Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's, by Talbot Baines Reed.

This is a rather famous book about life in a boys' boarding school.  We
start off with the entry to the school of a little new boy, not quite
eleven years old, who also happens to have an older brother in the
school.  We learn about the school at the same time as little Steevie
does.

Steevie is appointed to be the fag of one Loman, and as the story
unfolds we begin to see life through the eyes of the older boy.  There
is an interesting moment when Steevie refuses to do the work of fag to
Loman, and is soundly beaten up for his refusal.

There is a rather unsuitable public-house owner, Cripps, and Loman
becomes indebted to him for a large sum of money.  What Loman does to
try to liquidate his debt is what much of the latter part of the book
is about.  We do not wish to spoil the story for you, so we will not go
into any details of this.

There is a rather nice episode during the summer holidays when some of
the boys row down the river Thames from Oxford to London, which your
reviewer has also done more than once.  Many of the landmarks that they
saw are still there.  You will enjoy reading or listening to this book.

THE FIFTH FORM AT SAINT DOMINIC'S, BY TALBOT BAINES REED.

PREFACE.

_The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's_ is a story of public-school life,
and was written for the _Boy's Own Paper_, in the Fourth Volume of which
it appeared.  The numbers containing it are now either entirely out of
print or difficult to obtain; and many and urgent have been the
requests--from boys themselves, as well as from parents, head masters,
and others--for its re-issue as a book.

Of the story itself little need be said.  It deals in a bright and
vigorous style with the kaleidoscopic, throbbing life of a great public
school--that world in miniature which, in its daily opportunities and
temptations, ambitions and failures, has so often afforded superabundant
material for narratives powerful to enchain the attention and sway the
emotions, whether to smiles or tears.  This will take its place, amongst
the best of them.

Though the story is one of school life, its interest is by no means
limited to school or college walls.  Boys of all sorts and conditions--
ay, and their parents too--will follow its fortunes with unflagging zest
from the first page to the last; and it is difficult to conceive of any
reader, be he young or old, who would not be the better for its vivid
portraiture and bracing atmosphere.  There is a breeziness about it
calculated to stir the better life in the most sluggish; and without
pretence or affectation it rings out its warnings, no less than its
notes of cheer, clear and rousing as trumpet blasts.

  "Do right, and thou hast nought to fear,
  Right hath a power that makes thee strong;
  The night is dark, but light is near,
  The grief is short, the joy is long."

Without the most distant approach to that fatal kind of sermonising
which all but inevitably repels those whom it is meant to benefit, the
story forcefully illustrates how rapidly they may sink who once tamper,
for seeming present advantage, with truth, and how surely, sooner or
later, a noble character comes to vindication and honour; and in all
such respects it is eminently true to life.  These boys of Saint
Dominic's, even the best of them, are very human--neither angels nor
monstrosities, but, for the most part, ardent, impulsive, out-and-out,
work-a-day lads; with the faults and failings of inexperience and
impetuosity, no doubt, but also with that moral grit and downright
honesty of purpose that are still, we believe, the distinguishing mark
of the true British public-school boy.  Hence one is impelled to take
from the outset a most genuine interest in them and their affairs, and
to feel quite as though one had known many of them personally for years,
and been distinctly the better, too, for that knowledge.  Such boys
stand at the antipodes alike of the unreal abstractions of an effeminate
sentimentalism--the paragons who prate platitudes and die young--and of
the morbid specimens of youthful infamy only too frequently paraded by
the equally unreal sensationalism of to-day to meet the cravings of a
vitiated taste.

_The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's_ is the kind of book we should place
with confidence in the hands of our own boys when leaving the home
shelter, whether for school or the sterner after-battle; and we cannot
conceive of the parent who, having read it with care and pleasure, as we
have done, and knowing at the same time anything of the stress and
strain of daily life, would not, with gratitude to the author, gladly do
the same.  With all their faults, Oliver Greenfield and Wraysford are
splendid boys, of just the fibre that the Church needs, and the world
cannot afford to do without; and yet their school career proves by no
means a bed of roses.  To drift with the current is proverbially easy;
to seek to stem it manfully, and steer by the stars, may, and often
does, lay one open to misapprehension or envy, and all the ills that
follow in their train; yet--

  "God is God, and right is right,
  And truth the day must win;
  To doubt would be disloyalty,
  To falter would be sin."

Our heroes had their full share of trouble--what real hero has not?--but
they come out of the ordeal purified and strengthened, with nobler
aspirations after duty, and tenderer thoughts of helpfulness towards
those needing, if far from seeking, their succouring arm.

How all this comes about it is not for us to tell.  Readers will find
that out for themselves, and thank us for allowing them, unaided, to do
so.  The school cricket match, the grand football struggle, the
ever-memorable prize-day--these are matters that no alien pen may touch.
Our prayer is that God may abundantly bless the book to the building up
in our schools and families of strong Christian characters, who in the
after days shall do valiant service for Christ and humanity.

G.A. Hutchison.

CHAPTER ONE.

THE NOTICE BOARD.

The four o'clock bell was sounding up the staircase and down the
passages of Saint Dominic's school.  It was a minute behind its time,
and had old Roach, the school janitor, guessed at half the abuse
privately aimed at his devoted head for this piece of negligence, he
might have pulled the rope with a good deal more vivacity than he at
present displayed.

At the signal there was a general shuffling of feet and uproar of
voices--twelve doors swung open almost simultaneously, and next moment
five hundred boys poured out, flooding the staircases and passages,
shouting, scuffling, and laughing, and throwing off by one easy effort
the restraint and gravity of the last six hours.

The usual rush and scramble ensued.  Some boys, taking off their coats
and tucking up their sleeves as they ran, made headlong for the
playground.  Some, with books under their arms, scuttled off to their
studies.  The heroes of the Sixth stalked majestically to their
quarters.  The day boarders hurried away to catch the train at Maltby.
A few slunk sulkily to answer to their names in the detention-room, and
others, with the air of men to whom time is no object and exertion no
temptation, lounged about in the corridors with hands in pockets,
regarding listlessly the general stampede of their fellows, and
apparently not knowing exactly what to do with themselves.

Among these last happened to be Bullinger of the Fifth and his
particular friend Ricketts, who, neither of them having any more
tempting occupation, were comfortably leaning up against the door of the
Fourth junior class-room, thereby making prisoners of some twenty or
thirty youngsters, whose infuriated yells and howls from within appeared
to afford the two gentlemen a certain languid satisfaction.

"Open the door! do you hear?" shrieked one little treble voice.

"All right!" piped another.  "I know who you are, you cads.  See if I
don't tell Dr Senior!"

"Oh, please, I say, I shall lose my train!" whimpered a third.

"Wait till I get out; see if I don't kick your shins!" howled a fourth.

It was no use.  In vain these bantams stormed and raved, and entreated
and blubbered.  The handle would not turn, and the door would not yield.
Mr Bullinger and his friend vouchsafed no reply, either to their
threats or their supplications, and how long the blockade might have
lasted it is impossible to say, had not a fresh dissension called the
beleaguerers away.  A cluster of boys at a corner of the big corridor
near the main entrance attracted their curiosity, and suggested a
possibility of even more entertainment than the goading into fury of a
parcel of little boys, so, taking advantage of a moment when the
besieged had combined, shoulder to shoulder, to make one magnificent and
desperate onslaught on to the obdurate door, they quietly "raised the
siege," and quitting their hold, left the phalanx of small heroes to
topple head over heels and one over another on to the stone floor of the
passage, while they sauntered off arm-in-arm to the scene of the new
excitement.

The object which had attracted the knot of boys whom they now joined was
the School Notice Board, on which, from time to time, were posted
notices of general and particular interest to the school.  On this
particular afternoon (the first Friday of the Summer term) it was, as
usual, crowded with announcements, each interesting in its way.

The first was in the handwriting of Dr Senior's secretary, and ran as
follows:--

"A Nightingale Scholarship, value 50 pounds a year for three years, will
fall vacant at Michaelmas.  Boys under seventeen are eligible.
Particulars and subject of examination can be had any evening next week
in the secretary's room."

"Fifty-pounds a year _for_ three years!" exclaimed a small boy, with a
half whistle.  "I wouldn't mind getting that!"

"Well, why don't you, you avaricious young Jew?  You're under seventeen,
I suppose?" retorted the amiable Mr Bullinger, thereby raising a laugh
at the expense of this little boy of eleven, who retired from the scene
extinguished.

The next notice was in the classical handwriting of the secretary of the
Sixth Form Literary Society, and ran as follows:--

"This Society will meet on Tuesday.  Subject for debate, `That the
present age is degenerate,' moved by A.E. Callander, opposed by T.
Winter.  Boys from the Senior Fifth are invited as auditors."

This notice, even with the patronising postscript, would have passed
without comment, as Sixth Form notices usually did, had not some
audacious hand ventured to alter a word and make the subject of debate,
instead of "That the present age is degenerate," read "That the present
Sixth is degenerate."  Who the perpetrator of this outrage might be was
a mystery, but the alteration was quite enough to render the notice very
amusing to many of the readers, especially the Fifth Form boys, and very
terrible to others, especially the small boys, who looked nervous and
guilty, and did not dare by the slightest sign to join in the mirth of
their irreverent seniors.  Most of the assembly agreed that "there would
be a row about it," with which assurance they passed on to the next
notice.

"Wanted, a Smart Fag.  No Tadpoles or Guinea-pigs need apply.  Horace
Wraysford, Fifth Form."

"Bravo, Horatius!" said Ricketts.  "A lucky young cub it will be that he
takes on," added he, turning to a group of the small boys near.  "He'll
do your sums and look over your exercises for you like one o'clock.
Ugh! though, I suppose every man Jack of you is a Tadpole or a Pig?"

Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs, I should say, were the names given to two
combinations or clubs in the clannish Junior School, the mysteries of
which were known only to their members, but which were not regarded with
favour by the older boys.

As no one answered this charge, Ricketts indulged in a few general
threats, and a few not very complimentary comments on the clubs in
question, and then returned to the notice board, which contained two
more announcements.

"Cricket Notices.  To-morrow will be a final big practice, when the
elevens for the `A to M _versus_ N to Z' match on the 25th will be
chosen.  `Sixth _versus_ School' will be played on the 1st proxo.  The
School Eleven will be selected from among players in the two above
matches."

"A private meeting of the Fifth will be held this afternoon at 4.30 to
discuss an important matter."

"Hullo!" said Bullinger, looking up at the clock, "it's half-past now!
Come along, Rick."

And the two demagogues disappeared arm-in-arm down the passage, followed
by the admiring glances of the juniors, who spent the next half-hour in
wondering what could be the important matter under consideration at the
private meeting of the Fifth.  The universal conclusion was that it had
reference to the suppression of the Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs--a
proceeding the very suggestion of which made those small animals tremble
with mingled rage and fear, and sent them off wriggling to their own
quarters, there to deliberate on the means of defence necessary to
protect themselves from the common enemy.

The meeting in the Fifth, however, was to consider a far more important
subject than the rebellious clubs of the Junior School.

The reader will doubtless have inferred, from what has already been
said, that the young gentlemen of the Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's
entertained, among other emotions, a sentiment something like jealousy
of their seniors and superiors in the sixth.  Perhaps Saint Dominic's is
not the only school in which such a feeling has existed; but, at any
rate during the particular period to which I am referring, it was pretty
strong there.  Not that the two Forms were at war, or that there was any
fear of actual hostilities.  It was not so bad as all that.  But the
Fifth were too near the heroes of the top Form to consent to submit to
their authority.  They would be Sixth men themselves soon, and then of
course they would expect the whole school to reverence them.  But till
that time they resented the idea of bowing before these future comrades;
and not only that, they took every opportunity of asserting their
authority among the juniors, and claiming the allegiance for themselves
they refused to render to others.  And they succeeded in this very well,
for they took pains to make themselves popular in the school, and to
appear as the champions quite as much as the bullies of the small fry.
The consequence was that while Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs quaked and
blushed in the presence of the majestic Sixth, they quaked and smirked
in the presence of the Fifth, and took their thrashings meekly, in the
hope of getting a Latin exercise looked over or a minor tyrant punished
later on.

Just at the present time, too, the Fifth was made up of a set of fellows
well able to maintain the peculiar traditions of their fellowship.  They
numbered one or two of the cleverest boys (for their age) in Saint
Dominic's; and, more important still in the estimation of many, they
numbered not a few of the best cricketers, boxers, football-players, and
runners in the school.  With these advantages their popularity as a body
was very great--and it is only due to them to say that they bore their
honours magnanimously, and distributed their kicks and favours with the
strictest impartiality.

Such was the company which assembled on this afternoon in their own
class-room, with closed doors, to deliberate on "private and important
business."  About twenty boys were present, and the reader must let me
introduce a few of them, before his curiosity as to the occasion of
their assembling themselves together can be satisfied.

That handsome, jovial-looking boy of sixteen who is sitting there
astride of a chair, in the middle of the floor, biting the end of a
quill pen, is the redoubtable Horace Wraysford, the gentleman, it will
be remembered, who is in want of a fag.  Wraysford is one of the best
"all-round men" in the Fifth, or indeed in the school.  He is certain to
be in the School Eleven against the County, certain to win the mile race
and the "hurdles" at the Athletic Sports, and is not at all unlikely to
carry off the Nightingale Scholarship next autumn, even though one of
the Sixth is in for it too.  Indeed, it is said he would be quite
certain of this honour, were it not that his friend and rival Oliver
Greenfield, who is standing there against the wall, with his head
resting on a map of Greece, is also in for it.  Greenfield does not
strike one as nearly so brilliant a fellow as his friend.  He is quieter
and more lazy, and more solemn.  Some say he has a temper, and others
that he is selfish; and generally he is not the most popular boy in
Saint Dominic's.  Wraysford, however, sticks to him through thick and
thin, and declares that, so far from being ill-tempered and selfish, he
is one of the best fellows in the school, and one of the cleverest.  And
Mr Wraysford is prepared to maintain his allegation at the point of
the--knuckle!  That hulking, ugly youth is Braddy, the bully, the terror
of the Guinea-pigs, and the laughing-stock of his own class-mates.  The
boy who is fastening a chalk duster on to the collar of Braddy's coat is
Tom Senior, the Doctor's eldest son, who, one would have imagined, might
have learned better manners.  Last, not least (for we need not
re-introduce Messrs. Ricketts or Bullinger, or go out of our way to
present Simon, the donkey of the Form, to the reader), is Master Anthony
Pembury, the boy now mounting up onto a chair with the aid of two
friends.  Anthony is lame, and one of the most dreaded boys in Saint
Dominic's.  His father is editor of the _Great Britain_, and the son
seems to have inherited his talent for saying sharp things.  Woe betide
the Dominican who raises Tony's dander!  He cannot box, he cannot
pursue; but he can _talk_, and he can ridicule, as his victims all the
school over know.

He it is who has, of his own sweet will, summoned together the present
meeting, and the business he is now about to explain.

"The fact is, you fellows," he begins, "I wanted to ask your opinion
about a little idea of my own.  You know the _Sixth Form Magazine_?"

"Rather," says Ricketts; "awful rubbish too!  Papers a mile long in it
about Greek roots; and poetry about the death of Seneca, and all that
sort of thing."

"That's just it," continued Pembury; "it's rubbish, and unreadable; and
though they condescend to let us see it, I don't suppose two fellows in
the Form ever wade through it."

"I know _I don't_, for one," says Wraysford, laughing; "I _did_ make a
start at that ode on the birth of Senior junior in the last, which began
with--

  "`Hark, 'tis the wail of an infant that wakes the still echoes of
  lofty Olympus,'

"but I got no farther."

"Yes," says Tom Senior, "Wren wrote that.  I felt it my duty to
challenge him for insulting the family, you know.  But he said it was
meant as a compliment, and that the Doctor was greatly pleased with it."

"Well," resumed Pembury, laughing, "they won't allow any of us to
contribute.  I suggested it to the editor, and he said (you know his
stuck-up way), `They saw no reason for opening their columns to any but
Sixth Form fellows.'  So what I propose is, that we get up a paper of
our own!"

"Upon my word, it's a splendid idea!" exclaimed Wraysford, jumping up in
raptures.  And every one else applauded Pembury's proposition.

"We've as good a right, you know," he continued, "as they have, and
ought to be able to turn out quite as respectable a paper."

"Rather," says Ricketts, "if you'll only get the fellows to write."

"Oh, I'll manage that," said Anthony.

"Of course you'll have to be editor, Tony," says Bullinger.

"If you like," says the bashful Tony, who had no notion of _not_ being
editor.

"Well, I call that a splendid idea," says Braddy.  "Won't they be in a
fury?  (Look here, Senior, I wish you wouldn't stick your pins into my
neck, do you hear?)"

"What shall we call it?" some one asks.

"Ah, yes," says Pembury, "we ought to give it a good name."

"Call it the _Senior Wrangler_," suggested Ricketts.

"Sounds too like a family concern," cried Tom Senior.

"Suppose we call it the _Fifth Form War Whoop_," proposed Wraysford,
amid much laughter.

"Or the _Anti-Sixth_," says Braddy, who always professes an implacable
enmity towards the Sixth when none of them are near to hear him.

"Not at all," says Greenfield, speaking now for the first time.  "What's
the use of making fools of ourselves?  Call it the _Dominican_, and let
it be a paper for the whole school."

"Greenfield is right," adds Pembury.  "If we can make it a regular
school paper it will be a far better slap at the Sixth than if we did
nothing but pitch into them.  Look here, you fellows, leave it to me to
get out the first number.  We'll astonish the lives out of them--you
see!"

Every one is far too confident of Tony's capacity to raise an objection
to this proposal; and after a good deal more talk, in which the idea of
the _Dominican_ excites quite an enthusiasm among these amiable young
gentlemen, the meeting breaks up.

That evening, as the fellows passed down the corridor to prayers, a new
notice appeared on the board:

"The first number of the _Dominican_ will appear on the 24th inst."

"What does it mean?" asked Raleigh of the Sixth, the school captain, of
his companion, as they stopped to examine this mysterious announcement;
"there's no name to it."

"I suppose it's another prank of the Fifth.  By the way, do you see how
one of them has altered this debating society notice?"

"Upon my word," said Raleigh reading it, and smiling in spite of
himself, "they are getting far too impudent.  I must send a monitor to
complain of this."

And so the two grandees walked on.

Later in the evening Greenfield and Wraysford sat together in the study
of the former.

"Well, I see the Nightingale is vacant at last.  Of course you are going
in, old man?" said Wraysford.

"Yes, I suppose so; and you?" asked the other.

"Oh, yes.  I'll have a shot, and do my best."

"I don't mean to let you have it, though," said Greenfield, "for the
money would be valuable to me if I ever go up to Oxford."

"Just the reason I want to get it," said Wraysford, laughing.  "By the
way, when is your young brother coming?"

"This week, I expect."

"I wonder if he'll fag for me?" asked Wraysford, mindful of his
destitute condition.

Greenfield laughed.  "You'd better ask the captain about that.  I can't
answer for him.  But I must be off now.  Good-night."

And an hour after that Saint Dominic's was as still and silent as,
during the day, it had been bustling and noisy.

CHAPTER TWO.

A NEW BOY.

"Good-Bye, my boy; God bless you! and don't forget to tell the
housekeeper about airing your flannel vests."

With this final benediction ringing in his ears, the train which was to
carry Master Stephen Greenfield from London to Saint Dominic's steamed
slowly out of the station, leaving his widowed mother to return lonely
and sorrowful to the home from which, before this day, her youngest son
had never wandered far without her.

Stephen, if the truth must be told, was hardly as affected by the
parting as his poor mother.  Not that he was not sorry to leave home, or
that he did not love her he left behind; but with all the world before
him, he was at present far too excited to think of anything rationally.
Besides, that last remark about the flannel vests had greatly disturbed
him.  The carriage was full of people, who must have heard it, and would
be sure to set him down as no end of a milksop and mollycoddle.

He blushed to the roots of his hair as he pulled up the window and sat
down in his corner, feeling quite certain every one of his
fellow-travellers must be secretly smiling at his expense.  He wished
his mother would have whispered that last sentence.  It wasn't fair to
him.  In short, Stephen felt a trifle aggrieved; and, with a view to
manifesting his hardihood, and dispelling all false impressions caused
by the maternal injunction, he let down the window and put his bare head
out of it for about a quarter of an hour, until a speck of dust settled
in his eye and drove him back to his seat.

It is decidedly awkward to get dust in your eye when you want to figure
as a hero, for the eyes will water, and must be wiped, and that looks
particularly like weeping.  Stephen refrained from using his
handkerchief as long as he could; but it was no use; he must wipe his
eye in the presence of his fellow-passengers.  However, if he whistled a
tune while doing so, no one could suspect him of real tears; so he
struck up, "Glide along, my bonny boat," as cheerfully as he could, and
mopped his smarting eye at the same time.  Alas! the dust only got
farther in, and the music, after half an hour's heroic perseverance,
flagged altogether.  It was no use trying to appear heroic any longer,
so, what with pain and a dawning sense of loneliness and home-sickness,
Stephen shed a _few_ real tears into his handkerchief, an indulgence
which did him good in every way, for it not only relieved his drooping
spirits, but washed that wretched piece of dust fairly out of its
hiding-place.

This relief, with the aid of a bun and a bottle of ginger-beer at one of
the stations, set him, so to speak, on his feet again, and he was able
to occupy the rest of his journey very pleasantly in drumming his heels
on the floor, and imagining to himself all the marvellous exploits which
were to mark his career at Saint Dominic's.  He was to be a prodigy in
his new school from the very first; in a few terms he was to be captain
of the cricket club, and meanwhile was to gain the favour of the Sixth
by helping them regularly in their lessons, and fighting any one against
whom a special champion should be requisite.  He was, indeed, just being
invited to dinner with the Doctor, who was about to consult him
concerning some points of school management, when the train suddenly
pulled up at Maltby, and his brother Oliver's head looked in at the
window with a "Hullo! here you are!  Tumble out!"

Oliver and Stephen were Mrs Greenfield's only children.  Their father
had died twelve years ago, when Stephen was a baby, and the two boys had
been left in charge of an uncle, who had carefully watched over their
education, and persuaded his sister to allow her elder boy to go to a
public school.  Mrs Greenfield had consented, with many tremblings, and
Oliver had, four years ago, been sent to Saint Dominic's, where he was
now one of the head boys in the Fifth Form.  Only a _few_ weeks before
the opening of this story the boys' uncle had died, leaving in his will
a provision for sending Stephen to the same school as his brother, or
any other his mother might select.  The poor widow, loth to give up her
boy, yet fain to accept the offer held out, chose to send Stephen to
Saint Dominic's too, and this was the reason of that young gentleman's
present appearance on the stage at that centre of learning.

"I'll send up your traps by the carter; we can walk," said Oliver,
taking his young brother into charge.

Stephen was only too glad, as it gave him time to breathe before
plunging at once into the scene of his future exploits.  "Is it far?" he
asked.

"Only a mile," said Oliver; "come on.  Hullo, Rick, where have you been
to?"

This was addressed to Ricketts, whom they met just outside the station.

"Oh! to Sherren's about my togs.  I wanted them for the match to-morrow,
you know.  I've told him if he doesn't send them up in time we'll all
get our things made in London, so I guess he'll hurry himself for once.
Oh, look here! did you get a paper with the result of the American
match?  Bother!  Here, you kid, what's your name, cut back to the
station and get a daily.  Look sharp!  Bring it to me in my room.  Come
on, Greenfield."

Master Stephen looked so astonished at this cool request from a total
stranger that both the elder boys laughed.

"This is my young brother, Rick, just come--"

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Mr Ricketts, blushing, "I'll go--"

"No, I'll go," said Stephen, darting off, and expending a penny of his
own to get this magnifico of the Fifth his paper.

This little incident served to break the ice for the new boy, who felt
highly honoured when Ricketts said he was "much obliged to him."

"By the way," said Oliver, suddenly, "I ought to get my togs up too.
Bother that Sherren!  I say, Rick, see my young brother up to the
school, will you? while I cut back; he can wait in my study."

Stephen felt very desolate to be left thus alone the moment after his
arrival, and it did not add to his pleasure to observe that Ricketts by
no means appeared to look upon the task of seeing him to Saint Dominic's
as a privilege.  They walked on in silence for about half a mile, and
then encountered several groups of boys strolling out along the road.
Ricketts stopped to talk to several of them, and was very nearly going
off with one of the party, when he suddenly remembered his charge.  It
was rather humiliating this, for Stephen; and already his triumphal
entry into Saint Dominic's was beginning to be shorn of some of its
glory.  No one noticed him; and the only one that paid him the least
attention appeared to look upon him as a nuisance.

"Here, Tony," suddenly shouted Ricketts to Pembury, who was jogging
along on his crutches a little way ahead, towards the school; "do you
mind showing this kid the way up?  I have to go back with Wren.  There's
a good fellow."

"Well, that's cool," replied Master Pembury; "I'm not a kid-conductor!
Come on, youngster; I suppose you haven't got a name, have you?"

"Yes, Stephen Greenfield."

"Oh, brother of our dear friend Oliver; I hope you'll turn out a better
boy than him, he's a shocking character."

Stephen looked concerned.  "I'm sure he doesn't mean to do what's
wrong," began he, apologetically.

"That's just it, my boy.  If he doesn't mean to do it, why on earth does
he do it?  I shall be sorry if he's expelled, very sorry.  But come on;
don't mind if I walk too fast," added he, hobbling along by Stephen's
side.

Stephen did not know what to think.  If Ricketts had not addressed his
companion as "Tony" he would have fancied he was one of the masters, he
spoke with such an air of condescension.  Stephen felt very
uncomfortable, too, to hear what had been told him about Oliver.  If he
had not been told, he could not have believed his brother was anything
but perfection.

"I'm lame, you see," said Pembury, presently.  "You are quite sure you
see?  Look at my left leg."

"I see," said Stephen, blushing; "I--I hope it doesn't hurt."

"Only when I wash my face.  But never mind that Vulcan was lame too, but
then he never washed.  You know who Vulcan was, of course?"

"No, I don't think so," faltered Stephen, beginning to feel very uneasy
and ignorant.

"Not know Vulcan!  My eye! where have you been brought up?  Then of
course you don't know anything about the Tenth Fiji War?  No?  I thought
not.  Dreadful!  We shall have to see what you do know.  Come on."

Stephen entered Saint Dominic's thoroughly crestfallen, and fully
convinced he was the most ignorant boy that ever entered a public
school.  The crowds of boys in the playground frightened him, and even
the little boys inspired him with awe.  _They_, at any rate, had heard
of Vulcan, and knew about the Tenth Fiji War!

"Here," said Anthony, "is your brother's study.  Sit here till he
returns, and make the most of your time, for you'll have to put your
best foot foremost to-morrow in the Doctor's examination."

So saying, he left abruptly, and the poor lad found himself alone, in
about as miserable a frame of mind as a new boy would wish to be in.

He looked about the study; there were some shelves with books on them.
There was a little bed let into the wall on one side; there was an
easy-chair, and what professed to be a sofa; and there was a pile of
miscellanies, consisting of bats and boots and collars and papers,
heaped up in the corner, which appeared to be the most abundantly
furnished portion of the little room.  Stephen sat there, very dismal,
and wishing himself home again once more, when the door suddenly opened
and a small boy of his own age appeared.

"Hullo!  What do you want?" demanded this hero.

"I'm waiting for my brother."

"Who's your brother?"

"Oliver Greenfield."

"Oh, all right! you can get his tea as well as I can; you'll find all
the things in the cupboard there.  And look here, tell him Bullinger
wants to know if he can lend him some jam--about half a pint, tell him."

Poor Stephen! even the small boys ordered him about, and regarded him as
nobody.  He would fain have inquired of this young gentleman something
about Vulcan, and have had the advantage of his experience in the
preparation of his brother's tea; but the youth seemed pressed for time,
and vanished.

As well as he could, Stephen extricated the paraphernalia of his
brother's tea-table from the cupboard, and set it out in order on the
table, making the tea as well as profound inexperience of the mystery
and a kettle full of lukewarm water would permit.  Then he sat and
waited.

Before Oliver arrived, four visitors broke in upon Stephen's vigil.  The
first came "to borrow" some tea, and helped himself coolly to two
teaspoonfuls out of Oliver's canister.  Stephen stood by aghast and
speechless.

"Tell him I'll _owe_ it him," calmly remarked the young gentleman, as he
departed with his booty, whistling a cheerful ditty.

Then a fag came in and took a spoon, and after him another fag, with a
mug, into which he poured half of the contents of Oliver's milk-jug; and
finally a big fellow rushed in in a desperate hurry and snatched up a
chair and made off with it.

Stephen wondered the roof of Saint Dominic's did not fall in upon these
shameless marauders, and was just contemplating putting the stores all
back again into the cupboard to prevent further piracy, when the welcome
sound of Oliver's voice in the passage put an end to further suspense.

"Well, here you are," said Oliver, entering with a friend.  "Wray, this
is my young brother, just turned up."

"How are you?" said Wraysford, in a voice which won over Stephen at
once; "I heard you were coming.  Have you--"

"Oh!" suddenly ejaculated Oliver, lifting up the lid of his teapot.  "If
that young wretch Paul hasn't been and made my tea with coal-dust and
cold water!  I'd like to scrag him!  And--upon my word--oh, this is too
much!--just look, Wray, how he's laid the table out!  Those Guinea-pigs
are beyond all patience.  Where _is_ the beggar?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Stephen, starting up, very red in the face, as his
brother went to the door; "it wasn't him.  I made the tea.  The boy told
me to, and I didn't know the way.  I had to guess."

Oliver and Wraysford both burst out laughing.

"A pretty good guess, too, youngster," said Wraysford.  "When you come
and fag for me I'll give you a few lessons to begin with."

"Oh! by the way, Wray," said Oliver, "that's all knocked on the head.
Loman makes out the captain promised him the first new boy that came.
I'm awfully sorry."

"Just like Loman's cheek.  I believe he did it on purpose to spite me or
you.  I say, Greenfield, I'd kick-up a row about it if I were you."

"What's the use, if the captain says so?" answered Oliver.  "Besides,
Loman's a monitor, bad luck to him!"

"Loman's a fellow I don't take a great fancy to," said Wraysford.  "I
wouldn't care for a young brother of mine to fag to him."

"You are prejudiced, old man," said Oliver.  "But I wish all the same
Stephen was to fag for you.  It's a pity, but it can't be helped."

"I'll speak to the captain, anyhow," growled Wraysford, sitting down to
his tea.

All this was not very pleasant for Stephen, who gathered that he was
destined to serve a not very desirable personage in the capacity of fag,
instead of, as he would have liked, his brother's friend Wraysford.

However, he did justice to the tea, bad as it was, and the sardines
Oliver had brought from Maltby.  He was relieved, too, to find that his
brother was not greatly exasperated on hearing of the various raids
which had been made on his provisions, or greatly disconcerted at Mr
Bullinger's modest request for half a pint of jam.

Then, as the talk fell upon home, and cricket, and other cheerful
topics, the small boy gradually forgot his troubles, even down to the
Fiji War, and finished up his first evening at Saint Dominic's in a good
deal more cheerful frame of mind than that in which he had begun it.

CHAPTER THREE.

A MORNING WITH A TADPOLE.

It so happened that on the day following Stephen Greenfield's arrival at
Saint Dominic's, the head master, Dr Senior, was absent.

This circumstance gave great satisfaction to the new boy when his
brother told him of it, as it put off for another twenty-four hours the
awful moment when he would be forced to expose his ignorance before that
terrible personage.

"You'd better stick about in my room while I'm in school," said Oliver,
"and then you can come down to the cricket-field and see the practice.
By the way, some of the fellows may be in to bag my ink; they always run
short on Friday; but don't let them take it, for I shall want it
to-night.  Ta, ta; give my love to the _mater_ if you're writing home.
I'll be back for you after the twelve bell."

And off he went, leaving Stephen to follow his own sweet devices for
three hours.

That young gentleman was at no loss how to occupy part of the time.  He
must write home.  So after much searching he unearthed a crumpled sheet
of note-paper from one of the drawers, and set himself to his task.  As
he wrote, and his thoughts flew back to the home and the mother he had
left only yesterday, his spirits fell, and the home-sickness came over
him worse than ever.  What would he not give to change places with this
very letter, and go back home!

Here, no one cared for him, every one seemed to despise him.  He wasn't
used to those rough public schools, and would never get on at Saint
Dominic's.  Ah! that wretched Tenth Fiji War.  What _would_ become of
him to-morrow when the Doctor would be back?  There was no one to help
him.  Even Oliver seemed determined to let him fight his own battles.

Poor boy!  He sat back in his chair and let his mind wander once more
back to the snug little home he had left.  And, as he did so, his eyes
unconsciously filled with tears, and he felt as if he would give
anything to escape from Saint Dominic's.

At this moment the door opened and a small boy entered.

He did not seem to expect to find any one in the room, for he uttered a
hurried "Hullo!" as he caught sight of Stephen.

Stephen quickly dashed away a tear and looked up.

"Where's Greenfield?" demanded the small boy.

"He's in school," replied Stephen.

"Hullo! what are you blubbering at?" cried the small boy, growing very
bold and patronising all of a sudden, "eh?"

Stephen did not answer this home question.

"I suppose you are a new kid, just left your mammy?" observed the other,
with the air of a man of forty; "what's your name, young 'un?"

"Stephen Greenfield."

"Oh, my! is it?  What form are you in?"

"I don't know yet."

"Haven't you been examined?"

"No, not yet."

"Oh, of course; old Senior's away.  Never mind, you'll catch it
to-morrow, blub-baby!"

This last epithet was thrown in in such a very gratuitous and offensive
way, that Stephen did not exactly like it.

The small youth, however, finding himself in a bantering mood, pursued
his questions with increasing venom.

"I suppose they call you Steenie at home?" he observed, with a sneer
that was meant to be quite annihilating.

"No, they don't," replied Stephen; "mother calls me Steevie."

"Oh, Steevie, does she?  Well, Steevie, were you ever licked over the
knuckles with a ruler?"

"No," replied Stephen; "why?"

"Because you will be--I know who'll do it, too, and kick you on the
shins, too, if you're cheeky!"

Stephen was quite at a loss whether to receive this piece of news in the
light of information or a threat.  He was inclined to believe it the
latter; and as he was a rash youth, he somewhat tartly replied, "_You_
won't!"

The small boy looked astounded--not that he ever contemplated attempting
the chastisement about which he had talked; but the idea of a new boy
defying _him_, one of the chosen leaders of the Tadpoles, who had been
at Saint Dominic's two years, was amazing.  He glared at the rash
Stephen for half a minute, and then broke out, "Won't I? that's all! you
see, you pretty little blubber boy!  Yow-ow-ow! little sneak! why don't
you cut behind your mammy's skirt, if you're afraid?  I would cry if I
were you.  Where's his bottle?  Poor infant!  Yow-ow-boo-boo!"

This tornado, delivered with increasing vehemence and offensiveness,
quite overpowered Stephen, who stared at the boy as if he had been a
talking frog.

That youth evidently seemed to expect that his speech would produce a
far deeper impression than it did, for he looked quite angry when
Stephen made no reply.

"Wretched little sneak!" the amiable one continued; "I suppose he'll go
peaching to his big brother.  Never mind, _we'll_ pay you out, see if we
don't!  Go and kiss your mammy, and tell your big brother what they did
to little duckie Steevie, did they then? they shouldn't!  Give him a
suck of his bottle! oh, my!" and he finished up with a most withering
laugh.  Then, suddenly remembering his errand, he walked up to the
table, and said, "I want that inkpot!"

Now was Stephen's time.  He was just in the humour for an argument with
this young Philistine.

"What for?"

"What's that to you? give it up!"

"I shan't give it up; Oliver said it was not to be taken."

"What do you say?" yelled the small boy, almost beside himself with rage
and astonishment.  "It's my brother's ink, and I'm not to give it up,"
said Stephen, shutting the top and keeping his hand on it.

It was enough!  The patriarch of the Tadpoles knew his strong point was
in words rather than action; but this could not be endured.  At whatever
risk, the dignity of his order must be maintained, and this insolent,
mad new boy must be--kicked.

"I'll kick you on the legs if you don't give it up," said the Tadpole,
in a suppressed white heat.

Stephen said nothing, but kept his hand on the pot, and awaited what was
to follow.

The hero stepped back a pace or two, to allow of a run worthy of the
coming kick; and what might have happened no one knows.  At that moment
the door opened, and Pembury entered on his crutches.

At sight of this Fifth Form celebrity the Tadpole cringed and cowered,
and tried to sneak out of the study unobserved.  But Anthony was too
quick for him.  Gently hooking him by the coat-collar with the end of a
crutch, he brought him back.

"What are you doing here?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, he is," shouted Stephen; "he's been trying to take, away Oliver's
ink."

"Silence, young gentleman, pray!" said Pembury, very grandly.  Then,
turning to the Tadpole, he added, "Oh, so you've been trying to bag some
ink, have you?"

"Well, I only wanted a little; and this--"

"Silence! how much ink did you want?"

"Only half a potful."

"You shall have half a potful!" said Pembury.  "Come here."

The Tadpole obeyed, and glared triumphantly at Stephen.

"Now, Master Greenfield," said Pembury, addressing Stephen; "have the
kindness to hand me the ink."

Stephen hesitated; he felt _sure_ Anthony was a master; and yet Oliver's
directions had been explicit.

"Do you hear?" thundered Anthony.

"Do you hear?" squeaked the Tadpole, delighted to have the tables turned
on his adversary.

"Oliver said I wasn't to let it go," faltered Stephen.

"Do you hear me, sir?" again demanded Anthony.

"Do you hear? give it up!" again squeaked the Tadpole.

Stephen sighed, and surrendered the inkpot.  There was an air of
authority about Pembury which he dared not defy.

"Now, Master Tadpole, here's your ink; half a pot you said?  Put your
hands behind you, and stir if you dare!" and Pembury looked so awful as
he spoke that the wretched boy was quite petrified.

The Fifth Form boy then solemnly emptied half the inkpot on to the top
of the young gentleman's head, who ventured neither by word nor gesture
to protest.

"Now you can go, sir!" and without another word he led the small youth,
down whose face trickled a dozen tiny streams of black, making it look
very like a gridiron, to the door, and there gently but firmly handed
him into the passage.  The wretched youth flew off to proclaim his
sorrows to his confederates, and vow vengeance all over Tadpole and
Guinea-pig-land against his tormentor and the new boy, who was the
author of all his humiliation.

Pembury meanwhile returned to Stephen.  That young gentleman had felt
his belief in Pembury's authority somewhat shaken by this unusual mode
of punishment, but the Fifth Form boy soon reassumed his ascendency.  He
produced from his pocket a paper, and thus addressed Stephen: "Dr
Senior regrets that he should be absent at such an important time in the
history of Saint Dominic's as the day of your arrival, Master
Greenfield, but he will be back to-morrow.  Meanwhile, you are to occupy
yourself with answering the questions on this paper, and take the
answers to the head master's study at ten to-morrow.  Of course you will
not be so dishonourable as to show the questions to any one, not even
your brother, or attempt to get the slightest help in answering them.
Good-bye, my boy.  Don't trouble to stare at my left leg, if it _is_
shorter than the other.  Good-bye."

Poor Stephen felt so confused by the whole of this oration, particularly
the last sentence, which made him blush scarlet with shame, that for
some time after the lame boy had hobbled off he could not bring himself
to look at the paper.  At last, however, he took it up.

This, then, was the awful examination paper which was to determine his
position at Saint Dominic's, or else expose his ignorance to the scorn
of his masters.  How he wished he was on the other side of it, and that
the ordeal was over!

"Question 1.  Grammar.  Parse the sentence, `Oh, ah!' and state the
gender of the following substantives: `and,' `look,' `here.'"

Stephen scratched his head and rubbed his eyes.  This was not like
anything he had learned at home.  They must learn out of quite different
books at Saint Dominic's.

"Question 2.  History--"

"Hullo," thought Stephen, "they don't give many questions in grammar;
that's a good job."

"Question 2.  History.  Whose daughter was Stephen the Second, and why
was he nicknamed the `Green?'"

Stephen laughed.  He had found out a mistake in his examiners.
"`Daughter,' the paper said, should be `son' of course.  Funny for Dr
Senior to make such a slip," thought he.

"Question 3.  History and Geography.  Who built England? and state the
latitude and longitude of Saint Dominic's, and the boundaries of Gusset
Weir."

"_However_ am I to know?" murmured Stephen, in despair.  "I was never
here before in my life.  Oh, dear, I shall _never_ pass!"

"Question 4.  Compound Theology.  Give a sketch of the rise and history
of the Dominicans from the time of Herod the Conqueror to the death of
Titmus."

"Whew!" was Stephen's despairing ejaculation.  "I never heard of Titmus;
it sounds like a Latin name."

"Question 5.  Pure Theology.  Who was Mr Finis?  Give a list of the
works bearing his signature, with a short abstract of their contents.
What is he particularly celebrated for?"

"Mr Finis?" groaned Stephen.  "How can they expect a boy like me to
know who he was?  And yet I seem to know the name.  Oh dear me!"

"Question 6, and last but one," ("That's a comfort," sighed Stephen).
"Mathematics.  What is a minus?  Describe its shape, and say how many
are left when the whole is divided by seven.  Reduce your answer to
vulgar decimals."

"I'm certain I can never do that.  Minus?  Minus?  I know the name, too.
But here's the last."

"Question 7.  Miscellaneous.  Give a brief history of your own life from
the earliest times, being particular to state your vicious deeds in
chronological order."

Stephen sighed a sigh of relief.  "I can answer that, after a fashion,"
he said; "but I can't even then be sure of all the dates.  As for the
others--" and he dashed the paper down on the table with an air of
bewildered despair.

"What am I to do?  They are all too hard for me.  Oh!  I wish I might
just show them to Oliver.  If I was only at home, mother could help me.
Oh, dear!  I wish I had never come here!"

And he gave himself over to the extreme of misery, and sat staring at
the wall until the twelve bell rang, and Oliver and Wraysford broke in
on his solitude.

"Hullo, young 'un; in the dumps?  Never mind; you'll be used to it in a
day or two, won't he, Wray?"

"Of course you will," said Wraysford, cheerily; "it's hard lines at
first.  Keep your pecker up, young 'un."

The young 'un, despite this friendly advice, felt very far from keeping
up his pecker.  But he did his best, and worked his face into a
melancholy sort of a smile.

"Fish us my spike shoes out of that cupboard, Stee, there's a good
fellow," said Oliver, "and come along to the cricket-field.  There's a
big practice on this afternoon."

Stephen hesitated.

"I've got to do my exam before ten to-morrow.  Some one brought me up
the paper and said so.  Perhaps I'd better stop here and do it?"

"I thought you weren't to be had up till the Doctor came back.  Who
brought you the paper?  I suppose it was Jellicott, the second master?"

"I suppose so," said Stephen, who had never heard of Mr Jellicott in
his life before.

"Let's have a look at it," said the elder brother.

"I promised I wouldn't."

"Oh, all serene; I only wanted to see the questions.  It's a new dodge
giving papers, isn't it, Wray?  We were examined _viva voce_ in the
Doctor's study.  Well, come on, old man, or we shall be late.  You'll
have lots of time for that this evening."

And off they went, the wretched Stephen wrestling mentally with his
problems all the while.

Of course, profound reader, you have made the brilliant discovery by
this time that Master Stephen Greenfield was a very green boy.  So were
you and I at his age; and so, after all, we are now.  For the more we
think we know, the greener we shall find we are; that's a fact!

CHAPTER FOUR.

FAGGING.

There is a queer elasticity about boys which no one, least of all
themselves, can account for.  A quarter of an hour after the big
practice had begun Stephen had forgotten all about his examination, and
could think of nothing but cricket.

As he sat cross-legged on the grass among half a dozen youngsters like
himself, he even began to forget that he was a new boy, and was
surprised to find himself holding familiar converse with one and another
of his companions.

"Well bowled, sir!" shouted Master Paul, as a very swift ball from
Ricketts took Bullinger's middle stump clean out of the
ground--"rattling well bowled!  I say," he added, turning round; "if
Ricketts bowls like that to-day week, the others will be nowhere."

"Oh," said Stephen, to whom this remark seemed to be addressed.

Master Paul looked sharply round.

"Hullo, young 'un, is that you?  Jolly good play, isn't it?  Who are you
for, A or Z?"

"What do you mean?"

"Mean?  Do you back the A's or the Z's? that's what I mean.  Oh, I
suppose you don't twig, though.  A to M, you know, against N to Z."

"Oh," said Stephen, "I back the A to M's, of course; my brother is in
that half."

"So he is--isn't that him going in now?  Yes; you see if Ricketts
doesn't get him out in the first over!"

Stephen watched most eagerly and anxiously.  They were not playing a
regular game, only standing up to be bowled at in front of the nets, or
fielding at fixed places; but each ball, and each hit, and each piece of
fielding, was watched and applauded as if a victory depended on it, for
out of those playing to-day the two elevens for the Alphabet match were
to be chosen; and out of those two elevens, as every one knew, the
School eleven, which would play the County in June, was to be selected.
Oliver, despite Paul's prophecy, stood out several overs of Rickett's,
and Loman's, and the school captain's, one after the other, cutting some
of their balls very hard, and keeping a very steady guard over his
wicket.  At last a ball of Loman's got past him and snicked off his
bails.

Stephen looked inquiringly round at Paul, and then at the small knot of
Sixth fellows who were making notes of each candidate's play.

"He's all right," said Paul; "I guess Raleigh," (that was the school
captain) "didn't fancy his balls being licked about like that.  Never
mind--there goes Braddy in."

And so the practice went on, each candidate for the honour of a place in
the eleven submitting to the ordeal, and being applauded or despised
according as he acquitted himself.  Wraysford, of course, came out of
the trial well, as he always did.

"I declare, the Fifth could lick the Sixth this year, Tom," said Pembury
to Tom Senior, as they sat together looking on.

"I'm sure they could; I hope we challenge them."

Just then a Sixth Form fellow strolled up to where the speakers were
standing.

"I say, Loman," said Pembury, "we were just saying our men could lick
yours all to fits.  Don't you think so yourself?"

"Can't say I do; but you are such a wonderful lot of heroes, you Fifth,
that there's no saying what you couldn't do if you tried," replied
Loman, with a sneer.

"But you take such precious good care we shall not try, that's just it,"
said Pembury, winking at his companion.  "Never mind, we'll astonish you
some day," growled the editor of the _Dominican_ as he hobbled away.

Loman strolled up to where the small boys were sitting.

"Which of you is young Greenfield?" he said.

"I am," said Stephen, promptly.

"Run with this letter to the post, then, and bring me back some stamps
while you are there, and get tea ready for two in my study by half-past
six--do you hear?"

And off he went, leaving Stephen gaping at the letter in his hand, and
quite bewildered as to the orders about tea.

Master Paul enjoyed his perplexity.

"I suppose you thought you were going to get off fagging.  I say, you'll
have to take that letter sharp, or you'll be late."

"Where's the post-office?"

"About a mile down Maltby Road.  Look here, as you are going there, get
me a pound of raisins, will you?--there's a good chap.  We'll square up
to-night."

Stephen got up and started on his errands in great disgust.

He didn't see why he was to be ordered about and sent jobs for the other
boys, just at a time, too, when he was enjoying himself.  However, it
couldn't be helped.

Three or four fellows stopped him as he walked with the letter in his
hand to the gates.

"Oh, are you going to the post?  Look here, young 'un, just call in at
Splicer's about my bat, will you? thanks awfully!" said one.

Another wanted him to buy a sixpenny novel at the library; a third
commissioned him to invest threepence in "mixed sweets, chiefly
peppermint;" and a fourth to call at Grounding, the naturalist's, with a
dead white mouse which the owner wanted stuffed.

After this, Stephen--already becoming a little more knowing--stuffed the
letter in his pocket, and took care, if ever he passed any one, not to
look as if he was going anywhere, for fear of being entrusted with a
further mission.

He discharged all his errands to the best of his ability, including that
relating to the dead mouse, which he had great difficulty in rescuing
from the clutches of a hungry dog on the way down, and then returned
with Paul's raisins in one pocket, the mixed sweets in another, the book
in another, and the other boy's bat over his shoulder.

Paul was awaiting him at the gate of Saint Dominic's.

"Got them?" he shouted out, when Stephen was still twenty yards off.

Stephen nodded.

"How much?" inquired Paul.

"Eighteenpence."

"You duffer!  I didn't mean them--pudding raisins I meant, about
sixpence.  I say, you'd better take them back, hadn't you?"

This was gratitude!  "I can't now," said Stephen.

"I've got to get somebody's tea ready--I say, where's his study?"

"Whose?  Loman's?  Oh, it's about the eighth on the right in the third
passage; next to the one with the kicks on it.  What a young muff you
are to get this kind of raisin!  I say, you'd have plenty of time to
change them."

"I really wouldn't," said Stephen, hurrying off, and perhaps guessing
that before he met Mr Paul again the raisins would be past changing.

The boy to whom belonged the mixed sweets was no more grateful than Paul
had been.

"You've chosen the very ones I hate," he said, surveying the selection
with a look of disgust.

"You said peppermint," said Stephen.

"But I didn't say green, beastly things!" grumbled the other.  "Here,
you can have one of them, it's sure to make you sick!"

Stephen said "Thank you," and went off to deliver up the bat.

"What a time you've been!" was all the thanks he got in that quarter.
"Why couldn't you come straight back with it?"

This was gratifying.  Stephen was learning at least one lesson that
afternoon--that a fag, if he ever expects to be thanked for anything he
does, is greatly mistaken.  He went off in a highly injured frame of
mind to Loman's study.

Master Paul's directions might have been more explicit--"The eighth door
on the right; next to the one with the kicks."  Now, as it happened, the
door with the kicks on it was itself the eighth door on the right, with
a study on either side of it, and which of these two was Loman's Stephen
could not by the unaided light of nature determine.  He peeped into
Number 7; it was empty.

"Perhaps he's cut his name on the door," thought Stephen.

He might have done so, but as there were about fifty different letters
cut on the door, he was not much wiser for that.

"I'd better look and see if his name is on his collars," Stephen next
reflected, remembering with what care his mother had marked his own
linen.

He opened a drawer; it was full of jam-pots.  At that moment the door
opened behind him, and the next thing Stephen was conscious of was that
he was half-stunned with a terrific box on the ears.

"Take that, you young thief!" said the indignant owner of the study;
"I'll teach you to stick your finger in my jam.  What do you mean by
it?" and a cuff served as a comma between each sentence.

"I really didn't--I only wanted--I was looking for--"

"That'll do; don't tell lies as well as steal; get away."

"I never stole anything!" began Stephen, whose confusion was being
rapidly followed by indignation at this unjust suspicion.

"That'll do.  A little boy like you shouldn't practise cheating.  Off
you go!  If I catch you again I'll take you to the Doctor."

In vain Stephen, now utterly indignant, and burning with a sense of
injustice, protested his innocence.  He could not get a hearing, and
presently found himself out in the passage, the most miserable boy in
all Saint Dominic's.

He wandered disconsolately along the corridor, trying hard to keep down
his tears, and determined to beg and beseech his brother to let him
return home that very evening, when Loman and a friend confronted him.

"Hullo, I say, is tea ready?" demanded the former.

"No," said Stephen, half choking.

"Why ever not, when I told you?"

Stephen looked at him, and tried to speak, and then finally burst into
tears.

"Here's an oddity for you!  Why, what's the row, youngster?"

"Nothing," stammered Stephen.

"That's a queer thing to howl at.  If you were weeping because you
hadn't made my tea, I could understand it.  Come along, I'll show you
how to do it this time, young greenhorn."

Stephen accompanied him mechanically, and was ushered into the study on
the other side of the door with the kicks to that in which he had been
so grievously wronged.

He watched Loman prepare the meal, and was then allowed to depart, with
orders to be in the way, in case he should be wanted.

Poor Stephen!  Things were going from bad to worse, and life was already
a burden to him.  And besides--that exam paper!  It now suddenly dawned
upon him.  Here it was nearly seven o'clock, and by ten to-morrow he was
to deliver it up to Dr Senior!

How _ever_ was he to get through it?  He darted off to Oliver's study.
It was empty, and he sat down, and drawing out the paper, made a dash at
the first question.

The answer _wouldn't_ come!  Parse "Oh, ah!"

"Oh" is an interjection agreeing with "ah."

"Ah" is an interjection agreeing with "oh."  It wouldn't do.  He must
try again.

"Why," cried the voice of Wraysford, half an hour later, "here's a
picture of industry for you, Greenfield.  That young brother of yours is
beginning well!"

Stephen hurriedly caught up his papers for fear any one should catch a
glimpse of the hopeless attempts at answers which he had written.  He
was greatly tempted to ask Oliver about "Mr Finis," only he had
promised not to get any help.

"Let's have a look at the questions," again demanded Oliver, but at that
moment Loman's voice sounded down the passage.

"Greenfield junior, where are you?"

Stephen, quite glad of this excuse for again refusing to show that
wretched paper, jumped up, and saying, "There's Loman wants his tea
cleared away," vanished out of the room.

Poor Stephen!  There was little chance of another turn at his paper that
night.  By the time Loman's wants had been attended to, and his
directions for future fagging delivered, the prayer-bell rang, and for
the half-hour following prayers the new boy was hauled away by Master
Paul into the land of the Guinea-pigs, there to make the acquaintance of
some of his future class-fellows, and to take part in a monster
indignation meeting against the monitors for forbidding single wicket
cricket in the passage, with a door for the wicket, an old inkpot for
the ball, and a ruler for the bat.  Stephen quite boiled with rage to
hear of this act of tyranny, and vowed vengeance along with all the rest
twenty times over, and almost became reconciled with his enemy of the
morning (but not quite) in the sympathy of emotion which this
demonstration evoked.

Then, just as the memory of that awful paper rushed back into his mind,
and he was meditating sneaking off to his brother's study, the first
bed-bell sounded.

"Come on," said Paul, "or they'll bag our blankets."

Stephen, wondering, and shivering at the bare idea, raced along the
passage and up the staircase with his youthful ally to the dormitory.
There they found they had been anticipated by the blanket-snatchers; and
as they entered, one of these, the hero of the inky head, was
deliberately abstracting one of those articles of comfort from Stephen's
own bed.

"There's young Bramble got your blanket, Greenfield," cried Paul, "pitch
into him!"

Stephen, nothing loth, marched up to Master Bramble and demanded his
blanket.  A general engagement ensued, some of the inhabitants of the
dormitory siding with Stephen, and some with Bramble, until it seemed as
if the coveted blanket would have parted in twain.  In the midst of the
confusion a sentry at the door suddenly put his head in and shouted
"Nix!"  The signal had a magical effect on all but the uninitiated
Stephen, who, profiting by his adversaries' surprise, made one desperate
tug at his blanket, which he triumphantly rescued.

"Look sharp," said Paul, "here comes Rastle."  Mr Rastle was the small
boys' tutor and governor.  Stephen took the hint, and was very soon
curled up, with his brave blanket round him, in bed, where, despite the
despairing thought of his paper, the cruel injustice of the owner of the
jam-pots, and the general hardness of his lot, he could not help feeling
he was a good deal more at home at Saint Dominic's than he had ever yet
found himself.

Of one thing he was determined.  He would be up at six next morning, and
make one last desperate dash at his exam paper.

CHAPTER FIVE.

SHAKING DOWN TO WORK.

"Master Greenfield, junior, is to go to the head master's study at
half-past nine," called out Mr Roach, the school porter, putting his
head into the dormitory, at seven o'clock next morning.

Stephen had been up an hour, making fearful and wonderful shots of
answers to his awful questions, half of which he had already ticked off
as done for better or worse.  "If I write _something_ down to each,"
thought he to himself, "I might happen to get one thing right; it'll be
better than putting down no answer at all."

"Half-past nine!" said he to Paul, on hearing this announcement; "_ten_
was the time I was told."

"Who told you?"

"The gentleman who gave me my paper."

"What paper? you don't have papers.  It's _viva voce_."

"I've got a paper, anyhow," said Stephen, "and a precious hard one, too,
and I've only half done it."

"Well, you'll have to go at half-past nine, or you'll catch it," said
Paul.  "I say, there's Loman calling you."

Stephen, who, since the indignation meeting last night, had felt himself
grow very rebellious against the monitors, did not choose to hear the
call in question, and tried his hardest to make another shot at his
paper.  But he could not keep deaf when Loman himself opened the door,
and pulling his ear inquired what he meant by not coming when he was
told?  The new boy then had to submit, and sulkily followed his lord to
his study, there to toast some bread at a smoky fire, and look for about
half an hour for a stud that Loman said had rolled under the chest of
drawers, but which really had fallen into one of that gentleman's boots.

By the time these labours were over, and Stephen had secured a mouthful
of breakfast in his brother's study, it was time to go down to prayers;
and after prayers he had but just time to wonder what excuse he should
make for only answering half his questions, when the clock pointed to
the half-hour, and he had to scuttle off as hard as he could to the
Doctor's study.

Dr Senior was a tall, bald man, with small, sharp eyes, and with a
face as solemn as an owl's.  He looked up as Stephen entered.

"Come in, my man.  Let me see; Greenfield?  Oh, yes.  You got here on
Tuesday.  How old are you?"

"Nearly eleven, sir," said Stephen, with the paper burning in his
pocket.

"Just so; and I dare say your brother has shown you over the school, and
helped to make you feel at home.  Now suppose we just run through what
you have learned at home."

Now was the time.  With a sigh as deep as the pocket from which he
pulled it, Stephen produced that miserable paper.

"I'm very sorry, sir," he began, "I've not had time--"

"Tut, tut!" said the Doctor; "put that away, and let us get on."

Stephen stared.  "It's the paper you gave me!" he said.

The Doctor frowned.  "I hope you are not a silly boy," he said, rather
crossly.

"I'm afraid they are all wrong," said Stephen; "the questions were--
were--rather hard."

"What questions?" exclaimed the Doctor, a trifle impatient, and a trifle
puzzled.

"These you sent me," said Stephen, humbly handing in the paper.

"Hum! some mistake; let's see, perhaps Jellicott--ah!" and he put on his
glasses and unfolded the paper.

"Question 1.  Grammar!" and then a cloud of amazement fell over the
Doctor's face.  He looked sharply out from under his spectacles at
Stephen, who stood anxiously and nervously before him.  Then he glanced
again at the paper, and his mouth twitched now and then as he read the
string of questions, and the boy's desperate attempts to answer them.

"Humph!" he said, when the operation was over, "I'm afraid, Greenfield,
you are not a very clever boy--"

"I know I'm not, sir," said Stephen, quite relieved that the Doctor did
not at once order him to quit Saint Dominic's.

"Or you would have seen that this paper was a practical joke."  Then it
burst all of a sudden on Stephen.  And all this about "Mr Finis", "Oh,
ah," and the rest of it had been a cruel hoax, and no more!

"Come, now, let us waste no more time.  I'm not surprised," said the
Doctor, suppressing a smile by a very hard twitch; "I'm not surprised
you found these questions hard.  How far have you got in arithmetic?"

And then the Doctor launched Stephen into a _viva voce_ examination, in
which that young prodigy of learning acquitted himself far more
favourably than could have been imagined, and at the end of which he
heard that he would be placed in the fourth junior class, where it would
be his duty to strain every nerve to advance, and make the best use of
his time at Saint Dominic's.  Then the Doctor rang his bell.

"Tell Mr Rastle kindly to step here," said he to the porter.

Mr Rastle appeared, and to his charge, after solemnly shaking hands and
promising to be a paragon of industry and good conduct, Stephen was
consigned by the head master.

"By the way," said the Doctor, as Stephen was leaving, "will you tell
the boy who gave you this paper I wish to see him?"

Stephen, who had been too much elated by the result of the real
examination to recollect for the moment the trickery of the sham one,
now blushed very red as he remembered what a goose he had been, and
undertook to obey the Doctor's order.  And this it was very easy to do.
For as he opened the study-door he saw Pembury just outside, leaning
against the wall with his eyes on the clock as it struck ten.

As he caught sight of Stephen emerging from the head master's study, his
countenance fell, and he said eagerly and half-anxiously, "Didn't I tell
you ten o'clock, Greenfield?"

"Yes, but the Doctor said half-past nine.  And you are a cad to make a
fool of me," added Stephen, rising with indignation, "and--and--and--"
and here he choked.

"Calm yourself, my young friend," said Pembury.  "It's such a hard thing
to make a fool of you that, you know, and--and--and--!"

"I shall not speak to you," stammered Stephen.

"Oh, don't apologise," laughed Pembury.  "Perhaps it would comfort you
to kick me.  Please choose my right leg, as the other is off the ground,
eh?"

"The Doctor wants to speak to you, he says," said Stephen.

Pembury's face fell again.  "Do you mean to say he saw the paper, and
you told him?" he said, angrily.

"I showed him the paper, because I thought he had sent it; but I didn't
tell him who gave it to me."

"Then why does he want me?"

"He wants the boy who gave me the paper, that's all he said," answered
Stephen, walking off sulkily to his quarters, and leaving Anthony to
receive the rebukes of Dr Senior, and make his apologies for his evil
deeds as best he could.

The offence after all was not a very terrible one, and Pembury got off
with a mild reprimand on the evils of practical joking, at the end of
which he found himself in his usual amiable frame of mind, and
harbouring no malice against his innocent victim.

"Greenfield," said he, when shortly afterwards he met Oliver, "I owe
your young brother an apology."

"What on earth for?"

"I set him an examination paper to answer, which I'm afraid caused him
some labour.  Never mind, it was all for the best."

"What, did that paper he was groaning over come from you?  What a shame,
Tony, to take advantage of a little beggar like him!"

"I'm awfully sorry, tell him; but I say, Greenfield, it'll make a
splendid paragraph for the _Dominican_.  By the way, are you going to
let me have that poem you promised on the Guinea-pigs?"

"I can't get on with it at all," said Oliver.  "I'm stuck for a rhyme in
the second line."

"Oh, stick down anything.  How does it begin?"

  "`Oh, dwellers in the land of dim perpetual,'"

began Oliver.

"Very good; let's see; how would this do?--

  "`I hate the day when first I met you all,
  And this I undertake to bet you all,
  One day I'll into trouble get you all,
  And down the playground steps upset you all,
  And with a garden hose I'll wet you all,
  And then--'"

"Oh, look here," said Oliver, "that'll do.  You may as well finish the
thing right out at that rate."

"Not at all, my dear fellow.  It was just a sudden inspiration, you
know.  Don't mention it, and you may like to get off that rhyme into
another.  But I say, Greenfield, we shall have a stunning paper for the
first one.  Tom Senior has written no end of a report of the last
meeting of the Sixth Form Debating Society, quite in the parliamentary
style; and Bullinger is writing a history of Saint Dominic's, `gathered
from the earliest sources,' as he says, in which he's taking off most of
the Sixth.  Simon is writing a love-ballad, which is sure to be fun; and
Ricketts is writing a review of Liddell and Scott's _Lexicon_; and
Wraysford is engaged on `The Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.'"

"Good!" said Oliver, "and what are _you_ writing?"

"Oh, the leading article, you know, and the personal notes, and `Squeaks
from Guineapigland and Tadpoleopolis,' and some of the advertisements.
Come up to my study, you and Wray, this evening after prayers, I say,
and we'll go through it."

And off hobbled the editor of the _Dominican_, leaving Oliver greatly
impressed with his literary talents, especially in the matter of finding
rhymes for "perpetual."

By the time he and Wraysford went in the evening to read over what had
been sent in, the poem on the Guinea-pigs was complete.

They found Pembury busy over a huge sheet of paper, the size of his
table.

"What on earth have you got there?" cried Wraysford.

"The _Dominican_, to be sure," said Anthony, gravely.

"Nonsense! you are not going to get it out in that shape?"

"I am, though.  Look here, you fellows," said Anthony, "I'll show you
the dodge of the thing.  The different articles will either be copied or
pasted into this big sheet.  You see each of these columns is just the
width of a sheet of school paper.  Well, here's a margin all round--do
you twig?--so that when the whole thing's made up it'll be ready for
framing."

"Framing!" exclaimed Greenfield and his friend.

"To be sure.  I'm getting a big frame, with glass, made for it, with the
title of the paper in big letters painted on the wood.  So the way we
shall publish it will be to hang it outside our class-room, and then
every one can come and read it who likes--much better than passing it
round to one fellow at a time."

"Upon my word, Tony, it's a capital notion," exclaimed Wraysford,
clapping the lame boy on the back; "it does you credit, my boy."

"Don't mention it," said Tony; "and don't whack me like that again, or
I'll refuse to insert your `Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.'"

"But, I say," said Greenfield, "are you sure they'll allow it to hang
out there?  It may get knocked about."

"I dare say we may have a row with the monitors about it; but we must
square them somehow.  We shall have to keep a fag posted beside it,
though, to protect it."

"And to say `Move on!' like the policemen," added Wraysford.  "Well,
it's evident you don't want any help, Tony, so I'll go."

"Good-bye; don't ask me to your study for supper, please."

"I'm awfully sorry, I promised Bullinger.  I know he has a dozen
sausages in his cupboard.  Come along there.  Are you coming,
Greenfield?"

And the worthy friends separated for a season.

Meanwhile, Stephen had made his _debut_ in the Fourth Junior.  He was
put to sit at the bottom desk of the class, which happened to be next to
the desk owned by Master Bramble, the inky-headed blanket-snatcher.
This young gentleman, bearing in mind his double humiliation, seemed by
no means gratified to find who his new neighbour was.

"Horrid young blub-baby!" was his affectionate greeting, "I don't want
you next to me."

"I can't help it," said Stephen.  "I was put here."

"Oh, yes, because you're such an ignorant young sneak; that's why."

"I suppose that's why you were at the bottom before I came--oh!"

The last exclamation was uttered aloud, being evoked by a dig from the
amiable Master Bramble's inky pen into Stephen's leg.

"Who was that?" said Mr Rastle, looking up from his desk.

"Now then," whispered Bramble, "sneak away--tell tales, and get me into
a row--I'll pay you!"

Stephen, feeling himself called upon, stood up.

"It was me," he said.

"It was I, would be better grammar," said Mr Rastle, quietly.

Mr Rastle was a ruddy young man, with a very good-humoured face, and a
sly smile constantly playing at the corners of his mouth.  He no doubt
guessed the cause of the disturbance, for he asked, "Was any one
pinching you?"

"Go it," growled Bramble, in a savage whisper.  "Say it was me, you
sneak."

Stephen said, No, no one had pinched him; but finished up his sentence
with another "Oh!" as the gentle Bramble gave him a sharp side-kick on
the ankle as he stood.

Mr Rastle's face darkened as he perceived this last piece of by-play.

"Bramble," said he, "oblige me by standing on the form for half an hour.
I should be sorry to think you were as objectionable as your name
implies.  Sit down, Greenfield."

And then the class resumed, with Master Bramble perched like a statue of
the sulky deity on his form, muttering threats against Greenfield all
the while, and the most scathing denunciations against all who might be
even remotely connected with big brothers, and mammies, and blub-babies.

Stephen, who was beginning to feel himself much more at home at Saint
Dominic's, betrayed no visible terror at these menaces, and only once
took any notice of his exalted enemy, when the latter attempted not only
to stand on the form, but upon a tail of Stephen's jacket, and a bit of
the flesh of his leg at the same time.  Then he gave the offending foot
a knock with his fist and an admonitory push.

"Please, sir," squeaked the lordly Bramble, "Greenfield junior is trying
to knock me over."

"I was not," shouted Stephen; "he was squashing me with his foot, and I
moved it away."

"Really, Bramble," said Mr Rastle, "you are either very unfortunate or
very badly behaved.  Come and stand on this empty form beside my desk.
There will be no danger here of `squashing' any one's leg or of being
knocked over.  Come at once."

So Mr Bramble took no advantage by his last motion, and served the rest
of his term of penal servitude, in the face of the entire class, under
the immediate eye of Mr Rastle.

Directly class was over, Stephen had to go and wait upon Loman for a
particular purpose, which the reader must hear of in due time.

CHAPTER SIX.

MR CRIPPS THE YOUNGER.

Loman was a comparatively new boy at Saint Dominic's.  He had entered
eighteen months ago, in the Fifth Form, having come direct from another
school.  He was what many persons would call an agreeable boy, although
for some reason or other he was never very popular.  What that something
was, no one could exactly define.  He was clever, and good-tempered, and
inoffensive.  He rarely quarrelled or interfered with any one, and he
had been known to do more than one good-natured act.  But whether it was
that he was conceited, or selfish, or not quite straight, or a little
bit of all three, he never made any very great friends at Saint
Dominic's, and since he had got into the Sixth and been made a monitor,
he had quite lost the favour of his old comrades in the Fifth.

As far as Wraysford and Greenfield were concerned, this absence of
goodwill had ripened into something like soreness, by the way in which
Loman had made use of his own position as a monitor, on a casual
reference by Oliver to the probable coming of Stephen to Saint
Dominic's, to secure that young gentleman as his fag, although he quite
well knew that Wraysford was counting on having him.  Though of course
the captain's word was final, the two friends felt that they had not
been quite fairly dealt with in the matter.  They took no trouble to
conceal what they thought from Loman himself, who seemed to derive
considerable satisfaction from the fact, and to determine to keep his
hand on the new boy quite as much for the sake of "scoring off" his
rivals as on the fag's own account.

Loman, Wraysford, and Greenfield _were_ rivals in more matters than one.
They were all three candidates for a place in the school eleven, and
all three candidates for the Nightingale Scholarship next autumn; and
besides this, they each of them aspired to control the Junior
Dominicans; and it was a sore mortification to Loman to find that,
though a monitor, his influence among the small fry was by no means as
great as that of the two Fifth Form boys, who were notoriously popular,
and thought much of by their juniors.

For these and other reasons, the relations between the two friends and
Loman were at the present time a little "strained."

To Stephen, however, Loman was all civility.  He helped him in his
lessons, and gave him the reversion of his feasts, and exercised his
monitorial authority against Master Bramble in a way that quite charmed
the new boy, and made him consider himself fortunate to have fallen into
the hands of so considerate a lord.

When he entered Loman's study after his first morning's work in class,
he found that youth in a highly amiable frame of mind, and delighted to
see him.

"Hullo, Greenfield!" he said; "how are you? and how are you getting on?
I hear you are in the Fourth Junior; all among the Guinea-pigs and
Tadpoles, eh?  Which do you belong to?"

"I don't know," said Stephen; "they are going to draw lots for me
to-morrow."

"That's a nice way of being elected!  I say, have you any classes this
afternoon?"

"No; Mr Rastle has given us a half-holiday."

"That's just the thing.  I'm going to scull up the river a bit after
dinner, and if you'd like you can come and steer for me."

Stephen was delighted.  Of all things he liked boating.  They lived near
a river at home, he said, and he always used to steer for Oliver there.

So, as soon as dinner was over, the two went down to the boathouse and
embarked.

"Which way shall you row?" asked Stephen, as he made himself comfortable
in the stern of the boat, and took charge of the rudder-lines.

"Oh, up stream.  Keep close in to the bank, out of the current."

It was a beautiful afternoon, and Loman paddled lazily and luxuriously
up, giving ample time to Stephen, if so inclined, to admire the wooded
banks and picturesque windings of the Shar.  Gusset Lock was reached in
due time, and here Loman suggested that Stephen should get out and go
round and look at the weir, while he went on and took the boat through.
Stephen acceded and landed, and Loman paddled on to the lock.

"Hello, maister," called down a feeble old voice, as he got up to the
gate.

"Hullo, Jeff, is Cripps about?" replied Loman.

"Yas; he be inside or somewheres, maister," replied the old lock-keeper.

"All right! take the boat up; I want to see Cripps."

Cripps was the son of the old man whom Loman had addressed as Jeff.  He
was not exactly a gentleman, for he kept the Cockchafer public-house at
Maltby, and often served behind the bar in his own person.  Neither was
he altogether a reputable person, for he frequently helped himself to an
overdose of his own beverages, besides being a sharp hand at billiards,
and possessing several packs of cards with extra aces in them.  Neither
was he a particularly refined personage, for his choice of words was
often more expressive than romantic, and his ordinary conversation was
frequently the reverse of edifying; it mainly had to do with details of
the stable or the card-room, and the anecdotes with which he enlivened
it were often "broader than they were long," to put it mildly.  In
short, Cripps was a blackguard by practice, whatever he was by
profession.  He had, however, one redeeming virtue; he was very partial
to young gentlemen, and would go a good bit out of his way to meet one.
He always managed to know of something that young gentlemen had a fancy
for.  He could put them into the way of getting a thoroughbred bull-dog
dirt-cheap; he could put them up to all the tips at billiards and "Nap,"
and he could make up a book for them on the Derby or any other race,
that was bound to win.  And he did it all in such a pleasant, frank way
that the young gentlemen quite fell in love with him, and entrusted
their cash to him with as much confidence as if he were the Bank of
England.

Of all the young gentlemen whose privilege it had been to make the
acquaintance of Mr Cripps--and there were a good many--he professed the
greatest esteem and admiration for Loman, of Saint Dominic's school, to
whom he had been only recently introduced.  The two had met at the
lock-keeper's house a week ago, when Loman was detained there an hour or
two by stress of weather, and, getting into conversation, as gentlemen
naturally would, Loman chanced to mention that he wanted to come across
a really good fishing-rod.

By a most curious coincidence, Mr Cripps had only the other day been
asked by a particular friend of his, who was removing from the country
to London--"where," said Mr Cripps, "there ain't over much use for a
rod,"--if he knew of any one in want of a really good fishing-rod.  It
was none of your ordinary ones, made out of green wood with pewter
joints, but a regular first-class article, and would do for trout or
perch or jack, or any mortal fish you could think of.  Cripps had seen
it, and flattered himself he knew something about rods, but had never
seen one to beat this.  Reel and all, too, and a book of flies into the
bargain, if he liked.  He had been strongly tempted to get it for
himself--it seemed a downright sin to let such a beauty go--and would
have it if he had not already got a rod, but of a far inferior sort, of
his own.  And he believed his friend would part with it cheap.

"I tell you what, young gentleman," said he, "I'll bring it up with me
next time I come, and you shall have a look at it.  Of course, you can
take it or not, as you like, but if my advice is worth anything--well,
never mind, I suppose you are sure to be up stream in the course of the
next week or so."

"Oh, yes," said Loman, who in the presence of this universal genius was
quite deferential; "when can you bring it?"

"Well, my time ain't so very valuable, and I'd like to oblige you over
this little affair.  Suppose we say to-day week.  I'll have the rod
here, and you can try him."

"Thank you--have you--that is--about what--"

"You mean, about what figure will he want for it?  Well, I don't know
exactly.  They run so very various, do good rods.  You could get what
they call a rod for ten bob, I dare say.  But _you_ wouldn't hardly
fancy that style of thing."

"Oh no; if it was a really good one," said Loman, "I wouldn't mind
giving a good price.  I don't want a rotten one."

"That's just it.  This one I'm telling you of is as sound as a bell, and
as strong as iron.  And _you_ know, as well as I do, these things are
always all the better after a little use.  My friend has only used this
twice.  But I'll find out about the price, and drop you a line, you
know.  May be 2 pounds or 3 pounds, or so."

"I suppose that's about what a really good rod ought to cost?" said
Loman, who liked to appear to know what was what, but secretly rather
taken aback by this estimate.

"So it is.  It's just a guess of mine though; but I know for _me_ he'll
put it as low as he can."

"I'm sure I shall be very much obliged to you," said Loman, "if you can
manage it for me."

"Not at all, young gentleman.  I always like to oblige where I can;
besides, you would do as much for me, I'll wager.  Well, good-day, Mr--
what's your name?"

"Loman--at Saint Dominic's.  You'll send me a line, then about the
price?"

"Yes, sir.  Good-day, sir."

But Mr Cripps had forgotten to send the line, and to-day, when Loman,
according to arrangement, came up to the lock-keeper's to receive the
rod, the keeper of the Cockchafer was most profuse in his apologies.  He
was most sorry, but his friend had been ill and not able to attend to
business.  He had been a _trifle_ afraid from what he heard that he was
not quite as anxious to part with that rod as formerly.  But Cripps had
gone over on purpose and seen him, and got his promise that he should
have it to-morrow certain, and if Mr Loman would call or send up, it
should be ready for him, without fail.

At this stage, Stephen, having explored the weir, rejoined his
schoolfellow, and the two, after partaking of a bottle of ginger-beer at
Mr Cripps's urgent request, returned with the stream to Saint
Dominic's.

The result of this delay was to make Loman doubly anxious to secure this
famous fishing-rod, on which his heart was set.  Next day, however, he
had classes all the afternoon, and could not go himself.  He therefore
determined to send Stephen.

"I want you to run up to Gusset Weir," said he to his fag, "to fetch me
a rod the keeper's son is getting for me.  Be quick back, will you? and
ask him what the price is."

So off Stephen trotted, as soon as school was over, in spite of the
counter attraction of a Guinea-pig cricket match.  When he reached the
lock, Cripps had not arrived.

"He warn't be long, young maister," said old Jeff, who was one of the
snivelling order.  "Take a seat, do 'ee.  Nice to be a young gemm'un, I
says--us poor coves as works wery 'ard, we'd like to be young gemm'un
too, with lots o' money, and all so comfortable off.  Why, young
maister, you don't know now what it is to be in want of a shillun.  I
do!"

Stephen promptly pulled out one of his five shillings of pocket-money in
answer to this appeal, and felt rather ashamed to appear "comfortable
off" in the presence of this patriarch.

"Not that I complains o' my lot, young gemm'un," continued old Cripps,
pulling his forelock with one hand and pocketing the shilling with the
other.  "No, I says, the honest working man don't do no good
a-grumblin', but when he's got his famerly to feed," [old Cripps was a
widower, and his family consisted of the landlord of the Cockchafer],
"and on'y this here shillin' to do it with--"

Stephen was _very_ green.  He almost cried at the sight of this
destitute, tottering, honest old man, and before the latter could get
farther in his lament another shilling was in his palsied old hand, and
the grey old forelock was enduring another tug.

It was well for Stephen that Mr Cripps junior turned up at this
juncture, or the entire five shillings might have made its way into the
old man's pouch.

Mr Cripps junior had the rod.  He had had a rare job, he said, to get
it, for his friend had only yesterday had an offer of 3 pounds 15
shillings, and was all but taking it.  However, here it was, and for
only 3 pounds 10 shillings tell Mr Loman; such a bargain as he wouldn't
often make in his life, and he could get him the fly-book for a
sovereign if he liked.  And Mr Cripps would charge him nothing for his
trouble.

After this Mr Cripps junior and the boy got quite friendly.  The former
was greatly interested in hearing about Saint Dominic's, especially when
he understood Stephen was a new boy.  Cripps could remember the day when
_he_ was a new boy, and had to fight three boys in three hours the first
afternoon.  He was awfully fond of cricket when he was a boy.  Was
Stephen?

"Oh, yes," said Stephen; "I like it more than anything."

"Ah, you should have seen the way we played.  Bless me!  I'd a bat, my
boy, that could tip the balls clean over the school-house.  You've got a
bat, of course, or else--"

"No, I haven't," said Stephen.  "I shall get one as soon as I can."

"Well, that _is_ lucky!  Look here, young gentleman," continued Cripps
confidentially; "I've taken a fancy to you.  It's best to be plain and
speak out.  I've taken a fancy to you, and you shall have that bat.
It's just your size, and the finest bit of willow you ever set eyes on.
I'll wager you'll make top score every time you use it.  You shall have
it.  Never mind about the stumpy--"

"Stumpy!" ejaculated Stephen; "I don't want stumps, only a bat."

"What I meant to say was, never mind about the price.  You can give me
what you like for it.  I wish I could make you a present of it.  My eye,
it's a prime bat!  Spliced!  Yes.  Treble-cane, as I'm a poor man.  I'll
send it up to you, see if I don't, and you can pay when you like."

And so he chattered on, in a way which quite charmed Stephen, and made
him rejoice in his new friend, and still more at the prospect of the
bat.

"If it's awfully dear," he said, at parting, with a sort of sigh, "I
couldn't afford it.  My pocket-money's nearly all gone."

He did not say how.

"Oh, never mind, not if you don't pay at all," replied the genial
Cripps.  "You'll be having more tin soon, I bet."

"Not till June," said Stephen.

"Well, leave it till June--no matter.  But you may as well have the use
of the bat now.  Good-day, Master Green--"

"Greenfield, Stephen Greenfield," said Stephen.

"Good-day, and give my respects to Mr Loman, and I hope I shall see you
both again."

Stephen hoped so too, and went off, highly elated, with Loman's rod
under his arm.

Loman pulled rather a long face at hearing the price, and pulled a still
longer face when Stephen told him about the bat.  He read his fag a long
lecture about getting into debt and pledging his pocket-money in
advance.

That evening Stephen was solemnly tossed up for by the Guinea-pigs and
Tadpoles.  "Heads, Guinea-pigs; tails, Tadpoles."  It turned up heads,
and from that time forward Greenfield junior was a Guinea-pig.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE "DOMINICAN," NUMBER ONE.

The eventful day had come at last.  Anthony and his confederates had
worked hard, evening after evening, in the secrecy of their studies, and
the first number of the _Dominican_ was ready for publication.  The big
frame had been smuggled in, and the big sheet was now safely lodged
behind the glass, with its eight broad columns of clearly-written
manuscript all ready to astonish Saint Dominic's.  Two nails had
surreptitiously been driven into the wall outside the Fifth Form room,
on which the precious document was to be suspended, and Tony only waited
for "lights out" to creep down and, with the aid of Ricketts and
Bullinger, fix it in position.  Everything succeeded well.  The secret
had been kept most carefully, and when, next morning, Saint Dominic's
woke up and swarmed down the passage past the Fifth Form class-room, the
sight of a huge frame, with the words _The Dominican_ staring out from
it, and several yards of writing underneath, fairly startled them.
Master Paul, the fag who had been deputed to the no easy task of
preserving the structure from injury, had a hard time of it, there was
such a hustling and crowding in front of it whenever classes were not
going on.  The little boys squeezed in front; the bigger boys read over
their heads; the Sixth examined it from the back of the crowd, and the
Fifth Form from various positions watched with complacency the effect of
this venture.

At first it was looked upon as a curiosity, then as a joke; then
gradually it dawned on Saint Dominic's that it was a Fifth Form
production, and finally it appeared in its true light as a school
newspaper.

Loman, attracted by the crowd of boys, strolled down the passage to the
place and joined the group, just as a small boy was reading aloud the
following descriptive extract from:

"Our Special Correspondent in Guinea-pig Land.

"Last night the ceremony of admitting a new member into the ancient and
honourable craft of Guinea-pigs was celebrated with the usual mysteries.
The event took place in the fourth junior class-room.  The Guinea-pigs
assembled in force, with blackened faces and false whiskers.  The lights
being put out, Brother Bilke proposed, and Brother Smudge seconded, the
election of the new aspirant, and the motion being put to the
Guinea-pigs, was received with a unanimous grunt.  The Guinea-pig elect
was then admitted.  He was classically attired in a pair of slippers and
a collar, and the ceremony of initiation at once commenced.  The
candidate was stretched across the lowest desk, face downwards, and in
this position greeted with the flat side of a cricket-bat by the junior
brother present.  He was then advanced to the next desk, where a similar
compliment was paid by the next youngest; and so on to the senior
brother present.  Half way through the ceremony the new member expressed
a desire to withdraw his candidature, but this motion was negatived by a
large majority.  When our reporter left, the ceremony was being repeated
with the round side of the bat.  We understand the new Guinea-pig is
keeping his bed to-day after the exciting ceremony of initiation."

This was capital fun, and greatly appreciated by all--even by Stephen,
who knew it was intended to represent his own experience, which,
mercifully, had not been nearly so sore as pictured.

But the next extract was not quite as pleasing.

"Cricket Notice.

"The Alphabet Match will be played on Saturday.  The following are the
two elevens [and here the list followed].  Of these twenty-two players,
it is worthy of mention that fourteen are from the Fifth, and only eight
from the Sixth.  What is our Sixth coming to?"

This was not at all gratifying to the Sixth Form fellows present.  It
was unfortunately true, but they did not at all fancy such prominence
being given to the fact.  The next extract was still more pointed.

"Sixth Form Debating Society.

"The usual meeting of the Sixth Form Debating Society was held last
week, the Doctor in the chair.  A sprinkling of lads from the Fifth, in
their Sunday coats and collars, was present, by kind permission.  The
subject for discussion was, `That the present Sixth is degenerate.'  In
the absence of any member of the Sixth to open the discussion, Master
Bramble, captain of the Tadpoles, kindly undertook the task.  He had no
hesitation in asserting that the Sixth were degenerate.  They had fallen
off in cricket since he could remember, and in intellect, he was sorry
to say, the falling off was still worse.  If they would take his advice,
they would avoid the playground during the present season, and by all
means withdraw their candidate for the Nightingale Scholarship, as he
was certain to be beaten by boys in a lower form.  As to behaviour, he
could point to virtuous behaviour among the Tadpoles, quite equal to
that of the monitors.  He didn't wish to ask questions, but would like
to know what they all found so attractive in Maltby.  Then, too, they
all oiled their hair.  No previous Sixth had ever been guilty of this
effeminacy, or of wearing lavender kid gloves on Sundays.  He repeated,
`What were we coming to?'"

"Mr R-g-h opened in the negative.  He denied all the charges made by
the young gentleman who had last spoken.  He undertook to get up an
eleven to beat any eleven the Tadpoles could put into the field; and as
to intellect, why, didn't the Tadpoles, some of them, get their sums
done by the Sixth?  Besides, even if their intellect was weak, couldn't
they use cribs?  He didn't use them himself, but he knew one or two who
did.  He didn't understand the objection to the hair-oil; he used it to
make the hair sit down on his head.  [Raleigh, it should be said, had a
most irrepressible bunch of curls on his head.]  He wore kid gloves on
Sunday because he had had a pair given him by his great-aunt Jane Ann.
He maintained the Sixth was not degenerate.

"Mr L-m-n followed on the same side.  He thought it the greatest
liberty of any one to discuss the Sixth.  He was a Sixth Form fellow,
and a monitor, and if he wasn't looked up to he ought to be, and he
intended to be.  He was in the cricket eleven, and he was intellectual--
very, very much so.  He was going in for the Nightingale Scholarship,
and had no doubt in his own mind as to the result.  He hardly understood
his friend's reference to Maltby.  Why shouldn't he go there and take
his fag too if he chose?  He didn't see what right the Fifth had to fags
at all.  He had a fag, but then he was in the Sixth.  His fag admired
him, and he never told him not to.  The Sixth _could not_ be degenerate
so long as _he_ was in it."

"Other speakers followed, including Mr W-r-n, who maintained that
Michael Angelo was a greater musician than Queen Anne.  He was here
called to order, and reminded that Michael Angelo had nothing to do with
the degeneracy of the Sixth.  He begged leave to explain--

"At this point our reporter fell asleep."

The laughter which greeted the reading of this extract was by no means
shared by the Sixth Form boys present, who, had the next selection been
in a similar strain, would have quitted the scene and taken their chance
of satisfying their curiosity as to the rest of the contents of the
paper at a more convenient season.

But the next lucubration was the unfortunate Stephen's examination
paper, with the answers thereto embellished, and in many cases bodily
supplied, by the fertile Anthony.  The luckless Stephen, who was wedged
up in the front row of readers, could have sunk into the earth on
meeting once more that hateful paper face to face, and feeling himself
an object of ridicule to the whole school.  For the wonderful answers
which now appeared were hardly any of them his own composition, and he
did not even get credit for the few correct things he had said.  Shouts
of laughter greeted the reading, during which he dared not lift his eyes
from the ground.  But the answer to Question 6, "What is a minus?" was
more than human flesh and blood could endure.

"What is a Minus?"

"`Minus' is derived from two English words, `my,' meaning my, and `nus,'
which is the London way of pronouncing `nurse.'  My nurse is a dear
creature; I love her still, especially now she doesn't wash my face.  I
hated having my face washed.  My nurse's name is Mrs Blake, but I
always call her my own Noodle-oodle-oo.  I do love her so!  How I would
like to hug her!  She sewed the strings of my little flannel vest on in
front just before I came here because she knew I couldn't tie them
behind by myself--"

"She didn't!" shouted Stephen, in a voice trembling with indignation.

Poor boy!  The laughter which greeted this simple exclamation was enough
to finish up any one, and, with a bursting heart, and a face crimson
with confusion, he struggled out of the crowd and ran as fast as his
legs would take him to his own class-room.

But if he imagined in his misery that the whole school was going to
spend the entire day jeering at him, and him alone, he was greatly
mistaken, for once out of sight Stephen soon passed out of mind in
presence of the next elegant extract read out for the benefit of the
assembled audience.  This was no other than Simon's "Love-Ballad."

Simon, it should be known, was one of the dullest boys in Saint
Dominic's, and it was a standing marvel how he ever came to be in the
Fifth, for he was both a dunce and an idiot.  But he had one ambition
and one idea, which was that he could write poetry; and the following
touching ballad from his pen he offered to the _Dominican_, and the
_Dominican_ showed its appreciation of real talent by inserting it:--

  "A Love-Ballad.

  "I wish I was a buttercup,
  Upon the mountain top,
  That you might sweetly pick me up,
  And sweetly let me drop.
  I wish I was a little worm,
  All rigling in the sun,
  That I myself towards thee might turn
  When thou along didst come.
  Oh, I wish I was a doormat, sweet,
  All prostrate on the floor,
  If only thou wouldst wipe thy feet,
  On me, what could I want more?"

  ["Rigling" is possibly "wriggling".]

Simon, who, with true poet's instinct, was standing among the crowd
listening to his own poem, was somewhat perplexed by the manner in which
his masterpiece was received.  That every one was delighted there could
be no doubt.  But he had an impression he had meant the ballad to be
pathetic.  Saint Dominic's, however, had taken it up another way, and
appeared to regard it as facetious.  At any rate his fame was made, and
looking as if a laurel wreath already encircled his brow, he modestly
retired, feeling no further interest, now his own piece was ended.

Oliver's poem on the Tadpoles, with its marvellous rhymes, fell
comparatively flat after this; and Bullinger's first chapter of the
History of Saint Dominic's failed to rivet the attention of the
audience, which, however, became suddenly and painfully absorbed in the
"Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse," from the pen of Wraysford.  We must
inflict a few passages from this document on the reader, as the paper
was the cause of some trouble hereafter.

"Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.

"Monday.--Up early and took a good breakfast in one of the desks where
there was a jam sandwich and several toffee-drops.  The Sixth seem to
like jam sandwiches and toffee-drops, there are some of them in nearly
every desk.  The desk I was in had a packet of cigarettes in one corner.
They were labelled `Mild.'  I wonder why the Sixth like their
cigarettes mild.  In the same desk were one or two books written by a
man called Bohn; they seemed queer books, for they had Latin and Greek
names outside, but all the reading inside was English.  It is sad to see
the quarrelling that goes on in this room.  You would not suppose, to
see these monitors walking grandly up and down the passages striking
terror into the hearts of all the small boys, that they could possibly
condescend to quarrel over the possession of an inkpot or the ownership
of an acid-drop found among the cinders.  Alas! it is very sad.  They
don't seem anything like the Sixth of old days.  I shall emigrate if
this goes on.

"Wednesday.--A great row to-day when the Doctor was out of the room.
The two senior monitors engaged in a game of marbles--knuckle down--in
the course of which one player accused the other of cheating.  There was
nearly a fight, only neither seemed exactly to like to begin, and both
appeared relieved when the Doctor came in and confiscated the marbles."

And so the diary went on, in a strain highly offensive to the Sixth and
equally delighting to the lower forms.  After this the Sixth withdrew,
not caring to face further taunts of the kind, and leaving a free field
to the rest of Saint Dominic's, who perused this wonderful broadside to
the end with unflagging interest.  Some of the advertisements with which
Tony had filled up the gaps caused considerable mirth--such as this: "A
gentleman about to clear out his desk, begs to give notice that he will
Sell by Auction to-morrow after `Lights out,' all those rare and
valuable articles, to wit:--one and a half gross best cherry-stones,
last year's, in excellent condition.  About twelve assorted bread
crusts, warranted dry and hard--one with a covering of fossilised
sardine.  Six quires of valuable manuscript notes on various subjects,
comprising Latin, Greek, Mathematics, French, and Crambo.  One apple,
well seasoned, and embellished with a brilliant green fur of two years'
growth.  And many other miscellaneous treasures, such as slate pencils,
nutshells, an antique necktie, several defunct silkworms, a noble
three-bladed knife (deficient of the blades), and half a pound of putty.
No reserve price.  Must be cleared out at whatever sacrifice."

And this was another:--

"This is to give notice, that whereas certain parties calling themselves
Guinea-pigs have infringed on our patent rights, we, the Tadpoles of
Saint Dominic's, have been and are from time immemorial entitled to the
exclusive privilege of appearing in public with dirty faces, uncombed
hair, and inky fingers.  We have also the sole right of making beasts of
ourselves on every possible occasion; and we hereby declare that it is
our intention to institute proceedings against all parties, of whatever
name, who shall hereafter trespass on these our inalienable rights.  By
order, B. Smudgeface and T. Blacknose, Secretaries."

This final onslaught broke up the party.  The aggrieved Tadpoles rushed
to their quarters and fumed and raged themselves into a state bordering
on, madness; and vowed revenge till they were hoarse.

It was a curious fact, nevertheless, that at prayers that evening there
were more clean faces among the Tadpoles than had been seen there since
the formation of that ancient and honourable fraternity.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

A QUARREL AND A CRICKET MATCH.

The first number of the _Dominican_ had undoubtedly caused a sensation;
and it would have created far more sensation but for the fact that the
Alphabet Match was to be played on the following day.  But even this
counter-attraction could not wholly divert the mind of Saint Dominic's
from this new literary marvel; and a skirmish took place on the very
afternoon of its appearance.

Pembury and his friends had quite expected that the Sixth would attempt
a high-handed blow at their paper, and they were not disappointed.  For
no sooner had Loman and his peers stalked away from the scene of their
indignation, and found themselves in the retirement of their own room,
than they fell to talking in terms the reverse of pleasant about the
event of the morning.  The least important of their number was specially
wroth.

"There's a great row out in the passage to-day," said Raleigh, who was
blissfully ignorant of the whole matter; "why can't some of you monitors
keep a little better order?  The Doctor will be wanting to know what
it's all about!"

"All very well," said Raikes, one of the monitors; "but if the Fifth
will stick their tomfoolery out in the passage, there's sure to be a
row."

"What tomfoolery?  Some of you are for ever grumbling at the Fifth."

"And so would you if you saw the complimentary remarks they make about
you in this precious newspaper of theirs."

"Oh, the _Dominican_?  I must have a look at it by and by; but meanwhile
something had better be done to stop that row, or we shall catch it
ourselves."

And so saying, the captain left these injured youths to their own
counsels, which it is to be feared were moved more by dislike for the
_Dominican_ than by a burning desire for the good order of the school.

However, they must do something; and there would be nothing inconsistent
with their dignity in demanding the withdrawal of the obnoxious
broadside on account of the noise it caused.  This would be a safe move,
and might be checkmate.  Loman was deputed to wait upon the Fifth with
the demand of the monitors, and lost no time in carrying out this
welcome task.  Class was just over, and the Fifth were just about to
clear out of their room when Loman entered.  It was not often that a
Sixth Form fellow penetrated into their camp, and had they not guessed
his mission they might have resented the intrusion.

"Oh, you fellows," began Loman, feeling not quite so confident now as he
had felt five minutes ago, "we can't have that thing of yours hanging
out in the passage like that.  It makes a crowd--too much row.  Whose is
it?"

"Not mine," said Wraysford, laughing; "ask Bully--perhaps it's his."

"Not a bit of it," said Bullinger; "it's yours, isn't it, Simon?"

"Only part," said the poet of the "Love-Ballad", "and I presented that
to the paper."

"Suppose it was mine?" said Oliver, with a drawl.

"Then," said Loman, losing his temper, "all I can say is, the sooner you
clear it away the better."

"Oh! all right; only it's not mine."

"Look here," said Loman, "I'm not going to fool about with you.  You may
think it all very funny, but I'll report it to the Doctor, and then
you'll look foolish."

"How nice!  So pleasant it will be to look for once like what you look
always," observed Pembury, gnawing the top of his crutch.

At that moment there was a loud shout of laughter in the passage
outside, confirming the monitor's complaint.  Wraysford walked hastily
to the door.

"The next time there's a row like that outside our door," called he to
the group outside, "we'll--what do you mean by it, you young
blackguard?"

So saying, he caught Master Bramble, who happened to be the nearest
offender within reach, by the collar of his coat, and lugged him bodily
into the class-room.

"There, now!  Do you know this gentleman?  He's a monitor.  Have a good
look at him.  He's been complaining of the row you are making, and quite
rightly.  Take that, and tell all the little Pigs outside that if they
don't hold their noise they will find themselves, every man jack of
them, _mentioned by name_ in the next number!"

So saying, with a gentle cuff he handed the ill-starred Master Bramble
out again to his fellows, and from that time there was scarcely a sound
audible from the passage.

"Good-bye," said Pembury, kissing his hand to Loman, who all this time
had been standing in the middle of the room, in a white heat, and
perplexed what to do or say next.

"You aren't going to live here, are you?" asked Bullinger.

"Any one got a toffee-drop?" drily inquired Oliver.  To his surprise,
and to the surprise of every one, Loman wheeled round towards the last
speaker, and without a word struck him a blow on the mouth with his
hand.

He saw he had made a mistake, and looked ashamed the moment the deed was
done.  All eyes turned to Oliver, whose face was crimson with a sudden
flush of pain and anger.  He sprang to his feet, and Braddy, the bully,
was already beginning to gloat over the prospect of a fight, when, to
every one's amazement, Oliver coolly put his hands back into his
pockets, and walking up to Loman said, quietly, "Hadn't you better go?"

Loman stared at him in astonishment.  He had at least expected to be
knocked down, and this, behaviour was quite incomprehensible.

He turned on his heel and quitted the room without a word; and somehow
or other from that time the Fifth heard no more protests from the
monitors on the subject of the _Dominican_.

But Oliver's conduct, much as it had astonished the person chiefly
concerned, had astonished the Fifth still more.  For the first time in
the history of their class, as far as they could recollect, a blow
struck had not been returned, and they could not tell what to make of
it.

The blow had been a cowardly one, and certainly unmerited, and by all
schoolboy tradition one fairly demanding a return.  Could it be possible
their man was lacking in courage?  The idea was a shock to most present,
who, although Oliver was never very popular among them, as has been
said, had never before suspected his pluck.  In fact, it was an awkward
moment for all, and it was quite a relief when Simon broke silence by
asking Oliver, "Why didn't you knock him down, I say?"

"Because I did not choose, if you want to know," replied Oliver,
shortly.

"Oh!  I beg your pardon," replied Simon, rather taken aback by this
brusque answer.

This was not satisfactory.  Had the offender been a Guinea-pig, one
could have understood the thing; but when it was a Sixth Form fellow--a
good match in every respect, as well as a rival--the Fifth were offended
at their man for drawing back as he had done.

"I suppose you _will_ fight him?" said Ricketts, in a voice which
implied that there was no doubt about it.

"Do you?" replied Oliver, briefly.

The boy's manner was certainly not winsome, and, when once put out, it
was evident he took no trouble to conceal the fact.  He refused to
answer any further questions on the subject, and presently quitted the
room, leaving more than half his class-fellows convinced that, after
all, he _was_ a coward.

An angry discussion followed his departure.

"He ought to be made to fight, whether he likes or not," said Braddy the
bully.

"Some one ought to pay Loman out," suggested Ricketts, "if Greenfield
doesn't."

"A nice name we shall get, all of us," said Bullinger, "when it gets
abroad all over the school."

"It's a shame, because one fellow funks, for the whole Form to be
disgraced; that's what I say," said some one else.

There were, however, two boys who did not join in this general cry of
indignation against Oliver, and they were Wraysford and Pembury.  The
latter was always whimsical in his opinions, and no one was surprised to
see him come out on the wrong side.  As for Wraysford, he always backed
his friend up, whether others thought him right or wrong.  These two
scouted the idea of Oliver being a coward; the one with his usual weapon
of ridicule, the other with all the warmth of friendship.

"Who calls him a coward?" exclaimed Wraysford, glaring at the last
speaker.

Wraysford was not a coward, and looked so ready to avenge his friend by
hard knocks, that the boy who had insinuated that Greenfield was afraid
withdrew his charge as mildly as he could.  "I only meant, it looks as
if he didn't like to fight," he said.

"And what business of yours is it what it looks like?" demanded
Wraysford.

"Come, old man," said Pembury; "don't eat him up!  I fancy Greenfield
might screw up courage to pull _his_ nose, whoever else he lets off, eh?
It's my private opinion, though, Oliver knew what he was about."

"Of course he did," sneered Braddy; "he knew jolly well what he was
about."

"Dear me!  Is that you, Mr Braddy?  I had not noticed you here, or I
should not have ventured to speak on a matter having to do with pluck
and heroism.  I'm glad you agree with me, though, although I didn't say
he knew _jolly_ well what he was about.  That is an expression of your
own."

Braddy, who as usual felt and looked extinguished when Pembury made fun
of him, retired sulkily, and the editor of the _Dominican_ thereupon
turned his attack on another quarter.  And so the dispute went on,
neither party being convinced, and all satisfied only on one point--that
a cloud had arisen to mar the hitherto peaceful horizon of Fifth Form
existence.

The cricket match of the following day, however, served to divert the
thoughts of all parties for a time.

As it was only the prelude to a much more important match shortly to
follow, I shall not attempt to describe it fully here, as the reader
will probably be far more interested in the incidents of Sixth versus
School Match when it comes off.

The Alphabet Match was, to tell the truth, not nearly as interesting an
affair as it promised to be, for from the very first the N's to Z's had
the best of it.  Stephen, who with a company of fellow-Tadpoles and
Guinea-pigs was perched on the palings, looking on, felt his heart sink
within him as first one and then another of his brother's side lost
their wickets without runs.  For once he and Bramble were in sympathy,
and he and Paul were at difference.  The row these small boys kicked up,
by the way, was one of the most notable features of the whole match.
Every one of them yelled for his own side.  There had, indeed, been a
question whether every Guinea-pig, whatever his private initial, ought
not to yell for the G's, and every Tadpole for the T's; but it was
eventually decided that each should yell "on his own hook," and the
effect was certainly far more diverting.

The first four men of the A to M went out for two runs between them, and
Stephen and Bramble sat in gloomy despair.  The next man in knocked down
his wicket before he had played a single ball.  It was frightful, and
the jeers of the Z's were hateful to hear.

But Stephen brightened as he perceived that the next batsman was his
brother.  "Now they'll pick up!" said he.

"No they won't!  Greenfield senior skies his balls too much for my
taste," cheeringly replied the small Bramble.

But Stephen was right.  For the first time that afternoon the A's made a
stand.  Oliver's partner at the wickets was Callonby, of the Sixth, a
steady, plodding player, who hardly ever hit out, and got all his runs
(if he got any) from the slips.  This afternoon he hardly scored at all,
but kept his wicket carefully while Oliver did the hitting.

Things were looking up.  The telegraph went up from 2 to 20.  Wraysford,
who had hitherto been bowling with Ricketts against his friend, gave up
the ball to Raikes, and the field generally woke up to the importance of
getting rid of this daring player.

Stephen's throat was too hoarse to roar any more, so he resigned that
duty to Bramble, and looked on in delighted silence.  The score crept
up, till suddenly Callonby tipped a ball into cover-slip's hand and was
caught, to the great delight of the Z's, who guessed that, once a
separation had been effected, the survivor would soon be disposed of.

The next man in was Loman.  He was better as a bowler than a batsman;
but he followed Callonby's tactics and played a steady block, leaving
the boy he had struck yesterday to do the hitting.

Oliver was certainly playing in fine form, and for a moment his
class-fellows forgot their resentment against him in applauding his
play.  The score was at 35, and the new coalition promised to be as
formidable as the last, when Oliver cut a ball past point.

"Run! no! yes, run!" he shouted.  Loman started, then hesitated, then
started again--but it was too late.  Before he could get across, the
ball was up and he was run out.  He was furious, and it certainly was
hard lines for him, although there would have been time enough for the
run had he not pulled up in the middle.  Forgetful of all the rules of
cricket, he turned round to Oliver and shouted, "You are a fool!" as he
left the wicket.

Stephen luckily was too much engrossed in watching the telegraph to hear
or notice this remark; which, however, was not lost on the Fifth
generally, who experienced a return of their former discontent when they
observed that Oliver (though he must have heard it) took not the
slightest notice of the offensive expression.

The match passed off without further incident.  The Z's won in the end
by two wickets, after a closer match than it had promised to be at
first, and Stephen was comforted for the reverse by feeling sure that
his brother at any rate had played his best, and would certainly get his
place in the School Eleven.

CHAPTER NINE.

A ROD IN PICKLE.

Loman, who had arrived at the same conclusion respecting Oliver's
bravery as the majority in the Fifth, did not allow his conscience to
trouble him as to his share of the morning's business.  He never had
liked Oliver, and lately especially he had come to dislike him.  He was
therefore glad to have made him smart; and now, since the blunder in the
cricket match, he felt greatly inclined to repeat the blow, particularly
as there did not seem much to fear if he did so.

He was quick, too, to see that Oliver had lost favour with his comrades,
and had no hesitation in availing himself of every opportunity of
widening the breach.  He affected to be sorry for the poor fellow, and
to feel that he had been too hard on him, and so on, in a manner which,
while it offended the Fifth, as applied to one of their set, exasperated
them all the more against Oliver.  And so matters went on, getting more
and more unsatisfactory.

Loman, however, had other things to think of than his rival's cowardice,
and foremost among these was his new fishing-rod--or rather, the rod
which he coveted for his own.  Until the day after the Alphabet Match he
had not even had time to examine his treasure.  Three pounds ten was an
appalling figure to pay for a rod; "But then," thought Loman, "if it's
really a good one, and worth half as much again, it would be a pity to
miss such a bargain;" and every one knew the Crippses, father and son,
were authorities on all matters pertaining to the piscatorial art.
Loman, too, was never badly off for pocket-money, and could easily raise
the amount, he felt sure, when he represented the case at home.  So he
took the rod out of its canvas bag, and began to put it together.

Now, a boy's study is hardly the place in which to flourish a
fishing-rod, and Loman found that with the butt down in one bottom
corner of the room, the top joint would have to be put on up in the
opposite top corner.  When this complicated operation was over, there
was no room to move it from its position, still less to judge of its
weight and spring, or attach the winch and line.  Happy thought! the
window!  He would have any amount of scope there.  So, taking it to
pieces, and putting it together again in this new direction, he had the
satisfaction of testing it at its full length.  He was pleased with the
rod, on the whole.  He attached the line, with a fly at the end, in
order to give it a thorough trial, and gave a scientific "cast" into an
imaginary pool.  It was a splendid rod, just right for him; how he
wished he was up above Gusset Weir at that moment!  Why, he could--

Here he attempted to draw up the rod.  There was an ugly tug and a crack
as he did so, and he found, to his disgust, that the hook, having
nothing else to catch, had caught the ivy on the wall, and, what was
worse, that the top joint of the rod had either snapped or cracked in
its inability to bring this weighty catch to shore.  It was a long time
before Loman was able to disengage his line, and bring the rod in again
at the window.  The top joint was cracked.  It looked all right as he
held it, but when he tried to bend it it had lost its spring, and the
crack showed only too plainly.  Another misfortune still was in store.
The reel in winding up suddenly stuck.  Loman, fancying it had only
caught temporarily, tried to force it, and in so doing the spring broke,
and the handle turned uselessly round and round in his hand.  This _was_
a streak of bad luck, and no mistake!  The rod was not his, and what was
worse, it was (so Cripps said) a rod of extraordinary excellence and
value.  Loman had his doubts now about this.  A first-rate top-piece
would bend nearly double and then not break, and a reel that broke at
the least pressure could hardly be of the best kind.  Still, Cripps
thought a lot of it, and Loman had undoubtedly himself alone to blame
for the accidents which had occurred.  As it was, the rod was now
useless.  He knew there was no place in Maltby where he could get it
repaired, and it was hardly to be expected that Cripps would take it
back.

What was to be done?  Either he must pay 3 pounds 10 shillings for a rod
of no value, or--

He slowly took the rod to pieces and put it back into the canvas bag.
The top joint after all did not look amiss; and, yes, there was a
_little_ bit of elasticity in it.  Perhaps the crack was only his fancy;
or perhaps the crack was there when he got it.  As to the reel, it
looked as if it _ought_ to work, and perhaps it would if he only knew
the way.  Ah! suppose he just sent the rod back to Cripps with a message
that he found he did not require it?  He would not say he had not used
it, but if Cripps chose to imagine he received it back just as he sent
it, well, what harm?  Cripps would be sure to sell it to some one else,
or else put it by (he had said he possessed a rod of his own).  If he,
Loman, had felt quite certain that he had damaged the rod himself, of
course he would not think of such a thing; but he was not at all certain
the thing was not defective to begin with.  In any case it was an
inferior rod--that he had no doubt about--and Cripps was not acting
honestly by trying to pass it off on him as one of the best make.  Yes,
it would serve Cripps right, and be a lesson to him, and he was sure,
yes, quite sure now, it had been damaged to begin with.

And so the boy argued with himself and coquetted with the tempter.
Before the afternoon was over he felt (as he imagined) quite comfortable
in his own mind over the affair.  The rod was tied up again in its bag
exactly as it had been before, and only wanted an opportunity to be
returned to Mr Cripps.

After that Loman settled down to an evening's study.  But things were
against him again.  Comfortable as his conscience was, that top joint
would not let him alone.  It seemed to get into his hand in place of the
pen, and to point out the words in the lexicon in place of his finger.
He tried not to mind it, but it annoyed him, and, what was worse,
interfered with his work.  So, shutting up his books, and imagining a
change of air might be beneficial, he went off to Callonby's study,
there to gossip for an hour or two, and finally rid himself of his
tormentor.

Stephen, meanwhile, had had Mr Cripps on his mind too, for that
afternoon his bat had come home.  It was addressed to "Mr Greenfield,