."

Hibbert went off reluctantly with the note. It seemed now as though he were as anxious as the rest to avoid Paul. At any rate, he kept out of his way, but he could not very well refuse Baldry's request.

He found Paul by himself, as usual, in the writing-room. He had commenced work in downright earnest on the prize essay.

"Hallo, Hibbert, is that you?" he asked, looking up as the boy entered. "What have you got there?"

Hibbert handed him the notice without a word, but did not beat a retreat according to the instructions he had received.

"Another meeting of the Fifth," Paul said, as much to himself as to Hibbert, when he had glanced at the note. "I wonder they trouble to send to me. It is too great an honour!"

No suspicion as to the genuineness of the note crossed his mind. It was quite usual for Sedgefield, who acted as hon. sec. for the Fifth, to send out his notices with a messenger from the junior forms.

"What's too great an honour, may I ask?" said Hibbert timidly.

Paul explained to him the contents of the notice.

"It's to call me over the coals again, I expect. Shall I go or shan't I?" he asked himself. Then, turning smilingly to the boy: "What would you do if you were in my place, Hibbert?"

"Stay away," said the boy promptly.

"And improve my reputation for courage—eh? Why would you stay away?"

Having so far exceeded his instructions, Hibbert thought he might as well go a little further.

"Because I don't believe that the Fifth had anything to do with that notice. It came from Baldry and Moncrief minor. I believe it's a trick."

Paul, beginning to smell a rat, examined the notice with closer attention, and soon detected the erasion where "Fifth" had been substituted for "Third Form."

"Thanks, Hibbert. I don't know why you should, but you're always doing me a good turn."

"Not half the good turns you've done me," said the boy earnestly, as he went out.

"What's in the wind?" Paul asked himself, when he was alone. "Bitter as Stanley is against me, he can't have set on his cousin to hoax and poke fun at me. Surely not?"

What was it, then? He could not guess; but it seemed to him that he must have sunk very low indeed in the eyes of the school when he had become a target for the junior forms.

"I must put my foot down on that nonsense," he said to himself, as he paced to and fro the room.

At first he thought of making straight for Baldry and Moncrief minor, and demanding what it meant; but on second thoughts he decided against that course, because it would mean mischief to Hibbert. His life at the school would be made more miserable than it was.

"The best thing after all will be to face it—to accept the invitation of Masters Moncrief and Baldry to the Forum to-night. I run the risk of being laughed at, I know, but I'm getting fairly used to that. And it's just possible I may be able to turn the tables."

Having come to this decision, Paul did the wisest thing possible under the circumstances—dismissed the matter from his mind, and went on with his work.

Now it so happened that a meeting of the Fifth had really been called for that evening in the Forum, and still stranger to relate, for the express purpose of discussing Paul. The information that he had been seen in the company of Wyndham, and had actually shaken hands with him, had quickly spread, and the meeting of the Fifth had been called for the express purpose of considering this further development in the feud between the Beetles and the Gargoyles. No notice of this meeting had, however, been sent to Paul.

So it was that about the time Paul was getting ready to go to the Forum, little suspecting the proposed meeting, Newall had already started for it, just as ignorant of the little plot that had been hatched by certain members of the Third. Leveson had had some lines which had kept him late in the class-room, and Newall had taken his place in getting the shed ready for the meeting. Thus it happened he was in advance of the rest.

It was quite dark as Newall made his way to the shed. Harry Moncrief was hiding at the side, with his whistle between his teeth. The figure coming towards the shed in the darkness he took to be the figure of Paul.

"He's up to time," he chuckled to himself. "He's fallen into the trap beautifully."

Newall reached the door of the shed, opened it, and passed in. Simultaneously Harry blew the whistle. At the signal, Plunger pulled the string which communicated with the basket immediately over the doorway, sending its contents showering down on the head of Newall.

Newall gasped and staggered in the darkness, striking out wildly with his arms. He had a confused idea that some enormous bird of prey had suddenly swooped down from the roof, and was flapping its wings over his head.

"Ooshter—ooshter! Get out of it!" he gasped, as he reeled about and struck out wildly at his imaginary foe.

Meantime Plunger had slid down quickly from the tree, and, accompanied by Viner and Bember, who had been awaiting the signal in the rear, rushed round to the front. The three held on to the door, so as to keep their victim floundering about in the darkness till they saw fit to release him.

"Splendid; couldn't be better," chuckled Plunger. "My, isn't old Baldy carrying on?"

His companions could not answer. They were doing their best to smother their laughter.

"My, he's carrying on awful!" went on Plunger. "Breaking up the happy home. Didn't think Baldy had so much spring in him. Seems to be all over the shop. Do you hear him, Moncrief? Where is Moncrief?"

Moncrief had made himself scarce. He had retreated to a safe distance, where Baldry was awaiting him. By the time he reached him, he, too, was exploding with laughter.

"Well, what's happened?" asked Baldry.

"Oh, don't ask me. It's too funny for words."

"Percival's inside?"

"Percival's inside, ramping about like mad, and Plunger, Viner, and Bember are holding the door outside like grim death, and laughing like hyenas over 'old Baldy.' Good, isn't it?"

On that Baldry was seized with a fit of laughter too.

"Good? The best joke we've had at Garside for a long time," answered Baldry, between gasps. "My, what will happen when they find out their mistake? What will they say when they see Percival stagger out instead of 'old Baldy?'"

"Plunger will stagger the most of the two, I reckon," laughed Harry.

"I just reckon he will."

"And I reckon also that he'd better keep out of the reach of Percival."

"Percival!" echoed Baldry contemptuously. "Percival may ramp a good deal, but he's not likely to do much, I'm thinking, after his exhibition at the sand-pits. Percival is——"

"I beg pardon, but did I hear some one mention my name?" came a quiet voice in the rear of Baldry.

Both boys turned promptly round at the voice. To their amazement Percival was standing before them.

"Per—Percival!" exclaimed Harry.

"Per—Percival!" echoed Baldry.

"I happened to be strolling this way, and thought I heard my name; but perhaps I was mistaken."

The boys could not speak. They could only stare with open mouths at Percival. It was a shadowy figure that stood before them in the darkness. Was it indeed Percival, or was it his ghost?

"Y—y—yes; we—we—were speaking about you," stammered Baldry, at length. "We—were—just wondering—how you were getting on."

"It's very kind of you to think of me," said Paul, with a quiet smile.

Paul, quite ignorant of what had transpired in the shed, thought for the moment whether he had better tackle Baldry and Moncrief minor then and there as to their motive in desiring him to go to the shed, but on second thoughts he decided to find out for himself; so he passed on.

"Pinch me—punch me—kick me", exclaimed Harry. "Am I awake or am I dreaming, Baldry?"

"It was Percival right enough."

"Then who—who's—in—the shed?" gasped Harry, a cold perspiration coming to his brow.

"What an idiotic question to ask me," retorted Baldry indignantly. "You ought to know best. Are you sure there's anybody in the shed at all?"

"I'm sure of that. And—and—I could have sworn it was Percival."

"You've made a nice mess of it."

"Well, if I have made a mess of it, I've kept you out of it," retorted Harry, beginning to feel sore at the tone taken by Baldry. "After all, Plunger and the others will be taken in a good deal more than we've been, remember. He still thinks it's you he's got a prisoner."

"Ah, yes, so he does," exclaimed Baldry, breaking into laughter again; "I'd forgotten that. When that door opens it'll be one of the best little surprise packets Plunger's ever had in his life. Hallo, here comes a lot of the Fifth fellows, and they seem making for the shed, too!"

The shadowy figures of Arbery, Parfitt, Hasluck, and a couple of others passed within a short distance of where the two boys were standing. They were conversing eagerly together.

There was silence between them for a moment; then an unearthly yell rose on the air.

"Goodness! What was that? Enough to lift your hair off, wasn't it, Moncrief?"

Harry did not answer. He was trying to pierce the darkness to see what was happening in the direction of the shed.

THE LAST BOND OF FRIENDSHIP

While Harry had been explaining to Baldry what had happened at the shed, Plunger and his two companions held fast to the door, under the impression that Baldry was within. Plunger was in a high state of glee at the capture he had made, and as soon as Harry had gone commenced crowing loudly, explaining as he did so that "as old Baldy seemed to be going in for dancing, he must give him a tune to dance to."

"Put the soft pedal on for a bit, Freddy," said Viner. "He's saying things to himself. Let's listen."

Plunger, who had nearly crowed himself hoarse, kept silent for a moment, as a smothered voice from within travelled through the door.

"Open the door—open the door!"

"Keep your wool on, Baldy!" retorted Plunger, in his most provoking tones. "Drop the clog-dancing, and give us a song; it's getting monotonous. What's the best rhyme for Baldy? How're the birds, beasts, and fishes getting on? What's the kingdom you've sprinted to—animal, vegetable, or mineral? Any more paragraphs for Jessell? We'll take them along."

"Open the door! I'll—I'll smash you when I get out of this!" came the voice from within.

"Smash us? Oh, oh, Baldy!" commenced Plunger, but Viner stopped him.

"Quiet, Freddy. Listen a moment. It doesn't sound to me like Baldy."

"Will you open that door? I'll pay you out for this! I'll—I'll——"

"Why—why, it's Newall!" whispered Plunger, aghast. "How's he got in there?"

"Don't ask me," said Viner, turning cold, for he had always been on particularly good terms with Newall.

"Can there be two of them in there, do you think?" suggested Bember.

"Ah, I see it all!" said Plunger, a light beginning to dawn upon him. "Moncrief minor's let us in for this. That's the reason he's bolted."

"Seems to me we'd better bolt too," exclaimed Bember. "There won't be much left of you, Freddy, if Newall gets hold of you."

"What price you? You're just as much in it as I am."

But Bember's advice commended itself to Plunger and Viner, neither of whom was desirous of meeting their captive when he was released, so, suddenly letting go their hold of the door, they bolted with all speed in the direction of the school.

Newall continued shouting his threats at the top of his voice for a few moments before he discovered that no one was on guard outside; then he flung open the door, and dashed through with a yell, just as Arbery, Parfitt, Hasluck, and others of the Fifth had started for the shed. They came to a sudden stop when they saw the extraordinary figure that rushed towards them in the darkness. And well they might, for Newall, smothered in feathers from head to foot, presented one of the most extraordinary sights it is possible to imagine.

"What is it?" asked Arbery, in an awestruck whisper.

"Ask me another. It—it looks like——"

But before Hasluck could explain what it looked like Newall had dashed up to them.

"Newall!" came the astonished cry.

"Who—who's been doing this?" he cried, glaring fiercely round on his companions.

"Doing what?" asked Hasluck.

"Can't you see? Nearly smothering me with feathers, and fastening me in the Forum."

"We know nothing of it. We were just coming to the meeting when we heard the shouting," answered Parfitt, in an injured tone. "Is it likely we'd play a trick on you, Newall?"

"It sounded like some of those imps of the Third. They were talking to me as if I were Baldry."

At this moment Paul joined the group, wondering what was the matter. Directly Newall caught sight of him, he turned towards him fiercely:

"Do you know anything of this? Had you a hand in it?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," answered Paul coldly.

"Of course not. You never do when it suits your purpose. Can we believe anything from the fellow who shakes hands with a Beetle—with the enemy of Garside?" came the sneering answer.

Paul staggered back as though he had been struck. Some one had seen him shake hands with Wyndham then, and, without knowing the facts, his enemies were already putting the worst possible construction on it. Stanley had joined the group as Newall was speaking.

"If you can't believe anything I say, what's the use of asking me questions? It seems to me a waste of breath."

"Did you or did you not set those fellows on to keep me in the shed?" demanded Newall hotly.

"I'm not going to answer you," said Paul firmly.

"Then perhaps you'll answer me," said Stanley, stepping forward to Newall's side, pale to the lips.

Paul had not noticed his arrival, and did not know that he was present till he heard his voice. It stirred the old feeling of love and friendship within him, though there was little that was friendly in its tone.

"Answer you what, Stan?" asked Paul, in softer tones.

Stanley knew little of the grounds of the present dispute, but he guessed that he could not be far wrong in repeating the question that Newall had just put. So he repeated it.

"Yes, I'll answer it," came Paul's response, "for whatever else you may think me guilty of, Stanley, I don't think you'll believe me guilty of telling a deliberate falsehood. I haven't set anybody on to keep Newall a prisoner in the shed, and, whatever has happened to him, I've had no hand in it."

He spoke with such earnestness and sincerity that there was scarcely any one present, with perhaps the exception of Newall himself, who doubted him.

"I think you can take Percival's word for it," said Stanley, turning to Newall.

"Thanks so much for one crumb of confidence." Paul, in spite of himself, could not prevent a slight accent of bitterness creeping into his voice. "It is really very good of you to think that my word may be taken, and I hope you won't think me ungrateful."

"If you say his word may be taken, Moncrief," said Newall, with a shrug of his shoulders, "that's enough. But as you have so much confidence in him, you'd better question him about the Beetle."

"I was going to," answered Stanley, as, once more turning to Paul, he asked: "One of the fellows saw you speaking to a Beetle yesterday. Is that true?"

"Quite true."

"Shaking hands with him?"

"Yes."

Stanley groaned inwardly. He had hoped that it was a mistake—that his cousin's eyes had deceived him, but there was no mistake. It was only too true. He turned away, unable to hide the disappointment on his face. Paul caught a glimpse of it in spite of the darkness, and was about to speak, but Newall quickly interposed.

"There's another question which Moncrief's modesty prevents him from asking," he said, with a sneer. "We've been given to understand that the Beetle you shook hands with is the same Beetle who knocked Moncrief about in the sand-pit. Is that true, too?"

Paul was silent, as though he still stood to the resolution he had made not to answer Newall.

"Is it—is it?" demanded Stanley, turning swiftly round again, his tone almost as fierce as Newall's had been.

"Yes; it is true." Then he added in a lower voice: "There are things I can't explain. Will you meet me quietly, by yourself, just for a few minutes, Stanley?"

"There's nothing I'm ashamed of. I've no secrets," came the proud, cold answer. "If you've anything to explain, explain it now—in the presence of my friend Newall and the rest!"

"My friend Newall!" The words froze up all the warmer feelings in Paul's breast. It was as though Stanley had taken a knife from his pocket, and with one cruel stroke severed the last bond of friendship between them, and had then bound with firmer hand the bonds that bound him to Newall.

"Very well. If that is your last word, I've spoken my last word too."

And Paul turned on his heel, leaving them to draw what conclusions they liked from his answer.

Newall and his companions set to work removing the feathers which had descended on him in such a shower, and while they were actively engaged in it Waterman came leisurely along, late as usual, and drawled out:

"Hallo, Newall! What's wrong? Been moulting?"

Newall disdained to answer. It was some time before he got clear of the feathers, and then they left unmistakable marks.

"It won't be long before I find out who served me this trick," he said; "but I don't think we want to go to the shed now over the other matter."

"Newall's had more than enough of the shed already, seems to me," drawled Waterman.

"Dry up, Water. You're getting it on the brain," responded Newall gruffly.

"I think Newall's quite right," said Stanley. "There's no need for any meeting now. We've found out that it's all true enough about Percival—that he has met a Beetle, that he has spoken to him, that he has shaken hands with him that he is on friendly terms with him. He's admitted it, so it's no use going to the shed."

There was a murmur of assent.

"Well, but you can't leave it at that. Something more must be done, else Percival will be laughing at us in his sleeve," said Parfitt.

"Why not—why shouldn't we leave it at that?" said Waterman. "What's the use of worrying over trifles? Percival talks to a Beetle. Why on earth shouldn't he, if he likes it? Percival shakes hands with a Beetle. Again, I ask, where's the objection, so long as he doesn't want me to do it, or any other fellow in the Form. What's the use of making such an awful smoke?"

"I think we'd better truss him with Waterman," suggested Newall.

"That's better than being feathered anyhow," retorted Waterman coolly.

"Come, what's to be done? We can't stay here all night," said Hasluck. "Leveson will be up presently with his stop-watch."

"We oughtn't to have a fellow like Percival in the school," Parfitt commented. "The thing is how to get rid of him. We can't go up to Weevil and ask that he shall be turned out. And we can't do what we'd like to do—kick him out."

"No, we can't very well do that," struck in Newall. "There's only one way."

"What's that?" cried four or five in chorus.

"Make it too warm for the school to hold him."

"No, no; don't do that," came in quick, tense tones from Stanley. "I wouldn't like to be one to drive Percival from Garside."

"Nor I," added Waterman, with unusual emphasis for him.

"You!" retorted Newall contemptuously; "you don't count. Moncrief does. What's your objection, Moncrief?"

"Percival was once my friend," came the sad answer.

"Friend!" was the scornful reply.