CLIVE AND HIS FRIENDS TRIUMPHANT

That shout for help brought a scurrying crowd swooping over the frozen surface of the lake toward the spot where the ice had broken. It was taken up by more than a hundred. Small boys—kids, as Masters scoffingly designated them—gave voice to the call in high-pitched falsettos. Those of the senior school gave ear to the calls, and bore down upon the spot in silence. Canning—Masters' bête noire—threw away his cigarette and scuttled over the ice at a rate which was marvellous. But Clive was there first, and we speak the truth when we say that he was flabbergasted. Talk about a fellow being trained to be ready to meet any emergency! Clive was out of the running. He hadn't an idea. For at least twenty seconds he stared at Susanne's face, peeping out of the water, as if the sight robbed him of reason. And then his inventive brain set to work.

"Hold on to the edge of the ice," he bellowed. "There's a ladder back over there. We'll send for it. Look out, I'm coming."

Susanne nodded cheerfully. He had his arm round the waist of the lady who had been immersed, and grinned at Clive.

"Hurry up, then," he bellowed. "Don't mind myself, you know, but there's the lady."

What was Trendall doing? Clive saw him grip in frenzied fashion at the ice and slip off. He made another effort, and then stretched his arms over his head. Was he sinking? wondered Clive.

"Look out," he yelled, slipping to his knees and crawling toward the dark and jagged-edged hole. "Look out for Trendall."

Susanne cast his eye over his shoulder, hitched the elbow about the lady on the edge of the ice and gripped Trendall. He pushed him against the edge of the ice, and then finding his own grip slipping, he let go his hold.

"Hold tight there," he shouted.

"Hold to the ice," bellowed Clive, sliding nearer and now flat on his face. "Hold to the ice, Trendall. Get away from Susanne."

But Trendall was not only exhausted; he was in a panic. Slipping from the ice again, he touched Susanne's shoulder, and then gripped it. Out shot the other hand and fastened about him. The three—Trendall, Susanne, and the lady—bobbed down beneath the water.

"Let go! Let go, Trendall, you idiot!" shouted Clive, and then glanced over his shoulder. There was a ring of fellows round the gap in the ice, kept at a respectful distance by two of the prefects. Behind them again were some dozen of the seniors scudding away for the ladder for which Clive now shouted. Harvey was coming in Clive's wake, very cautiously, but not for fear of his own safety, while Rawlings stood irresolute, and when he saw that he was attracting attention, slunk to the rear of the gathering.

"Go quietly there, Darrell," Harvey called. "The ice is awfully rotten and will let you in if you're rash. I'll be as near as possible, and as soon as the ladder comes I'll push it right out to you. Ah! That chap Trendall will drown the lot of them. Leave go there, Trendall!" he shouted peremptorily.

But the fat and greasy senior who had toadied to Rawlings, and who had taken his part against Bert and Hugh and Clive, may be said at the moment to have been completely out of his element. Such a catastrophe as this was just the thing to test a fellow's courage, and Trendall did not shine at all. Susanne, on the contrary, might, but for the awkward turn events had now taken, have been merely enjoying a bath. But matters were too desperate for enjoyment. Trendall had firm hold of him, and though Susanne made a valiant effort, the hulking senior was dragging him down and the lady also. It was then that Clive acted. The crowd gathered behind first held their breath and then cheered him. In his enthusiasm Masters dashed forward, and throwing himself on his face wriggled towards him; while Hugh skated over the ice reckless of the consequences, till a stern command from Mr. Canning caused both to halt. For Clive had plunged forward.

"Look out, Susanne!" he called. "I'm coming in to help. You hand the lady over to me and then tackle Trendall. The fellow's gone stark, staring mad."

"'LOOK OUT, SUSANNE! I'M COMING IN TO HELP'"

Wriggling his way rapidly forward he was near the broken edge within a few seconds, when, as was to be expected, the ice broke with a soft, grating sound, letting him into the freezing water. And it was high time that someone came to Susanne's help, for that young fellow had more to fight against than he had strength for. He struck savagely at Trendall, but without result. He was dragged under by the combined weight of the lady and the lout who had now seized him. Clive even noticed that his face had gone a purply red colour, while when he came to the surface Susanne gasped for breath frantically, showing how immersion was telling upon him.

"Hand over the lady. Beat that cad off," bellowed Clive, striking out for the trio. "Now Susanne, hand over."

Fellows would have laughed at Clive at any other time, for it was ludicrous to see one of his small stature grasping the waist of a lady decidedly bigger than he. But the event was too serious. Also there was so much movement. For there were others bent on rescue. Harvey was there, and with one glance over his shoulder, and a caution to the prefects to keep the crowd back, he floundered across the ice and broke his way into the dark fluid in which the four were now floating.

"Push that ladder out quick," he shouted, as he sank into the water. "Send young Seymour and Masters forward. They can both swim and are light weights. Ah! Sturton, get together one or two of the senior fellows, and if things get worse come in in a body."

Then he left the edge of the ice and struck out. As for Sturton, if Harvey had not already gone to the rescue, he would have done so most certainly. But as we have said before, he could be counted on always to back up his senior loyally. He swung round on the crowd of boys instantly.

"Newman, you'll do," he said, beckoning a stoutly built fellow to him. "Collins Primus too. There's Jimmy Pritchard. Coming, eh?"

"Rather. Ready for anything," was the quick answer as the young men selected skated forward.

"Then Gaspard also. He's a swimmer, and you, Rawlings."

All came to the front. All? No. Rawlings seemed to be deaf. Sturton had recognised him standing at the back of the crowd, and at the summons Rawlings had sidled away. In the distance, coming towards him at a fast pace, he espied a group of fellows bearing the ladder for which Clive had shouted. In a second he seized upon the opportunity and turned away. But Sturton knew his man, and summoned him again in a voice there was no denying.

"Rawlings," he called. "I shouted for you. You're either deaf and did not hear, or—coming?"

There was no way out of it. The lordly youth who had made matters so disagreeable both at home and at the school for Clive and his friends turned with as good a grace as he could summon, and pushed his way through the crowd.

"Did you call?" he asked lamely.

"Did he call?" echoed one of the prefects satirically, a chum of Sturton's, one, too, who had taken Rawlings' measure long ago. "Every man in the school heard your name."

"But you," interjected Barrold, a puny Sixth Form fellow, who made up for lack of inches by inordinate go and good spirits.

"Perhaps he didn't though," broke in Bagshaw, the scribe of Ranleigh, the scholar who was most often to be seen arm in arm with Harvey. Everyone knew that Bagshaw was the prince of good fellows, always anxious to save a row. They knew, too, that footer and cricket and swimming were forbidden to him. And yet Bagshaw pushed himself forward.

"Here, Sturton," he said brusquely, "let me come. I'm always put in the background. Rawlings is a strong chap and can help to manage the ladder."

And thus the incident was passed over. In the heat and excitement of the moment, too, there was every opportunity for fellows to forget it. Few, indeed, had overheard the satirical words uttered by Barrold and the other prefect. Still fewer had noticed the flush which came to Rawlings' face to hide the pallor with which it had been covered a moment before. And none were witness of the mutterings he gave vent to as he turned to meet the bearers of the ladder. But Sturton knew, the delicate Bagshaw also, that Rawlings had funked. Hugh Seymour learned of it, too, on the morrow.

Meanwhile, all eyes were fixed on the figures struggling in the water. Clive had relieved Susanne of his burden, and clung with his free hand to the ice. As to the jovial Susanne, things were going hard with him. Had he been called upon some three minutes earlier to free himself of the fellow clinging like a limpet to him, he would doubtless have succeeded, though not with ease, for the arms and grip of a drowning man are not quickly to be thrown off. But the young chap had been pulled beneath the surface of the water so often that he was already exhausted. Trendall still clung firmly to him. Even Clive could make no impression on those clawing hands, though he made an attempt to do so, hooking his elbow on the ice as Susanne had done. He was feeling desperate indeed, in his helplessness; for Susanne was more often under the water than above it.

"Supposing he gets under the ice! That chap's drowning him. Hi! Help!" he bellowed.

And then Harvey came into view. The Captain of the School cleft the ice debris and the water with lusty strokes, and was soon close to Susanne. He tugged, too, at those encircling arms, but they defied him. Then, while the crowd watching held their breath, he lifted one arm, doubled his fist, and brought it crash down on the head of Trendall. And that had the desired effect. The grip slackened. The two drowning lads separated. A second or so later there was a loud splash near at hand, and Sturton plunged into the icy water.

"Saw you'd more than you could manage, old chap," he said curtly to Harvey. "So came along to help. You fix that chap Trendall. I'll manage Feofé. Well done, Darrell! One South's looking up, eh? How's the lady?"

"Insensible, I think. She's very heavy. But I can manage. Ah! I'm awfully glad you've got him."

Sturton had gripped Susanne by then, and now had his head clear of the water. The big head of the Frenchman, with its dripping, tousled mat of hair, lay on his shoulder. The face was deadly pale, as pale as that of the lady he had been supporting, as white and blanched as that even of Rawlings as he heard Sturton's summons. His eyes were tightly closed. The cheeks seemed to have fallen in. A frightful feeling of despair assailed Clive Darrell. At that instant he seemed to be able for the first time to measure his friendship for Susanne.

"Hooray for Ranleigh! Hold on to them, you chaps! Well done, Darrell! Three cheers for Harvey and Sturton!"

The crowd went frantic and delirious with delight at the dash and success of their comrades. Now that Harvey and Sturton had gone to help, not one but deemed the rescue certain, if not quite complete. The boys yelled themselves hoarse. Some danced on their skates with excitement. Mr. Canning alone seemed to retain his self-possession. Dodging from side to side all this while, anxiously watching what was passing, he had long ago slipped off coat and waistcoat. Perhaps he was fifty years of age. At any rate, his hair was white at the temples, and from the point of view of the fellows at Ranleigh that stamped him as an old man. But he was active enough, though not so much so as Harvey. Still, he was ready himself to plunge to the rescue should more help be needed, and for the moment he kept the boys back, and kept his head, which was, after all, a more important undertaking.

"Ah! There's the ladder," he exclaimed in tones of relief, as Rawlings and a number of others appeared. "Hand it to me. That's right, slide it flat over the surface. Now, keep that crowd well back. Well done, young Seymour! Hullo, that you, Masters?"

This latter individual gave his form master a curt nod. There was no rudeness meant. Only Masters was intensely excited, intensely eager to see his chum Clive in safety. He answered Mr. Canning just as he would have answered any other fellow at the moment.

"Gently does it. I'm too big a weight to go too far forward. Seymour, you're light enough. If the ice gives and lets you in I'll come after you. Now, on we go. As quick as we can."

Hugh made up his mind how to act in a moment. He stepped on to the rungs of the ladder, lay flat down on it as if it were a sledge, and then called back to Masters and to Mr. Canning.

"Push her along," he said, unwinding the long scarf he had wrapped round his neck. "The ice is cracking a little, but I think it'll bear. Farther. A little farther."

Thrusting the ladder before them, the two behind soon had the satisfaction of seeing Hugh within reach almost of Clive. Then there was an ominous cracking. The surface of the ice sank beneath Hugh and was swamped with water. A moment or two later it gave way, letting him into the lake. Then a coil of rope swished across Masters' shoulder, tossed by a keeper who had suddenly come upon the scene.

"Shunt the ladder round to the far side, sir," he called. "There's a spring over here, and that makes the ice rotten. Shunt it round, then tie the rope and go ahead. You'll have to be quick. Them chaps is more'n half frozen."

Clive felt numbed through already. He could see Harvey's lips shivering, and his teeth chattering. Sturton, too, looked blue, while Hugh, who had swum over to join him, looked pinched and desperately cold. Anxiously they watched as Masters tied the rope to the end of the ladder, and then with Mr. Canning's help changed its position. Once more it was thrust forward, this time with Masters flat upon the narrow end.

"Heave!" shouted the keeper. Masters took the coil and sent it twirling over the group in the water. Harvey caught it.

"Here," he gasped, nodding to Clive. "Take it. Seymour'll help you with the lady."

They made a turn round her waist, and then as Masters drew upon the rope they pushed and helped the body of the unconscious lady on to the ice. A terrific cheer greeted this successful operation. Masters drew the lady toward him, swiftly threw off the rope and tossed it back to his comrades, and then backed with his burden.

"Well done! Well done, indeed!" cried Mr. Canning. "Here, Bagshaw and some of you others, carry her away to safety. Ah, they're sending Feofé next."

The ungainly form of the gallant Susanne was slowly hoisted on to the ice and dragged towards the crowd. Bert was the first to make his way to the front to receive him, and once with Bagshaw's help having carried him to the rear of the crowd, he set about reviving him in a manner quite scientific. He rolled and squeezed Susanne till one might have accused him of positive roughness. He worked till his breath came in gasps, and until another of the fellows came in to assist him.

Meanwhile, there remained in the water Trendall and four others, and soon enough the former was sent to safety.

"Now," said Harvey, when the rope came swishing over them again, "Darrell." But Clive showed no keenness.

"Quick!" commanded Harvey. "Off you go."

"Please," began Clive, for to argue with the great Harvey seemed a sacrilege—"please, Harvey——"

"Eh? What on earth's the matter with the kid?" demanded that latter. "Look here, we're all of us jolly well frozen. I am, at any rate. Ranleigh don't want to have to record a death on this occasion. So out you go."

But again Clive objected. "Oh, I say, Harvey, please——" he began. "I—you know——"

Harvey scowled. The pleasant-faced captain of the school actually scowled. Had he been on terra firma and this Darrell dared to disobey his glance even, Harvey would have booted him.

"Yes, I'd boot the little beggar," he said angrily, for he was still fearful of what might happen. But Sturton knew his man to a T. He leaned over, all dripping as he was, and whispered to Harvey.

"Leave the kid," he said. "He was first here, and he makes it a sort of point of honour. Leave the kid, Harvey."

Thereat the Captain grunted. He looked closely at Clive, and then motioned to Sturton.

"You go, then," he said. "But you'll explain. It's the place of the captain of anything, whether ship or school, to go last out of danger. But, dash it, this kid's worth making an exception for. Heave up, Sturton. I'm keen to get out of this water."

And that was how it happened that Clive left the hole in the ice last. The cheers which greeted the coming of each one of them were thunderous. They even brought a chilly blush to Clive's cheeks. But he was given very little time in which to listen.

"Get off back to the school," commanded Sturton. "Here, you Hugh Seymour and Darrell, cut quick. Report to the matron when you're back. Run all the way. I'll boot you if you don't. Do you hear? Skip, then."

"And ask Mrs. Tyndal to have hot bottles and blankets ready," shouted Mr. Canning, who was bustling from Feofé to Trendall, and back to the still unconscious lady. "We'll get some sort of conveyance and send them up. Now, you boys, strip off your skates and help to carry our patients."

Thanks to the fact that the Headmaster of Ranleigh was an enlightened individual and believed in teaching his scholars other things than merely Greek, Latin, and Mathematics, there were numbers of the fellows who, like Bert, had more than a smattering of the art of First-Aid. Still, the surface of a frozen lake is not the best of places on which to revive semi-drowned individuals. And then, unconsciousness in all three cases was due perhaps in great degree to cold and exposure. There were not wanting willing hands to carry Susanne, the lady, and Trendall to the big house adjacent to the lake, where hot baths administered by the housekeeper and her attendants soon helped matters wonderfully. But it was late in the evening before Mr. Canning set out with two blanketed figures. By then Clive and Hugh had put in an appearance, glowing from head to foot after their sharp run up to the school. Sturton and Harvey were not long in following, and by tea time a hot bath had made the glow about their bodies permanent. They descended to the Hall in a body, the school being already assembled, and we record only the truth when we say that their appearance was the signal for an outburst of enthusiasm entirely unprecedented. Never before had Ranleigh been so stirred. Never before had there been an event quite so exciting. Ranleigh was known far and wide for the strength of its lungs, for the liberality and genuineness of its applause. But now the school went mad. Defying fines, boys stood on the tables and cheered as Clive and Hugh and Sturton and Harvey went to their places. The fellows cheered themselves hoarse, and called for speeches. Then the sudden appearance of the Headmaster put a damper for the moment on their enthusiasm.

Let us more fully describe the one who held in his hands the administration of Ranleigh. Not tall, as we have said already, not perhaps very striking in appearance, Dr. Layman yet attracted and held the interest and sympathy of any body of people he cared to address. Clean-shaven, save for a pair of whiskers, grey-headed, he presented a face which was the essence of kindness. A pair of twinkling eyes were wont to look down upon the school, whether from his seat in Chapel, or from the dais in Hall. Austere some would have called him, those who looked but once at his face. A jolly, rollicking fellow the boys knew him to be, save when there was occasion for severity. And now he stood of a sudden before them. Did he notice those who, contrary to all regulations, contrary, indeed, to all precedent, had mounted the tables in their enthusiasm? If he did, he showed no sign of having done so, while they slunk back to a more decorous position.

"Boys," he began, shutting his eyes as was his wont when addressing an audience, "boys of Ranleigh, to-day I am a proud man."

They made the old Hall ring with their cheers and shouts. Evans Tertius even, the smallest of all there, raised a shrill voice to swell the cheering of his comrades. And then silence fell again, a silence that was trying.

"Boys of Ranleigh, I feel that I have reason to be proud of this school to-day. For some of your comrades have behaved with heroism, while all have shown coolness in time of danger. I need mention no names. Those who have done best of all are well known to you. I congratulate them, and I congratulate the school on having them amongst us. That is all. Trendall and Feofé and the lady are now recovered, I am glad to say. Boys, there will be no preparation this evening."

Yes, Ranleigh cheered again. The boys shouted themselves hoarse, even when the Doctor had left them. And then, Nature asserting herself, they sat down to discuss the meal, for appetites were keen after the skating. We can believe, too, that the affair was discussed threadbare before evening was ended, while glances turned frequently towards Clive and the others. Some, too, were turned in Rawlings' direction.

"The fellow funked," said Barford deliberately.

"No," corrected Bagshaw politely. "Look here, Barford, don't say that. I'm not too fond of Rawlings, I own. But if the school got to think a thing like that he'd never have another decent minute. Let him have the benefit of the doubt. The thing'll be a lesson to him."

As for Masters, delighted with the ending of such an adventure, and forgetful for the moment of his ill luck when at dinner, he sat down after tea with that wonderful pen of Clive's invention and began upon the task which Mr. Canning had set him.

"Beastly cad," he told himself, but with far less bitterness than on that same afternoon. "But he bucked up awfully well to-day. You could see he was ready to go in and help the others. All the same, what's he want to give me such an impot for? Beast, I call him."

"Oh, hullo," called a voice at the doorway. "That you, Masters?"

The owner of the name admitted the fact with reddened face. "Yes, sir," he said lamely.

"Writing?"

"Yes, sir."

"Home?"

"No, sir."

"Or doing impots?"

Mr. Canning grinned. It was like the cad, thought Masters for a moment. Then, catching something out of the usual in the master's smile, he permitted himself to smile back in return.

"Impots, sir," he said.

"Ah! There's a time and a place for everything, eh, Masters?"

What could the young fellow do but grin? Mr. Canning looked absolutely genial. Now that Masters came to look at him more closely and less severely he was bound to admit that he wasn't a bad sort of fellow.

"Though beastly fond of giving impots," he thought.

"Doing it now, sir," he said.

"But there's no prep.," suggested Mr. Canning.

"Impots aren't prep., sir," came the answer.

"No, but there's a time and a place for everything, and to-night's the time for enjoyment. Leave that impot, boy. I'll take it as presented."

He was gone in a moment, leaving Masters with a very red face indeed. "Well, I'm jiggered!" that young hopeful exclaimed, when at length he had recovered his balance. "I say, Seymour, Canning isn't a bad sort, is he? Did rather well to-day, eh? Not half a bad fellow. Think I shall patronise him in the future."

The climax of all came when they were ranged in order for Chapel. The great Harvey, smiling and serene as ever, passed down the lines of boys, and happened to hit on Masters.

"Hullo," he called. "I say, Masters, thanks."

The words almost caused another paroxysm of cheering. Masters went the colour of a beetroot.

"And, by the way," added Harvey, "about that ink stain. Expect it was an accident. I'll see the right people. Half a crown's too big a fine. Supposing we forget it?"

PLANS FOR AN OUTING

Round about the "tortoise" stove in the workshop at Ranleigh the tongues of certain of the boys wagged with a vigour there was no denying and no checking. Susanne held the post of honour, seated on an up-turned box in front of the stove, his feet on the high, bent-iron fender which kept the hot cinders from coming into contact with the piles of shavings littering the floor. Clive lolled back, his shoulders against the corner of the nearest bench, while Masters occupied a place on the same form.

"My! They don't smell half good," reflected Hugh, sniffing with decided appreciation at the roasting apples placed on top of the stove. "There's apples and apples."

"And orchards and orchards," chipped in Masters.

"And some of them are easier to get at than others, eh?" smiled Bert, prodding a baking potato with the broken prongs of an old fork. "There never was a place such as this is for a wet day. Of course, when one's a senior it's easy enough to bag one of the Fives Courts and have a game. But not being a senior, of course——"

"You have to descend to the workshop," laughed Susanne. "It's good enough for me, anyway. I suppose if we all did as you'd have us, you'd be at Fives, Hugh in the Gym, and Clive hammering iron in the forge. As to Masters——"

"Ah!" grinned that unabashed youth, "I know what you're going to say. Of course, I'd be sweating at impots for that cad Canning. Now, would you believe it? after letting me off the one about a time and a place, the very day after he set me another. That's Canning all over."

There was a grimace as he ended. Masters had found Mr. Canning a strange mixture indeed, for whereas he had experienced his benevolence on the night after the rescue of those who had been plunged into the water, the master had been down upon him like a ton of bricks on the following day.

"Masters, you're not attending. What was the passage we were then construing?"

Masters made a wild shot, one which went very wide of the mark too.

"And that's what we were doing, then?" asked Mr. Canning sweetly.

"Yes, sir—at least, that's the best I can remember."

"Indeed. Your memory is very defective. We were not even dealing with the page in which that passage occurs. As I said, you were not attending, and as you have thereby lost the benefit of the excellent rendering given us by Martin Secundus, you had better write me out page 46, both in Latin and English."

"The beast!" Masters had muttered. "Always down on me! Wish I'd never come to Ranleigh. Talk about freedom and fair treatment! A fellow's down-trodden at this place. That Canning's a tyrant."

But he was whistling within a few minutes, at the end of the lesson, and would have forgotten the "impot" but for a reminder addressed by one of his fellows. That sent him post-haste to discover Martin Secundus.

"What did you want to give that Canning a rendering for?" he demanded roughly, for Martin was of the small order. "See what you've let me in for, too! I've got to write out page 46 in Latin and English."

"Sorry, but your own fault," was the retort, small comfort for Masters.

"Oh, my own fault, eh? Look here, Martin, you've landed me into this impot and will have to help."

"Have?" smiled the other. "I like that!"

"Like it or not, you'll help," came the answer. "Or——"

"Or what?" demanded Martin, not in the least put out. He wasn't afraid of Masters, not in the least, for they had had many a scuffle. He rather liked the fellow, as a matter of fact. But "have"—that was a large order.

"Or——" began the desperate Masters, and then relapsed into a smile. "Oh, look here, Martin, you can do these things standing on your head. I hate Latin. It gives me a headache. Come along to my tuck-box. I had a hamper arrive last week, and we can talk about the impot while we're feeding."

Wise Masters! More than one at Ranleigh had found their way to his notice, if not to his friendship, by offering food. And here he was using the same method of persuasion. However, the "old firm," as Clive, Bert and Hugh, Masters and Susanne had designated themselves, were engaged in discussion round the workshop stove, and we must not forget them.

"As to Masters," declared Susanne, having been interrupted by that young fellow, "as to our friend Masters, he'd probably be found asleep, or at the tuck, or washing himself in ink."

The sally brought a howl from the others. Masters was not likely soon to be allowed to forget that incident. The mere mention of it roused him to a fury. He shot up as if he had been kicked and leaned across to strike at Susanne. But Clive cocked a leg on to the top of the stove and thereby intercepted him.

"Look here," he began, "do let's talk sense."

"Then you shut up altogether. That's the only way to make it possible," retorted the angered Masters, sitting down with a bang.

"And decide what we're going to do and how it's to be done," went on Clive, without notice of the interruption.

"We've decided to go, then?" demanded Bert.

"Rather!" cried Hugh.

"I wouldn't miss the show for worlds," declared Clive.

"There'll be heaps of Frenchmen there," suggested Susanne, with a cool shake of his head. "I'm nearly sure to know some of them. That'd mean a feed, eh?"

The idea was wonderfully attractive. "Of course," suggested Masters, with furrowed brow, "if you didn't know any of them it wouldn't make any great difference. They'd be awfully glad to see you, and——"

"Me, yes," agreed Susanne. "But my friends—well, that's a tall order."

There were signs of dissension at once. "But you'd never be such a sneak as to accept a feed and leave us in the lurch," blurted out Hugh. "If we go, we all go together. If there's a feed——"

"We all feed together," grinned Masters.

"But we aren't there yet," Clive reminded them. "Now, do let's get to business. There's to be a meeting of aeroplanists at Guildford. That's settled."

They all nodded their agreement. Hugh interrupted further conversation for the moment to lift the frizzling apples from the stove and hand one to each of the gathering. "Can't talk without eating," he said. "Now let's get on with it. There's an aeroplane meeting."

"The old firm's going, lock, stock and barrel," interjected Masters, with decision.

"If it can be arranged."

"It can," Clive corrected Bert. "What's to prevent us?"

"The Head! Guildford's out of bounds, in any case. There'd be ructions if a Ranleigh boy were found there."

"But one won't, that's just it," asserted Clive. What "it" was exactly he failed to explain. However, he soon cleared up the resulting mystery.

"Who's going to be such an ass as to go in a school cap?" he asked haughtily. "We'll sneak our bowlers out of store and no one'll be the wiser."

"But how are we to get there?" asked Bert. "That's the question we started with. Everyone knows there's to be such a show. Guildford's a long step away, and the train's out of the question."

"Ah, but you've forgotten Higgins. There's Higgins," Clive reminded them.

Yes, there was Higgins, one of those artful, ingratiating scoundrels ever the dread of a Headmaster, ever the attraction of fellows at school. For this man in question, like many another at other schools than Ranleigh, stocked articles contraband at the school but much sought after by boys. The master of a sweet-stuff shop, wherein was combined a tobacconist business, he could be visited by those who had obtained a pass to the village. Stores of cigarettes were obtained from him. Susanne, whose bad habits had commenced with a somewhat liberal or free education in France prior to coming to England, had no difficulty in purchasing there what smokes he required; while one boy of Clive's acquaintance had even bought a revolver, though for what purpose even he could not say.

"There's Higgins, yes," reflected Clive.

"Who's all serene. He's offered to take us in a brake he can hire. We can join him up at the back of the school and none be the wiser. Call the trip ten miles there, and the same back. Well, we're on the spot in a little more than an hour."

Masters turned a glowing countenance to his friends. But Clive showed disapproval.

"An hour or more. What's the use of wasting all that time on the road? Let's do the thing in style or not at all. Let's go by motor. Higgins can manage that just as easily."

"At a price! He don't forget to open his mouth too."

"Well, what price?"

Clive dragged out all his available coins and counted them carefully.

"Three bob a head by trap. Five, if there's a motor," said Masters. "I talked it over with him. Not a bad chap, Higgins. He knows how to keep his mouth shut too, which is something."

The discussion waned for a while, for each one of the group was busy with his finances. Then all eyes went to Susanne. He was the Crœsus of the party. Never a day but he had money in abundance, the reason being perhaps that his father was a banker.

"Wish mine were," Masters had groaned on more than one occasion. "Then I'd have a few coppers to spend now and again, instead of a beggarly allowance. My Governor seems to think that a chap hasn't need of cash. He rams thrift and economy down my throat till I'm almost afraid to buy even a biscuit."

"Five bob a head," said Bert reflectively. "Is it worth it?"

"Is it worth it?" they shouted derisively at him.

"Ever seen an aeroplane?" asked Clive hotly. "Think of being able to say we'd watched fellows flying. Besides, we might get up in one ourselves. I mean to try."

"And there's the feed," Hugh reminded them.

"Feed? What feed?" demanded Masters eagerly. "Higgins don't include it in his price. I tried to make him. Where's the feed?"

"Susanne's, duffer!"

"Mine?" asked the astounded Frenchman. "It's the first I've heard of it."

"There's a oner. Never heard of it, when only a minute ago he was telling us of his friends and how they'd ask us to lunch with 'em," shouted Masters. "Don't tell us you've forgotten, Susanne."

"Ask me to lunch. I never said a word about you fellows. It was you who suggested the thing. Oh, yes, I dare say there'll be a blow-out for me," said Susanne complacently. "But for you, doubtful. You fellows had better sneak some bread and cheese at supper the night before and carry a store with you."

He grinned provocatively at them, and then calmly tackled a roasted apple. "Yes," he reflected, "I've no doubt I shall meet one friend at least. There's Levallois, a flyer. My word, he can fly! He comes from Lyons, and'll be awfully glad to see me."

"Us," suggested Masters desperately.

"Me. What's he want to know you for? I shall go off to lunch with him as a matter of course. It'll be sickening to leave you fellows, naturally, and no one'll be more sorry than I, er—er—or you—but then, there it is."

So saying he buried his teeth in the apple, taking not the smallest notice of the glaring eyes of his comrades.

"Of all the selfish beggars!" began Masters, whose energy was always pronounced when there was a question of food. "Susanne don't deserve to come with us. It's sickening to hear him jaw about a feed all for himself, and to listen to him advising us to take chunks of bread as hard as bricks, and cheese that's only fit for use as cart grease. It's simply sickening."

His disgust was great—so great, in fact, that he might have pressed the question still further, thereby bringing about a termination of the hitherto comparatively pleasant nature of the meeting. But the practical Bert intervened.

"What's the use of grousing," he asked, "and gassing about a feed that's never been offered? Why, Susanne's friend mayn't be there. He may find no one to invite him."

"I shall. Certain," declared that individual, grinning. "If there's one Frenchman there, he is my countryman. He pays toll. That's quite regular. He'll be awfully glad to meet me."

"Oh, well, then you get an invite. What's it matter? Bread's good enough for me so long as I see the fun. Let's settle the matter. Five bob's a heap. That Higgins is a Shylock. He'll take every cent from me."

"Same here," asserted Hugh, pulling a face. "I shall be short for the rest of the term."

Susanne produced a sovereign. "How much for the lot?" he asked.

"Twenty shillings, and five extra for you," cried Masters.

"Then take it as settled. I'll write home to the people and tell 'em I've had heavy calls. A motor's a call, isn't it?" he asked naïvely, seeing his friends smile. "I pay the motor. If there isn't a feed, then we've something left to buy grub with. How's that? Pass another apple, Clive. You hang over them as if the store belonged to you."

It got dusk before they had finished talking. The far ends of the workshop were hidden in gloom before they rose from their places about the stove. And then there came the sound of a scraping match. A flare lit the gloom in the distance. A tall figure stretched upward to a swinging lamp and lit the wick. It was Hole, the school's carpentry instructor, unchanged after years of service, with an eagle eye for old faces and a keen recollection of incidents gone and forgotten by the majority. If only every school existing had such a workshop, and made attendance there almost compulsory, instead of an extra to be paid for by parents! For there, in the workshop provided by Ranleigh, boys learned a thousand and one things. Handiness came quickly to them, and better than all, perhaps, here was at hand a means to fill many an hour which might otherwise have been idle.

Benches down the centre bore a host of tools, while the special property of individuals was housed in lockers near the entrance. The stove was placed half-way along the shop, and beyond, one entered a second shop provided with turning lathes. See Clive there, with the faithful and interested Hugh in attendance, both lads working the foot pedal with might and main, while dust and shavings whirled about them. Or follow them to the blacksmith's shop, an adjacent institution. There, dressed in leather aprons, with sleeves tucked to the shoulder, they might be seen many and many a time beating out some piece of spluttering metal on the anvil. Or the metal-turning lathe held their attention, and they slowly and laboriously pounded at the pedal while the hardened tool took off shavings at a pace which was slow to the point of exasperation.

But there were days also in this shop when flames and sparks flew up the chimney wildly, when either Hugh or Clive, or even Susanne on occasion, turned the handle of the mechanical blower. Coke heaped high on the hearth glowed redly, while the heat within the shop was stifling. Perhaps these conditions existed for an hour; perhaps for longer, Clive or the shop instructor ever and again lifting the lid of a crucible buried in the glowing coke. And then, with a joyful shout, it was announced that the brass was molten. Think, then, of the joy these young mechanics experienced. The boxes placed so carefully over in the corner had cost them many an hour's labour. Packed with sand, and divided at the commencement, the two halves of the moulds fashioned from their own patterns were now assembled, and the moment had arrived to pour the molten brass into the narrow openings left for that purpose. And imagine the impatience of these model-makers awaiting the setting of their castings.

Those were the days which Clive enjoyed most. It was after a bout of casting that his lessons were worse prepared than on other occasions, while drills and "impots" showered upon him.

"Darrell, inattentive again," Old B. would exclaim sadly, as if the matter were a personal grief to him. "Half an hour's drill to-morrow."

Or Harvey, the great Harvey, would rouse his curly, shapely head from his desk in the middle of prep., strange sounds having disturbed him.

"If that isn't young Darrell again," he'd exclaim testily. "Come here, Darrell."

Fearful of the consequences, but unlikely to be robbed of his love of mechanics by any amount of punishment, Clive would leave his seat and come to the front.

"Well?"

"I—er——"

"What's it this time?"

"Only a wheel. I was just filing it so as to be ready for after school."

The culprit would hand forth a file of gigantic size, and a casting of his own making. Prep., Clive had found, was an excellent time for the doing of such little jobs. But there was the difficulty of drowning noise. Harvey had been annoyed on more than one occasion.

"Oh, only a wheel! Let's see, what was it last time?"

"Another wheel. You see, there are two, and——"

"There generally are two. Look here, Darrell, I'm sick of this nonsense. You not only shirk your own work, and get into trouble with your form master, but you disturb the other fellows and keep them from work. Come along to the Scholars' room after supper. I shall give you a whacking."

And, as a matter of course, Masters would be grinning delightedly as Clive went back to his seat, while Hugh or Bert or Susanne would pass short notes of compassion to him. Sometimes they were shot over the heads of the others in the form of darts, duly labelled with the name of Darrell. Or they were passed from hand to hand, or better still, the wily Susanne's invention, they were rolled into the shape of a fine pencil, inserted in a pea-shooter, and sent hurtling at the head of the one for whom the correspondence was intended. Let us record, too, that Susanne became an expert with this instrument. Such was his dexterity, and such his strength of lung, that with the aid of wet blotting-paper rolled into balls, and essentially of red colour, he could actually eject them at the high ceilings of the form rooms, where the moist condition of the shot caused it to adhere, and—so good was the aim after long practice—that with patience and a sufficiency of these moist pellets Susanne could write his name on the ceiling. That term many a form room ceiling bore in thin lines of red dots the letters Feofé, with "Susanne" close alongside in brackets.

But there was the question of the aeroplane meeting to be settled.

"Masters will see Higgins and fix it," Clive explained to Hugh in a hoarse whisper, when they were seated at prep. that evening. "It's lucky that to-morrow's a saint's day. That'll give us heaps of time, for the meeting don't begin till after midday."

Numerous were the notes which passed between Clive and Masters and Hugh during that hour and a half's prep. The many items to be settled caused the exchange of missives even when they had reached their dormitories, and that fascinating, home-made telephone being as yet incomplete, and, in fact, stubbornly refusing to work in spite of the scientific aid and knowledge of Susanne, they had recourse yet again to the weird series of wheels and strings passing over the partition. And, of course, as fate would have it on this the most important of occasions, Sturton discovered what was happening.

"What the dickens——" he suddenly demanded, swinging round in the chair in which he was seated at the dormitory table. "Here, Darrell, up to something more? I told you last week I wouldn't have any further chucking of notes over the partition. Suppose it's to young Seymour again? Bring that note here."

It was a desperate moment. Clive clambered out of bed and stepped across to the prefect, the note in his hand.

"Here it is," he said grudgingly, eyeing Sturton askance, for that note contained a résumé of the details of their escapade of the morrow. Dished up in finished style, as it were, were full particulars of their intended movements. Anyone glancing through the scrawly and badly spelled lines could not fail but discover the depths of the conspiracy.

"Higgins is a brick," the words went. "Masters saw him to-night after prep and just before chapel and Higgins said he was reddy and didn't want twenty five bob but twenty and that's awfully decent of him and the car's going to be wating over by the windmil at twelve. Won't it be ripping, eh. There's heaps of room for the lot of us and Higgins'll have smokes. Susanne says they're nesessary to him and'll make him look like a blud, and Higgins knows a shop where we can get a blow out for next to nothing. There a bob each to pay to go into the plais where the aroplaynes fly, but Higgins can manage to pass us in free as his frend's the gatekeeper. So all's serene and to-morrow'll be ripping.

"The Firm."

That was the communication. Sturton handled it and turned it over curiously. As a matter of fact, he was rather amused at these notes so constantly passing. It not being so very long since he himself was a youngster, he had a friendly recollection of his own eccentricities.

"What's this?" he asked sternly, causing the pyjamaed Clive to quake. "One would think you young donkeys hadn't a chance for gassing during the daytime. As it is, I know this sort of thing goes on the whole of prep. time. Look here, Darrell, an hour's drill to-morrow."

An hour's drill. Why, that meant that Clive, with a number of other forlorn individuals subjected to the same punishment for their various crimes, would have to assemble in the quad after dinner, and there be marched to and fro and round and round by a prefect as weary of the task as they were. At least, that was the general rule. Sometimes the commander of this squad was a martinet. Sometimes the master for the week wreaked his vengeance on boys in general and these unhappy wights in particular by taking the quad himself, or standing at the entrance to the quad, his mere presence stimulating the prefect till the boys undergoing punishment groaned at the numerous orders to "right wheel," "left wheel," "form line," "form fours." Form every sort of formation that the drill-book allows for or the fertile mind of an ingenious prefect can devise. And Canning was the master for the week, and Rawlings the brute of a prefect who would be on duty on the morrow.

Clive groaned and shivered.

"But to-morrow's a saint's day, Sturton," he ventured in tones of protest.

"All the better. You'll want something to do. Time hangs heavy with you youngsters on saints' days. A drill'll keep you out of mischief."

"But——"

"What's in this precious note?" asked Sturton, holding it up to the gaslight. "Secrets? Let's see 'em."

He handed the note to Clive and invited him to open the folded paper. That young fellow went a sickly yellow colour. The drill could be got over, he reflected. He could miss it. He'd have to do it every day after, that was certain, and Sturton might invite Harvey to give him a slogging. But the cause was worth this sacrifice. But to open the note and show Sturton the contents meant wrecking the whole affair.

"It's private," he managed to say at length.

"Oh, private, and awfully important. Let's see."

In one second Sturton fell in Clive's eyes from the giddy pinnacle on which he had been placed. "Never thought he could be such a cad. Opening fellows' letters. Beastly dodge!" thought Clive, glowering on him.

"Here, open it and read," said Sturton severely.

"It's private."

"Can't help that. Read it."

"It's private, I tell you."

Clive was distinctly angry and stubborn.

"Oh!" Sturton looked him up and down, his brow furrowed. He had not the smallest intention of opening the note himself, nor even of listening to its contents. He was merely gauging Clive's character. "Then you won't?" he asked coolly.

"No, I won't."

"You know what to expect, eh?"

"Yes. I don't care."

"Look here, Darrell, don't be a donkey. Fellows don't look at other chaps' notes, or listen to secrets. You're right not to split. Get back to bed. Promise not to send any more and I'll let you off the drill."

"Not after this one," said Clive. "It's important."

Sturton grinned. He could thoroughly sympathise, and he rather liked Clive for his show of obstinacy.

"Pitch it over then," he said, "and let it be the last. I'll whack you if you break your promise."

"But a chap can telephone, and we'll have to work like niggers to get that thing going," said Clive, when he had whispered to Susanne.

"That won't be sending notes. I wouldn't break a promise to anyone, least of all to Sturton. He's a decent fellow."

The morrow found the Old Firm jubilant and expectant. They slipped off after Chapel, raced down to the common and espied a panting car over by the windmill. All together they changed their school caps for bowlers and donned their overcoats. Susanne and Masters, who always did these things in superior style, had donned the tallest of tall collars, while the former had blossomed forth with an eyeglass. And we are bound to confess that Susanne thus decked out made quite a handsome and impressive foreigner. Masters had the appearance of a third-rate actor, for, as we have said, his collar was of the highest, while his fancy waistcoat would have roused the envy of a Cockney. Patent leather boots, spats, and a cane of huge proportions completed a turn-out which was distinctly startling. However, who thought of that, for were they not off on an expedition which promised huge excitement?

"I mean to get a lift in one of the machines," said Clive deliberately.

"While Susanne ain't forgot his promise," interjected Masters.

"Promise!" exclaimed the gallant Frenchman.

"A blow-out," Masters reminded him.

"For me—yes. Rather!" came the tantalising answer.

"All aboard!" cried the rascal who was to drive them. "Ready? Then off we go!"

The engine roared. The clutch went in with a jerk. The car bounded off for Guildford and the long-anticipated flying meeting which the Old Firm had determined to patronise.

BREAKING BOUNDS

Never before did a distinguished party of strangers come to the ancient town of Guildford more jubilant. Heads were craned over the side of the car which the ruffian Higgins had provided, staring eyes looked in all directions, but mainly skyward.

"Perhaps we'll see 'em flying," suggested Clive breathlessly, for his mechanical mind was stirred to the highest pitch by the thought of seeing men launched into the air.

"Hold hard!" shouted Masters, whose quick eye had lighted on something decidedly alluring, and who was ever alert to make the very utmost of the smallest opportunity. "Hold hard!" he almost shouted as the car crawled jerkily along the high street and past a pastry-cook's window, in which were displayed a tempting mass of tarts and cakes. It was like this greedy fellow. When food was about, when it happened to be anywhere within sight or scent, he had not a soul above eating. What mattered it if there were an aeroplane meeting? What did he care if men were to fly? Food was food, and Masters had always a healthy hunger.

"You chaps," he began, "here's our chance. If we miss it, ten to one we'll be hanging about without so much as a crumb, and I'm jolly empty."

"But—but, Susanne's friend is going to stand a feed," Hugh reminded them. "Don't forget that."

Masters pooh-poohed the suggestion, though on the previous day he had waxed indignant at the thought that such a treat could not be in store. He had called Susanne a sneak. Now, with those alluring cakes within his ken, he chose to forget what had happened. Also there was such a thing as remembering the saying, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." Masters had coins in his pocket, thanks again to Susanne, and, as we have said, he had a perennial appetite.

"Blow Susanne's feed!" he declared. "If it comes off, all the better. I for one'll be ready. But I'm famishing now. So stop her."

The band descended straightway, and without much need for further persuasion. When they mounted the car again sundry well-filled bags accompanied them. Then on to the field. Crowds were making their way thither on foot, others in motors and traps. Outside the gates there was a seething mass of people, through whom Higgins drove the car at reckless speed. And then the gates opened. They were passed in after a nod and a few words between Higgins and the gatekeeper.

"Look out! Duck!" whispered Bert, suddenly, in hoarse tones of alarm. "Bothered if that isn't Old B. Duck, I tell you."

With one accord the car load bent their heads till it appeared as if one and all were engaged with their boot laces. Clive glanced askance into the crowd, and there beheld the tall, bulky form of Mr. Branson, his dormitory master. The sight of that tall, genial giant set him quaking. Not that Mr. Branson was at all of the fierce order. Rather, he was an easy-going fellow, who had as perfect an understanding of boys as ever master had. But he could be roused to anger—anger which as a rule resulted in the bestowal of a cuff, for Mr. Branson took the law into his own hands as a rule, and did not favour sending boys to the Headmaster with one of those short, explanatory notes which resulted in a caning. No, Old B. was a good, slow, well-meaning giant whom all adored, and none more so than Clive. But he feared him also.

"Old B.," he murmured. "Old B. right enough, and looking this way."

"Seen us?" asked Bert desperately.

"Never!" declared Masters. "He's too sleepy for that."

"Then he's spotted the car," suggested Susanne. "He'd know it, as he and others of the masters use it at times. What's he doing?"

"Gone off into the crowd. Looked awfully hard at this car," said Clive, suppressing a shiver. "Smiled, that tired sort of smile of his, and then cut off in the opposite direction."

The statement brought all heads to their normal elevation again, while questioning glances were cast first at the crowd, now left behind, and then at one another.

"What did Old B. mean by that, then?" asked Bert, after a painful pause. "Stared awfully hard, and then sloped off."

"As if to avoid us. As if he guessed there were Ranleigh boys in the car and didn't want to spot 'em," suggested Clive.

"Good Old B.! Just like him," cried Masters, regaining his composure, for the sudden information that Mr. Branson was in the neighbourhood and eyeing them had thrown him into a flutter.

"More impots," he had groaned inwardly. "More drills, and a whacking as a matter of course. Ranleigh's an awful place for a fellow to be sent to. Tyrants, the whole lot of 'em!"

"In any case, he's here, and means to watch the flying. A beastly nuisance," reflected Susanne. "Of course, we shall have to keep our eyes open. But I know a dodge to beat him. I'll look out for Levallois, and if he's here, why, he'll invite us to his hangar. Old B.'ll never dare to enter."

Thus relieved for the time being of their fears the party tumbled out of the car, and having agreed with Higgins to meet him precisely two and a half hours later, struck across the huge field in which the meeting was taking place toward the half-dozen hangars in which the flying machines were housed.

"That's Levallois'," said Susanne, pointing to one over which the flag of France flew. "I'll cross direct."

"But—but you can't," Bert told him, for Bert was one of those youths who somewhat lack assurance. He had a huge respect for authority and order. He often envied Masters his cheek, and Clive and Hugh the dash and persistence which carried them through difficulties. "You can't, Susanne. The place is roped off, and there are scores of police."

"Can't! You wait," laughed the Frenchman. "See that bobby. Looks a good chap, eh? See me get round him."

They allowed the voluble Frenchman to go ahead of them a few paces, as if he were not attached to the party, and watched with breathless interest as he nonchalantly ducked under the ropes which kept the crowd back. Susanne, his monocle in position, strolled away across the enclosure.

"Hi! You stand back there!" came the summons from the nearest constable. "Get out of the enclosure, please."

Susanne might have been deaf. It was not until the officer of the law actually had his hand upon his shoulder that the young fellow showed the smallest attention to his order. And then, in the inimitable style of Feofé, a style somewhat spoiled by the jeers and laughter of his schoolfellows, but nevertheless a style which was part and parcel of the young fellow, Susanne raised his hat and swept it from his head. In wonder and amazement his comrades heard him addressing the constable in French, speaking volubly, waving his arms, pointing to the hangars opposite. And then he dived into a waistcoat pocket and produced a card.

"What's this?" demanded the constable, a young man, evidently puzzled. "Can't read it. You're French, eh?"

Susanne nodded energetically. He beckoned to Masters, and at the signal that young fellow dived beneath the rope and ran to join him. At once Susanne fired off a string of words, totally unintelligible to the constable, and mostly so to Masters, who was no great French scholar. But he knew what Susanne wanted, and knew also what he and his friends required. Also Masters was just the youth to carry a matter like this through in splendid style. He had cheek enough for a dozen.

"It's like this, don't you see, constable," he said, smiling sweetly at the officer. "Monsieur Feofé—that's French, you know—Monsieur Feofé comes from France, where all the flying's done, and Monsieur Levallois's one of the flyers. That's his shed over there, with the French flag over it. Well, of course, Monsieur Levallois expects Monsieur Feofé and his friends. We've come here to see him. He wants us over at his place, you see. I'm sorry you can't understand Monsieur Feofé. But that's the worst of these fellows who can't speak English."

An older constable might even have been taken in, though to be sure he might have noticed the half-suppressed grins on the faces of the party of young fellows stationed by the ropes. Also he would certainly have been surprised at the youth of these visitors. But he was a young man, on duty almost for the first time, and somewhat confused.

"I've got my orders, strict," he began.

"Of course, of course!" interjected Masters hurriedly. "Of course, constable, orders to keep the crowd back. Quite right for you to obey 'em. But we're not the crowd. You see, Monsieur Feofé's a swell sort of fellow. It'd be rude to refuse to pass him and his friends through. He wouldn't understand it. Monsieur Levallois would be furious, and I dare say the inspector in charge of the police'd get a wiggin'. So it'll be all right, see?"

That young constable wasn't by any means too sure. But Susanne's apparent ignorance of English, his obvious impatience at this delay, his embarrassing politeness, for he continued to sweep his hat from his head on occasion, while firing off a long string of unintelligible words at Masters, all had their effect. The man wavered.

"My orders is to pass no one——" he began again.

"Come on, you chaps," sang out Masters, whose cheek was tremendous. "The constable understands. We'd best hurry, for Monsieur Levallois is waiting. Thanks, constable. If there's any trouble refer the inspector to me. Sorry to have bothered you."