Front matter (continued 4)

The day came round as usual, and, by rather exceptional luck, Cornwallis and myself got into the fifty, for nobody was barred, and it was always arranged that a certain number of chaps from the lower school should join the giddy throng. So we went in white flannels and the school blazers, little knowing what lay before us.

The day was slightly clouded by the fact that Brown was the master who took us, for Brown loves to display his power before strangers, and make us look as small as possible in order that he may shine. But the great Mr. Foster--though what he had done that was great I don't know--saw through Brown with ease, and told him we must do what we liked, and have a good time in every way--not, in fact, hampered by Brown.

After the service in the chapel, where some good singing was done by us, and a clergyman preached a rather longish sermon on duty and so on, the solemn business of the day began, and we had an ample meal. When I tell you that there were enough raspberries and cream for all, I need add no more. If all those raspberries had been put in one pile, we should have had "no small part of a mountain," as Virgil so truly says.

The great thing after dinner was to go and bathe and ramble on the shore. This was the time that Brown could be most easily escaped, and as he had to keep his attention on the chaps who went swimming, those who did not were able to enjoy themselves in various interesting ways.

The tide was out, and, by a little dodging behind rocks, Cornwallis and me, who did not bathe, were able gradually, as it were, to slip out of the danger zone; which we did do. A magnificent and interesting beach spread out before us, and we decided to explore it. So we retreated fast for some distance till a cliff jutted out and entirely concealed us, and then we went slower and explored as we went. Cornwallis had a watch, and as there was no serious work on hand till tea at five o'clock, we had more than two hours.

We did some natural history, and found small pools full of marine wonders, such as sea anemones and blenny fish, which in skilled hands can be made as tame as white mice, and can live out of the sea between tides. We also collected shells, and, much to my amusement, I collected one shell which I thought was empty, until I felt a gentle crawling in my trousers pocket, and discovered that a hermit crab lived in the shell, and was frantically trying to escape. This, of course, I allowed him to do, and no doubt he is puzzling to this day about what happened to upset his usual life.

On we went, and then the beach got narrower, and I said it was natural, but Cornwallis thought not. He thought the tide was coming in, which would account for the increasing narrowness of the beach.

I said:

"In that case, Cornwallis, we had better go back, because you can see, by the marks on the cliffs, that the tide will come here in large quantities, and, in fact, the water will be jolly deep."

And Cornwallis said he supposed it would. The time also was getting on, and we found it was past four. But, of course, we meant getting back fast, with an occasional run, and had allowed half the time to get back that we allowed to go out.

We were just turning, after going a few hundred yards farther, when a most interesting thing appeared. The cliffs hung over rather, and were made of red sandstone, and very steep; but ahead of us was a ledge of rock half-way up the cliff, and on it a mysterious little house made of bits of old boat and painted with tar. It was extraordinary to see such a thing in such a lonely spot, and Cornwallis, who is rather suspicious, owing to the War and being a Boy Scout, wondered if it was all right. Because, if you are once a Boy Scout, as Travers minor pointed out, you are always a Boy Scout, and though you may not be scouting in a professional sort of way, yet, if anything peculiar happens, or you get a chance of doing good to the country, you must instantly look into it.

So Cornwallis decided to go and examine this queer shed, and I went with him. The door was open, but we saw no signs of life. It was a solid building made of heavy timbers, and there was a padlock on the door. Inside was a pleasant smell of tar and cobbler's wax and fish. It seemed to belong to a mariner of some sort; but, on the other hand, what mariner could possibly want to make his house in such a weird spot? There was no bed or washing basin or chest of drawers, to show that the stranger lived here, but there were many interesting things, including a lobster-pot, a telescope, and a large lantern of the sort used on board ship.

I saw nothing peculiarly suspicious, but Cornwallis did. From the first he took rather a serious view of it, and when he found a green tin full of petrol, his face went white, and he said it was Fate.

I said:

"What the dickens do you mean, Cornwallis?"

And he said:

"I mean, Towler, that this is the hiding-place of a German spy. There's a telescope with which he picks up periscopes, and there's a lamp, with which he signals to the submarines by night, and there's the petrol he takes to them to replenish their tanks. And this shows the Doctor was right: you can get Fate in real life as well as Greek tragedies."

And I said:

"But the prawn-nets and fishing-lines and corks and paint, and so on?"

And he said:

"These things are merely blinds to distract the eye from the others."

So I said:

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

And he said:

"I am going straight back, and after tea, or even before, I shall tell the great Mr. Foster there is a pro-German traitor under his cliff, and offer to show him the way to the spot."

"I'll help," I said. "But the thing is to be careful, and surprise the spy at his work."

Just as I said these words, curiously enough, the spy surprised us, and we found ourselves in a position that wanted enormous presence of mind. Suddenly we heard the sound of heavy feet outside, and as there was only one way up to the hut, it was clear we could not escape without being seen. And if seen, of course, our object was lost, for the spy would make a bolt of it.

The question was where to hide, and, by the best possible luck, there was a chance to do so. A big tarpaulin hung on a nail on the side of the hut, and it was of great size, and came nearly to the ground, while at its feet was a seaman's box. Owing to the fortunate smallness of Cornwallis and me, there was ample room for concealment behind the tarpaulin, and our feet were hidden by the box. So we got behind it and hardly dared to breathe, though, just before the traitor came in, Cornwallis had time to whisper to me:

"If he's come for his tarpaulin coat, we're done for, and he'll very likely kill us!"

And I whispered to him:

"Be hopeful. Fate may be on our side, and it's not the weather for a tarpaulin coat, anyway."

Then the spy came in, and though I was not able to see him, Cornwallis, by a lucky chance, got a buttonhole of the coat level with his eye, and saw the fearful spectacle of the spy.

He was a dreadful object, with wickedness fairly stamped on him, so Cornwallis said afterwards. He was a big man with humpbacked shoulders and a cocoanut-like head, far too small for his body and legs. He was grey, and had a shaggy beard and a wide mouth that showed his teeth. These were broken and black. His nose was flat and small, and his eyes rolled in his head as he looked round his hut. They were black and ferocious to a most savage extent. He kept making a snorting sound, which was his manner of breathing. He wore dirty white trousers and a jersey, and upon his feet were dirty canvas shoes. He had no hat, and he didn't look the sort of person that Fate would be interested in. But you never know. He suspected nothing, and had not seen us come in, which was the great fear in my mind.

The creature did not stop long, yet long enough to give himself away for ever as a spy, for he took one of the green tins of petrol, and then, saying some English swear words to himself of the worst kind, went out and slammed the door behind him. We nearly shouted with joy, but a moment later our joy was changed into the most terrible sorrow, because the spy fastened the door behind him. We heard a chain rattle and a padlock click, so there we were, entirely at the mercy of a creature evidently quite dead to pity in every way. This was, of course, Fate again, as Cornwallis pointed out.

There was a window about a foot square high up in the roof of the hut, and when the spy shut the door and locked us in, everything became dark excepting for the light from this narrow window. Therefore, when we were sure our enemy had gone, and there was not a sound outside, I got on to a table, and Cornwallis climbed on my back, from which he was able to look out through the window. Luckily it faced the sea, and Cornwallis reported that the sea had come a great deal nearer, and that the spy was only about fifty yards off. He stood on a sort of pier of rocks, and was pulling in a rope to which was attached a small motor-boat.

Then naturally I wanted to get on Cornwallis's shoulders, but he told me not to move for a moment. Then he said that the spy had got into the boat and was evidently going to sea. And then he said he had gone.

I next climbed on to Cornwallis, and so proved the truth of his words, for I distinctly saw the motor-boat speed off with the spy in it. I also saw that the tide had come in, and soon it was actually beating against the rocks twenty-five feet or so below us.

When the motor-boat had disappeared in a westerly direction, Cornwallis and me got down off the table and considered what we ought to do.

"The first thing is to make every possible effort to escape at any cost," I said. But he said that he had already thought of that, and felt pretty certain it was beyond our power. The window seemed the only hopeful place; but it was made not to open, and the glass was thick, and Cornwallis said we couldn't have got through the hole, even if there had been no glass. But I said:

"It is well known, Cornwallis, that if a man can get his head through a hole, he can get his body through."

And he said:

"It isn't well known at all. You might because you have got a head like a tadpole, but I couldn't."

I said I was sure I had read it somewhere, but, anyway, it didn't matter. We examined the hut thoroughly, and found it was only too well and solidly made. We were utter prisoners, in fact, and, owing to the spy not knowing it, might very likely be left to die of starvation. He might even have gone to join a submarine, and never come back.

"Perhaps he does know we are here all the time," said Cornwallis. "Perhaps he spotted us, and pretended he didn't. In that case he may have locked us in deliberately to starve us, not caring to waste a shot on us."

This thought depressed us a good deal, and presently the sun sank and the light began to fade, and a seagull that settled outside on the roof uttered a melancholy and doleful squawk.

Of course, we were far from despairing yet, and Cornwallis made a cheerful remark, and reminded me that if we had eaten our last meal on earth, at any rate it was a jolly good one.

And I said:

"There may be food concealed here, for that matter. We'd better have a good hunt, and look into every hole and corner before it is dark."

This we did without success. There were many strange things there, including pieces of wreckage, a bit of an old ship's steering-wheel, and a brass bell with a ship's name on it; but there was nothing eatable excepting some fish to bait a lobster-pot; and the fish hadn't been caught yesterday, and we had by no means reached the stage of exhaustion in which we could regard it as food.

Cornwallis said:

"As a matter of fact, our great enemy will be thirst. I am frightfully thirsty already, for that matter."

And I said:

"So am I, now you mention it."

As the light died away, we held a sort of a council, and tried to decide what exactly was our duty--to England firstly, and to ourselves secondly. We talked a good deal, until our voices grew queer to ourselves, and it all came back to the same simple fact--our duty was to get out, and we couldn't.

Then I had the best idea that had yet come to us.

I said:

"As we can't get out, we must try and get somebody in the outer world to let us out. The only question is, shall we attract anybody but the spy if we raise an alarm?"

Cornwallis said of course that was the question; but it didn't matter, because we couldn't raise an alarm.

I said:

"If we howl steadily together once every sixty seconds by your watch, like a minute-gun at sea, somebody is bound to hear sooner or later."

And he said:

"Far from it, Towler. We shall only tire ourselves out, and get hungry, as well as thirsty, for no good. Our voices wouldn't go any distance through these solid walls, and, even if they did, we are evidently in a frightfully lonely and secluded place, miles and miles from civilization, else the spy wouldn't have chosen it for his operations."

I admitted this, but we did try a yell or two. The result was feeble, and I myself said that if any belated traveller heard it, he would only murmur a prayer and cross himself, and hurry on, like they do in books. Then Cornwallis decided to break the window. He didn't know why exactly, but he felt he wanted to be up and doing in a sort of way. Besides, it was beastly fuggy in the spy's den; so we broke the window with a boat-hook, and I got on the shoulders of Cornwallis and had a good yell through it; but no answer came.

Then another idea struck me, and it was undoubtedly this idea that saved the situation. We got the old ship's bell and hung it up on a rope as near the window as possible, and hammered it with the boat-hook, taking turns of five minutes each.

This created an immense volume of sound, and though, of course, it was more--far more--likely to bring the spy back than anybody else, we had now reached a pitch of despair, and would have even welcomed the spy in a sort of way. Cornwallis from time to time still worried about our duty, but I had long passed that, for it was nine o'clock. So at last I told him to shut up and hit the bell harder.

It was now quite dark, and from time to time heavy drops of rain fell through the window. The sea-going lamp would have been very useful now, for we might have signalled with it; but though there was an oil-lamp in it, we had no matches, and it was therefore useless.

Then, in a lull, when I was handing over the boat-hook to Cornwallis, whose turn it was to hammer the bell, we distinctly heard the stealthy sound of the motor-boat returning, and Cornwallis, mounting my shoulders, and nearly breaking my neck in his excitement, reported a red light below.

Then he heard several harsh voices.

Cornwallis said:

"We are now probably done for, Towler. The spy has evidently been to a submarine, and he's heard the bell, and you can pretty easily guess what submarine Germans will do to us. In fact, our Fate is right bang off."

I said:

"Surely they wouldn't kill two kids like us?"

And he said:

"Killing kids is their chief sport. They can't be too young--from babies upward."

So it looked pretty putrid in every way, and it wouldn't be true, and it wouldn't be believed, if I said Cornwallis and me weren't in the funk of our lives.

But the awful moments didn't last long, for, almost before the padlock was undone, what should we hear but the well known yelp of Brown!

Our first thought was that the crew of a German submarine had also got Brown; but even in our present condition we felt that was too mad. All the same, when he actually appeared, with two other men and the spy, he looked such a ghastly object, and was so white and wild, that it seemed clear that he was in a mess of some kind.

What he said when we both appeared in the lantern light was:

"Thank God!"

For the first and last time in his life he was apparently glad to see us. But after this expression of joy, he instantly became beastly, and, in fact, so much so, that a man behind him, who did not fear him, told him not to talk so roughly to us at such a moment.

This man turned out to be no less a man than the great Mr. Foster himself, and he explained to us that we had put everybody to frightful anxiety and distress, and that, in fact, he had feared the worst.

This much surprised us, and what surprised us still more was Mr. Foster's attitude to the spy, for he called him "Joe," and treated him in a most friendly manner.

We all went back to the motor-boat, and while it tore away to the landing-place under Mr. Foster's beach, we told our story. During this narrative, which was listened to very carefully, the man called Joe made several remarks of a familiar nature, which showed he was not in the least afraid of anybody, and we found out later that he was an old and trusted servant of Mr. Foster's, who lived at Daleham, and who managed Mr. Foster's motorboat, and caught lobsters for him and fish of many kinds, and was, in fact, a sort of family friend of long standing. It was admitted, however, that Joe was very queer to look at, and also odd in his ways. This arose entirely from his peculiar Fate, because Fate had had a dash at him too, and when a young man, he had once gone out fishing, and returned to find that during his absence his wife had run away for ever with another mariner. This was such a surprise to him that it had quite turned his head for a time, and, in fact, he had been odd ever since.

Having told our tale, we ventured to ask why everybody had feared the worst, and Mr. Foster explained the situation, and showed what a splendid and remarkable bit of work Fate had really done for Cornwallis and me.

He said:

"What did you intend to do when you left Joe's hut?"

And I said:

"We were going to tear back along the beach, sir, and give the alarm, because we thought he was a pro-German spy."

Joe gurgled at this, but did not condescend to answer.

"And do you know what would have happened in that case?" asked Mr. Foster.

"You would have explained to us that we were on a false scent, sir," said Cornwallis.

"No, my child, I should not," answered Mr. Foster, "for the very good reason that I should never have seen either of you again alive. Nor would anybody else. If you had started to go back by the beach, you would both have been overtaken by the tide and most certainly been drowned."

"Crikey!" said Cornwallis under his breath to me.

"Yes," continued the good and great Mr. Foster, "if Joe here, quite ignorant of the fact that you were trespassing in his store shed, had not turned the key upon you both, you would neither of you be alive to tell your story now."

Somehow we never thought we were trespassing, but doing our duty to England. It just shows how different a thing looks from different points of view.

"You ought to be very thankful," said Mr. Foster, "and I hope this terrible experience will leave its mark in your hearts, my boys. You have been spared a sad and untimely death, and I trust that the memory of this night will help you both to justify your existence in time to come."

We said we trusted it would.

Then Brown, of course, put in his oar.

"And if you had used your eyes, Towler and Cornwallis, as I have tried so often to make you," he squeaked, "you would have seen a notice on the cliff warning people not to go beyond a certain point, as the tides were very dangerous."

"We were studying the wonders of Nature, sir," I answered, in rather a sublime tone of voice, because this was no time for sitting on Cornwallis and me. And just then the motor-boat came to shore, and it was found that we could catch the last train back to Daleham. So we caught it. Of course, all the other chaps had gone back in the brakes ages ago.

Mr. Foster blessed us, before the train started, in a very affectionate and gentlemanly way; but Brown did not bless us on the journey back. In fact, he said that he should advise the Doctor to flog us. We preserved a dignified silence. He couldn't send a telegram on in advance, as the office was shut, and therefore, when we arrived at Merivale, it was rather triumphant in a way, and the news of our safe return created a great sensation. In the excitement, food for us was overlooked entirely, until Cornwallis told the matron we had had nothing to eat since dinner. Food was then provided. The Doctor said very little until the following day, and then he told the whole story to the school after morning prayers; and not until we heard it from him did we realize what a good yarn it really was.

But nothing was done against us, much to Brown's disappointment, and from the way he hated Cornwallis and me afterwards, I believe he got ragged in private for not keeping his eye on us.

We wrote a very sporting letter to Mr. Foster, and said we should not forget his great kindness as long as we lived; and we also wrote home and scared up ten pounds for Joe, because he had locked us up and saved our lives. It was an enormous lot of money, and far beyond what we expected. My father sent five, and the mother of Cornwallis also sent five; and Cornwallis truly said it showed that my father and his mother mast think much more highly of our lives than they had ever led us to believe.

In fact, so excited was the mother of Cornwallis about it that she couldn't wait till the end of the term, but had to come and see him and kiss him, and realize that he was still all there. But my father waited till the end of the term for me.

He is rather a hard sort of man, compared to such a man as Mr. Foster, for instance; and when I did go home and explained all about what Fate had done, he said he hoped that I would not give Fate cause to regret it--at any rate, during the summer holidays.

FOR THE RED CROSS

Of course, being for the Red Cross, we were jolly well paid for all our trouble by knowing what a tremendous lift we had given the Red Cross in general; but somehow we felt that, if anything, too much was made of the wonderful result, and too little of us, who had done it.

Because, you see, if a chap in the trenches covers himself with glory, as they so often do, it is noted down to the chap's credit, and he gets a D.C.M., or D.S.O., or a V.C.; but in our case, as Tracey rather neatly put it, we weren't so much as mentioned in dispatches, and the bitter irony was that Merivale fairly rung with the fame of Dr. Dunston, whereas the truth was that we did everything, and Dunston, far from urging us on, really threw cold water on the whole show, and, up to the last moment, feared we were in for a grisly failure, instead of a most extraordinary success.

There was a good deal of difference of opinion afterwards as to who sprang the idea, and, on the whole, I don't think any one chap could take the credit. It was too big a thing for one chap's mind, and you might say nearly everybody in the Fifth and Sixth had a hand in it. It grew and grew till it reached the stage of asking Dr. Dunston; and after he had conferred with Brown and Fortescue and old Peacock, he reluctantly agreed; and then it grew by leaps and bounds till it became the wonderful thing it was.

The idea was to give an entertainment for the funds of the Red Cross, and Blades believed it would be a better and finer entertainment if we did it absolutely on our own, without any help from the masters whatever. A few faint-hearted chaps thought not; but they were overruled, for, as Briggs pointed out, there was no entertaining power whatever in the masters. The only one who would have been any good in that way was Hutchings, who sang remarkably well in a bass voice of great depth; but he was at the War, and none of the others had any gift that could lure a paying audience. No doubt they might have tried, but, as Tracey said, you couldn't ask people to pay good money just for the doubtful pleasure of seeing them trying. So it was settled that as there was a great deal of mixed power of amusing an audience in the school, we could do it without any assistance; and Fortescue supported this, and advised the Doctor that we should be given a free hand; but Peacock, of all people, doubted, and Brown, who wanted to shine himself in some way, thought we ought to have him and Fortescue to give a backbone to the show. What he was prepared to do, by way of backbone, we didn't ask; what he did do, when the time came, was to show the people to their seats, and his evening-dress, which we had not seen before, was worth all the money, if not more.

Anyway, Fortescue got the Doctor to let us do everything without help, and the end justified the means, as Saunders very truly said, though at one time it rather looked as if it might not.

It was announced in public that the scholars of Merivale were going to give an entertainment for the Red Cross before Christmas breaking up, and, when all was decided, we had two clear months for the preparations. Owing to the War and one thing and another, we didn't have much football that term, and the show got to be the great idea in everybody's mind--so much so, in fact, that owing to an utter breakdown in geography in the Lower Fourth, there was a threat from headquarters that the whole thing would be knocked on the head if the work was going to suffer.

So we gave the Lower Fourth some advice on the subject, and told them not one of them should do anything if they didn't buck up.

Of course, the great problem was, who should be in the show and who should not. That was a question for the Sixth, and it proved a very difficult problem, because there were immense stores of talent at Merivale, and some of the chaps best fitted to entertain a paying audience by their great gifts absolutely refused to appear; whereas, strangely enough, others, quite useless in every way, were death on appearing. We even had one or two letters from mothers, written to "The Committee of the Merivale Concert," fairly grovelling to us to let their sons do something. Of course, we ignored these, though Pegram, with his usual strategy, advised us to give young Tudor a show of some sort, because his mother and father were worth many thousands, and would doubtless buy dozens of front seats if Tudor did anything publicly.

So in one item of the performance, which was a scene from "The Merchant of Venice," we let Tudor and certain other kids come on in the crowd. We also let Cornwallis and Towler sing a duet--not so much because it was a thing to pay to hear, but because of their great adventure on Foster Day, when by a fluke they weren't drowned, and so possessed a passing interest in Merivale.

The programme needed a fearful lot of thought, and we altered it many times. The first programme would have taken about three days to get through, and Tracey said, as it wasn't a Wagner Cycle, we'd better try and cram the show into three hours; and Briggs said there would be encores, which must be allowed for; and I remembered that there must be an interval, because on these occasions women want something to drink about half-way through, and men want both to drink and smoke also. And if they are prevented from doing these things, they often turn against the performance, and the last state of that show is worse than the first.

I am Thwaites, by the way, and, like Percy minor, I hope that I may go on the stage some day, being much inclined to do so. But his father is a professional actor, and so he has a better chance than me, mine being a Government official in London, who never goes to the theatre, always being too tired to do anything after his day's work. I recite when I get the chance, and have already acted several times; I also write poems. I did not push myself forward in the least, it was agreed, by a sort of general understanding, except in the mind of Percy minor, that I should play Shylock in the trial scene from "The Merchant of Venice." And Williams, who is pretty, and had many a time been rotted for his girl-like eyes and eyelashes, now found that his hour had come, for he was going to play Portia; and we hoped his beautiful appearance might carry him through, though at rehearsal it was only too apparent his acting would not.

The first part of the show was to end with the Shakespearean impersonation; but this was not all, though, of course, the cream of the night. We had in the second half an original satire in one act written by Tracey, and entitled "The White Feather." This would be the concluding item, and as we finally decided that we would have twelve separate items, that left ten to find.

There were some obvious things, like Percy minimus, who had a ripping voice, and was accustomed to singing both in and out of chapel. So, knowing he was considered class, we put him down for a song; and the school glee singers were also rather well thought of, and we gave them two items. This only left seven performances, and after we had subtracted most of the chaps who were going to perform in the plays, there was still an immense amount of mixed ability to choose from.

Of course, Rice had to be in it, though, in his usual sporting way, he said he could do nothing. But as he was the best boxer in the school, and almost as good as a professional "fly" weight, we felt no show would be complete without him, and it was arranged he should box three exhibition rounds with Bassett.

As Briggs said, with people who pay money, you must give everybody something they will like; and though the people who would come to see Shakespeare acted might not be at all the same people who would come to see Rice hammer Bassett, yet there it was--we didn't want to disappoint anybody, because the great thing with a successful entertainment is to make everybody thoroughly feel that they have had their money's worth, as Mitchell pointed out. He was going to take the money, and sit in the box and give out the tickets. He could have done other things, but chose that himself, having great natural ability in everything of a financial sort. And as all the tickets were numbered, we felt it was safe. Besides, for the Red Cross, nobody would let his financial ability lead him astray, so to speak.

Percy minor, the son of the famous professional actor, also wished to play Shylock, but was put down for a comic song--an art in which he excelled. And Tracey wanted to write it for him and make it topical; but we knew Tracey's satire, and felt it would not do. Besides, he'd already written a whole play, as it was, and was performing the chief part in it, so we let Percy minor choose his own song, and he chose one of Albert Chevalier's, which blended pathos and humour in a very wonderful way, but was difficult. This left five items, and it seemed almost a shame to leave out so much talent; but we finally decided on Abbott for a conjuring entertainment--him being a flyer at that art--and on Nicholas, who has the great gift of lightning calculation, though, strange to say, a fool in everything else. He stands with his back to a blackboard, and can divide or add in his head; and if you read him out ten figures, and then ten more to subtract from them, he can do it in a moment. And no doubt he will make his living in this way, though it is a science that is utterly useless in the world at large.

Allowing for Cornwallis and Towler, there were only two items left, and I had the good luck to remember there was, so far, nothing about the Red Cross in the whole show; so we asked Fortescue if he would allow a recitation of his famous poem on that subject, and he consented if he was allowed to coach the boy who did it. We gladly agreed to this, and Forrester was decided upon for the boy, though he would rather have given his well known and remarkable imitations of natural sounds, such as a cock crowing, or a bottle of ginger beer popping, or a man with a cold in his head, or a distant military band. It was decided, therefore, that if Forrester got an encore, he might give the imitations; but he didn't, so they were unfortunately lost, though many a paying audience would have liked them better than the recitation, splendid as it was.

For the last item of all it was almost impossible to choose between about ten chaps, and at last, after voting in secret several times, the Sixth got it down to young Hastings, who could play the fiddle in a manner seldom heard from a kid of nine years old, and Weston, who was prepared to black his face and play his banjo. Finally we decided for Weston, because he was the eldest, and would be leaving next term but one, whereas Hastings, being only nine, was bound to have many future chances of appearing with his fiddle.

So that was the programme, and even when drawn out and written down, it was pretty staggering, but when actually printed in regular programme form, it was wonderful, and for my part I didn't see how the big schoolroom would hold half the people who were bound to come. In fact, I suggested giving two, or even three, performances on consecutive nights, but this was not approved of.

Being, as you may say, historical, I will here insert the programme. The price was threepence, or what you liked to give above that sum. Many gave more; some got copies for nothing, owing to the programme kids losing their heads about change. It appeared in this way on pink paper, faintly scented, and nothing was charged for the scenting by the printers, so I suppose the scent was their contribution to the Red Cross Fund.

FOR THE RED CROSS

On the seventeenth day of December next, by kind permission of Dr. Dunston, the scholars of Merivale will give the following entertainment in the Great Hall of Merivale School at 7.30 p.m. Doors open at seven o'clock. But reserved seats may be booked, and a plan of the room seen at Messrs. Tomson's, No. 4, High Street, Merivale.

THE PROGRAMME

1. Song by Percy Minimus (son of the world-famous actor, Thomas Percy).

2. Conjuring by Abbott (using live rabbits, live goldfish, etc.).

3. Three Rounds of Exhibition Boxing by Rice (Fly-weight Champion) and Bassett. N.B.--The rounds will be of two minutes' duration.

4. Glee Singing by the School Glee Singers.

5. Recitation, "The Cross of Red." Words (published in "The Times" newspaper) by Mr. Fortescue of Merivale School. Reciter, Forrester.

6. The Trial Scene from "The Merchant of Venice," by William Shakespeare. Dramatis Personæ as follows:

Shylock. Thwaites. The Duke. Pegram. Antonio. Saunders. Bassanio. Preston. Gratiano. Percy Minor. Salerio. Travers Minor. Nerissa. Percy Minimus. Portia. Williams.

Magnificoes. Tudor, Forbes Minimus, Hastings, and five others. Scene: Venice. A Court of Justice.

N.B.--The scene will conclude with the exit of Shylock.

An Interval of Ten Minutes.

PART II

7. Glee Singing by the School Glee Singers.

("The Three Chafers," by request.)

8. Comic Song. Percy Minor (son of the great actor, Thomas Percy).

9. Lightning calculation. Nicholas (introduced by Thwaites. Must be seen to be believed).

10. Coon Interlude with Banjo. Weston.

11. Duet. Towler and Cornwallis (both nearly drowned last summer on Foster Day).

12. A Satire in One Act by Tracey, entitled "The White Feather."

Dramatis Personæ.

Captain Harold Vansittart Maltravers, V.C. Tracey. General Sir Henry Champernowne, K.C.B. Blades. A Policeman. Briggs. Miss Sophia Flapperkin. Williams.

Scene: Trafalgar Square. Time: The Present.

GOD SAVE THE KING. Booking Office: Mitchell.

Well, that was the programme, and, seeing the front seats were only half a crown, there didn't seem much chance of anybody not getting their money's worth.

I could say a great deal about the rehearsals, which were very difficult, owing to the question of scenery; and finally, after many suggestions, we decided merely to have wings, and leave the rest to the imagination, because we couldn't get within miles of a court in Venice, and Trafalgar Square was equally out of the question. And Percy minor said that really classy stage managers, like Granville Barker, relied less and less on scenery, and that the very highest art was to go back to Elizabethan times, and just stick up what the scene was on a curtain; and if people didn't like it, they could do the other thing. So we went back to Elizabethan times. But we had a professional man from Plymouth to make us up for Shakespeare, and he did it professionally, and we were rather dazzled ourselves at what we looked like on the night. Seen close, you're awful, but, of course, it's all right from the front.

The dresses for Shakespeare were also professional, and we had help, for without the matron and Nelly Dunston and Minnie Dunston, and a maid or two, the dresses would not have fitted, and so caused derision. But they did well, and we looked very realistic, though my Jewish gaberdine was too long to the last. However, nobody noticed, though naturally they did notice when Antonio's beard carried away, and it spoilt the pathos, because some fools laughed, instead of taking no notice, as any decent chaps would have.

Well, of course, the excitement was to see how the half-crown seats went off at Tomson's, and they weren't gone in a moment, by any means. You could book both half-crowners and eighteen-pennies, which came next, and people put off their booking a good deal. But when the programme was out, the booking improved, and five people booked in one day. It was rather interesting to hear who had booked, and Mitchell was allowed to go to the shop every morning after school to know how things were going. Sir Neville Carew, from the Manor House, took five half-crown seats in the front row, and Dr. Dunston himself took the next five. This news, we greeted with mingled feelings, yet, as Mitchell pointed out, he might have had them for nothing, which was true. The masters all took half-crown seats dotted about the big hall, and when Briggs asked Brown why they had done this, instead of sitting together, Brown said: "To applaud your efforts, Briggs, and suggest a consensus of opinion if we can." As a matter of fact, we didn't want their wretched applause when the time came, for we got plenty without it.

The most sensational person to take a half-crown seat was old Black, from next door. He had always been our greatest enemy, and hated us, and he never gave anything back that went over his wall, and made us pay instantly if we did any damage, or broke a pane of glass, or anything; yet there he was. He sat in the second row, and not a muscle moved from first to last, and he never clapped once. Yet, extraordinary to say, the most remarkable thing about the whole performance had to do with old Black, though the amazing affair didn't come out till next morning.

Mitchell calculated that, if every seat was taken, we should clear thirty-four pounds odd, and he rather hoped the programmes would bring it up to thirty-six. From that, however, had to be subtracted the cost of the dresses and the professional man from Plymouth, and also the cost of the programmes and the piano man. It looked as if we should be good for a clear thirty pounds; but only if the house was full.

Happy to relate, it was, and many people who did not book at all, came and took their tickets at the door, and the one bob part was packed. In fact, a good many stood all through, including those interested in Merivale in humble ways, such as the tuck-woman and the ground-man and the drill-sergeant, and many other such-like people. When, therefore, after the interval for refreshments, Dr. Dunston got up and said we had taken thirty-seven pounds four shillings, there was great cheering, and most did not hide their surprise.

A reporter came from The Merivale Trumpet and Mitchell saw that he had plenty of refreshments for nothing, because this is expected by reporters, and much depends on it. He ate and drank well, so we naturally hoped for a column or two about the show; but the cur wrote a most feeble account in three inches of type, and gave all the praise to Dr. Dunston, so I need not repeat what he said.

The truth was as follows, and I shall take the programme by its items, and be perfectly fair about it. I won't pretend everything went off as well as we hoped, and some of the chaps didn't come off at all; but, on the other hand, many did, and the failures also got a friendly greeting. And even if you make a person laugh quite differently from what you expected, it's better than if he doesn't laugh at all. Besides, we had to remember that everybody had paid solid cash, so it wasn't like a free show, where people have got to be pleased, or pretend to be. Because, when you have paid your money, you are free to display your feelings; and if people in a paying audience are such utter bounders as to laugh in the wrong places, there's no law against it, and the performers must jolly well stick it as best they can.

Well, of course, Percy minimus was a certainty, and the start was excellent. In fact, some people wanted to encore him; but this did not happen--though he would have sung again--because the live rabbit which Abbott had borrowed from Bellamy for his illusions broke loose and dashed on to the platform. So when the audience expected Percy back, instead there appeared a large, lop-eared white rabbit with a brown behind. It looked, of course, as if Abbott had already begun to conjure, and, in fact, had turned Percy into a lop-eared rabbit. Anyway, the people were so much interested that they stopped encoring Percy, and seemed inclined to encore the bewildered rabbit. Then Abbott appeared and caught the rabbit, which had rather ruined his show by appearing in this way; and Vernon and Montgomery, who were his assistants, brought on the magic table, with various objects arranged upon it for the tricks. Unfortunately, Abbott was very nervous, which is a most dangerous thing for a conjuror to be, and tricks which he would have done to perfection during school hours, or in the home circle, so to say, got fairly mucked up before the paying audience. He put on an appearance of great ease, but he couldn't manage his voice, and he forgot his "patter," and he also forgot how to palm, and kept dropping secret things at awkward moments, and making footling jokes to hide his confusion. The people were frightfully kind and patient, and that made him worse. I believe, if they had hissed, it might have bucked him up.

He forced a card, as he thought, on old Black, and after messing about with a pistol and an orange and a silk handkerchief and some unseen contrivances, he made the ace of spades appear in a bouquet of imitation flowers, and then challenged old Black to show his card, which he did do, and it unfortunately turned out to be the four of hearts. This fairly broke Abbott, and when it came to bringing the lop-eared rabbit out of a borrowed hat, every soul in that paying audience saw him put it in first. It is true he tried to conceal it in a mass of other things under a huge flag, supposed to be the Union Jack; but the rabbit, who had never been conjured with before, and hated it, kicked violently and defied concealment, so to say. However, Abbott got a lot of trick flowers and vegetables and about half a mile of yellow ribbon into the hat at the same time as the rabbit, and the audience had not seen him do this, so they were slightly mystified, and applauded in a weary sort of way. He finished up by bringing a bowl of goldfish out of a dice with white spots on it, and, though there was no great deception, it passed off safely for the goldfish. Then Abbott bowed and cleared out; and, thanks to Fortescue, who is fond of Abbott, and said "Bravo!" and tried to work up some applause, there was no absolute blank when he had done. But Montgomery and Vernon, who had to clear up the debris afterwards, got one of the best laughs of the night, because they became fearfully entangled in the yellow ribbon, and thoughtless people were a good deal amused to see it.

Then came Rice and Bassett in shorts, with a new pair of boxing gloves. A chair was put in each corner of the stage, and the seconds stood by the chairs. It was all pure science, but only a few chaps at the back appreciated them, and when, as bad luck would have it, Rice tapped Bassett's ruby in the first round, the women part of the audience gurgled, and gave little yelps and screams. It was nothing, but evidently appeared strange and dreadful to them; so the Doctor stopped the exhibition, and that item can be put down as an utter failure. Perhaps it was a silly thing to have arranged for a mixed audience; but we had to think of Rice's feelings, and we also knew that scores of countesses and duchesses go to see Carpentier and Wells, and such like in real fights, so we little dreamed anybody would squirm at a harmless exhibition bout that wouldn't have shaken a flea. But it was so, and consequently the glee singers were a great relief, and while they warbled their simple lays, the female part of the audience recovered. Of course, we Thespians did not see any of these things, as we were all making up for the great Trial Scene.

Forrester got fair applause for Fortescue's fine poem, but nothing special. As a matter of fact, he forgot the third verse, which was the best, and doubtless Fortescue felt very sick about it; but he was powerless to do anything, though he never much liked Forrester after.

Then came the grand item, and it was good in every way, and went very smoothly till just the end. Of course, I can't say anything about my rendition of Shylock--in fact, I didn't feel I had gripped the audience in the least--but chaps told me you might have heard a pin drop, and nobody recognized me who knew me, and many of the people in the audience thought it was one of the masters, and not a boy at all. Pegram rather overacted the Duke, which is a part that merely wants stateliness, and no acting; but he would act, and so forgot his words and hung us up once or twice. In fact, Pegram was not good; but Antonio, by Saunders, was a very thoughtful performance, and so was Bassanio, by Preston. Percy minor certainly came off as Gratiano, and unfortunately he acted so jolly well that, in one of his fearful scores off me, I forgot the dignified pathos of Shylock, and laughed. It was a new reading, in a way, but I didn't mean to laugh, and it did a lot of harm, because after that the audience wouldn't take me seriously, though before, I believe, most of them had. It spoiled the illusion of the scene. Portia, in the hands of Williams, was most beautiful to see, but, from the art point of view, awful. He got out his words, however, and just at the end, before my exit, Minnie Dunston, who had plotted it with him in secret, threw him a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, and the fool picked it up and said out loud: "Thank you, Minnie!" Of course, after that, my exit went for nothing, and when it was over, I punched his head behind the scenes, while in front people were laughing themselves silly. We got two calls, and it shows what a force the drama really is, because in the second half of the programme nobody cared a button about such excellent things as Percy minor's comic song; and though Towler and Cornwallis were mildly applauded, it was only because they happened to be still alive and not dead; and the lightning calculations of Nicholas didn't even tempt many men to come away from the refreshments. I dare say many of them were very poor, and had to make so many lightning calculations themselves, owing to the War, that they weren't specially interested in what Nicholas could do. But for Tracey's play they all came, and such applause was never heard within the walls of Merivale; which shows that the drama still holds its own. The idea of "The White Feather" was certainly very original, and the dialogue very satirical. As the girl with the white feathers, Williams appeared again--in a dress lent him by Minnie Dunston. This was too small in some places and too big in others; but thanks to a huge female hat and a wig of golden hair, Williams made a very fair flapper, though inches too tall for such a creature. He gave a feather to Captain Maltravers, V.C., from Gallipoli, who was in mufti; and Tracey, with an eyeglass--which he manages fairly well--and a moustache, was frightfully satirical at the flapper's expense, and every point he made went with a roar. Then the flapper stuck a white feather into the frock-coat of General Sir Champernowne--also in mufti--and he was not satirical, but got into a frightful rage, and gave up the flapper to a policeman. She cried and begged for pardon; and then the V.C. returned, and saved her from the General and the policeman, and promised to marry her after the War.

The house was fairly convulsed, and it was really jolly true to nature--so much so that the pianist almost forgot "God Save the King" when all was over. For though a professional, and well used to entertainments, he laughed as much as anybody.

Then the people "came like shadows and so departed," in the words of the immortal Bard; and not until next day did the final stupendous thing happen with old Black. He looked over the playground wall just before dinner, as he often did, to make a beast of himself about something, and, seeing me and Weston and another chap or two kicking about a football, he said to me: "Are you the boy Thwaites?" And I said I was.

Then he said: "Come in, Thwaites; I want to speak to you."

My first thought was--what had I done? But as I hadn't had any row with old Black for two terms, my "withers were unwrung," and I went; and he took me into his study, and handed me a bit of pink paper with writing on it.

"What's this, sir?" I asked.

"A cheque for the Red Cross," he answered. "A cheque for twenty guineas, to add to the money from your performance last night."

He was scowling all the time, mind you, and looking as if he hated the show.

"I'm sure it's very sporting of you, sir," I said to old Black.

"Not in the least," he replied. "I laughed more last night than I have laughed for fifty years. And I only paid half a crown--much too little for what I got."

I was fearfully amazed.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, "but I didn't see you laugh once!'

"No," he answered, "and more did anyone else. When I laugh, I laugh inside, boy, not outside. So do most wise men. Now be off; and when you next play Shylock, let me know. If I'm alive, I'll come."

So I went, and we cheered old Black from the playground. He must have heard us, but he didn't show up.

Certainly, taking one thing with another, there are many extraordinary people in the world, and you may be surprised at any moment. No doubt it was one of those cases of coming to scoff and remaining to pray that you hear about, but don't often actually see.

THE LAST OF MITCHELL

There is a great deal of difference between being expelled and "invited to find another sphere for your activities." In fact, as my father said, if Dr. Dunston had expelled me, he would certainly have made a row about it, and very likely have written to the newspapers.

But old Dunston was a jolly sight too wily for that. He wrote to my father when the event happened, and said that circumstances had come to his ears which made him think, etc., etc., that I had better leave Merivale.

I am Mitchell, and my father is a financier, and I may say that this profession embraces a great many branches.

Sometimes, after dinner in holidays, he has allowed me to stop and smoke a cigarette while he talked to friends, and so I have got a gradual inkling of what it means to be a financier; and, in a way, this inkling was my downfall. Not that I felt it a downfall really to be hoofed out of Merivale; for it was rather a potty sort of show, and I should have gone to a far more swagger place if my father had been flusher just at the time when I had to go somewhere, owing to a trifling bother at another school.

But I went to Merivale, and just because I tried to take advantage of what my father had said about finance and apply it to school life, the difficulties arose.

I gathered off and on from my father, when he was in a talkative frame of mind, that one of the great arts of a financier is to do deals between other people.

For instance, you have something to sell, and my father knows it. And he routs about and leaves no stone unturned, as they say, until he finds somebody who wants to buy just what you want to sell. Then, having found you a customer, my father arranges all the details of the business, and everybody is satisfied, and my father, for all his time and trouble, gets richly rewarded.

Then, again, another fine branch of the financier's art is the floating of public companies. To float a company requires great skill and nerve.

The first thing is to find a place a long way off, far beyond the reach of intending shareholders, in fact. Then you discover this far-off country is extraordinarily rich in minerals, or india-rubber, or manure, or some other useful material which everybody wants. You send out a mineral or manure expert to the far-off country, and he is delighted to find these things in enormous quantities, and sees at a glance that, if properly managed, they will produce dividends of very likely a hundred per cent. for the first year, and much more afterwards.

Then my father, or whoever it might be, is glad, and he goes about to other skilful men who understand companies, and they collect together and make a board. The more famous financiers there are upon this board the better the public likes it; and so the company is floated, and the public is invited to put in money.

This the public is only too thankful to do, because, of course, the thing promises so well; and then the shares are quoted on the Stock Exchange, and the papers are suddenly full of the company some morning, and the board sits and has a champagne luncheon and arranges its salaries and so on.

Of course, the people who have found that happy, far-away land, flowing with minerals and manure and such like, are richly rewarded, as they deserve to be; and sometimes they take it in money and sometimes in shares, and sometimes in both.

And all may or may not go well; but the financier, whose business it is to do these things and float the company, takes care to come out of it all right in any case--otherwise it is no good being a financier.

There was once a very fine company floated by my father and several of his scientific friends, for extracting gold from salt water.

It was based on thoroughly sound principles; because science has proved that there is so much gold in every ton of salt water; and, of course, if it is there, it can be extracted by modern inventions. So my father and others of even greater renown were filled with the idea of promoting a company to do this.

It was a brilliant and successful company in a way, but did not last long for some reason.

They started at a place near Margate, I think, with pumps and tubes to draw in the water, and machinery and professional chemists to get the gold out of it, and a staff of twenty skilled men, who understood the complicated mechanism. And they easily got enough gold from somewhere to make the prospectus, and also enough to make a brooch for the manager's wife; and no doubt they would have got much more in course of time, but something failed--the water in the English Channel was a bit off, or some other natural cause--and my father said it would have been far better for everybody concerned if the works had been put up in the Isle of Skye, or perhaps in Norway, or in the West Indies, or the Fiji Islands, where conditions might have been better suited to success.

But gold was none the less made for my father and one or two others, "though not from the sea," as my father said thoughtfully when discussing the winding up of the affair.

There is another and even higher branch of the financier's art--the loftiest of all in fact. This consists in floating loans for hard-up monarchs, and it is absolutely the biggest thing the financier does. It wants great skill and delicacy.

You can also float loans for hard-up nations if you understand how to do it, but there are hundreds of financiers who never reach these dizzy heights of the profession, just as there are hundreds--you may say millions--of soldiers who never get above being colonels, and thousands of clergymen who fall short of becoming bishops.

My father, of course, understood these high branches of his profession, and once even went so far as to be interested in a loan for a South American Republic; but before the thing was matured, one side of the Republic was destroyed by a volcano and the other side by insurgents, who shot the President and all his best friends; and these events so shook investors in general that they would not subscribe to that loan, though the Republic, in its financial extremities, offered fabulous rates of interest.

I mention my father at such great length just to show the man he was and to explain my own bent of mind, which lay in the same direction. He said once, in a genial mood, that no man had ever made more bricks without straw than he had. It seemed to me a very dignified and original profession, because you are on your own, so to say, and you go out into the world single-handed, and by simple force of a brilliant imagination and hard work, win to yourself an honourable position. You may even get knighted or baroneted, if your financial genius is crowned with sufficient success to give away a few tons of money to a hospital, or the "party chest," whatever that is.

So, understanding all these things fairly well, it was natural that I took the line I did in the affair of Protheroe minimus and young Mayne. And, whatever the Doctor thought, my father didn't see any objection to the operation; and, of course, his opinion was the only one I cared about.

It was like this.

Young Mayne, though very poor, had a most amazing knack of prize-winning. He was in a class where all the chaps were a year older than him, and yet he always beat them with the greatest ease. He was good all round, and thought nothing of raking in prizes term after term.

In fact, it seemed a thousand pities, seeing that he was very poor and the only son of a lawyer's clerk, that his great prize-winning powers were not yielding a better return. For, not to put too fine a point upon it, as they say, the prizes at Merivale were piffle of the deepest dye, and of no money value worth mentioning. Dr. Dunston went on getting the same books term after term, and simply unreadable slush was all you could call them.

The few things that were good were all back numbers, like "Robinson Crusoe"--all right in themselves, but nobody wants to read them twice; and then there were school stories that would have made angels weep, especially one called "St. Winifred's," in which boys behaved like girls and blushed if anybody said something dashing. Then there were books about birds and animals and insects, and for the Lower School the Doctor used to sink to "Peter Parley" and the "Peep of Day," and such-like absolute mess of a bygone age.

These things were all bound in blue leather and had a gold owl stamped upon them, which was the badge of Merivale.

I believe the owl was supposed to be the bird of Athena, and stood for wisdom, or some such rot. Anyhow, it wasn't a bad idea in its way, for a more owlish sort of school than Merivale I never was at.

And young Mayne got more of these books than anybody; but to him they were as grass, and he thought nothing of them. Whereas Protheroe minimus had never won a prize in his life, and wanted one fearfully--not for itself, but for the valuable effect it would have on his mother.

She was a widow and loved Protheroe minimus best of her three sons. The others had taken prizes and were fair fliers at school; but Protheroe min. was useless except at running. So, woman-like, just because he couldn't get a prize anyhow, his mother was set on his doing so, and promised him rare rewards if he would only work extra hard, or be extra good, or extra something, and so scare up a blue book with a gold owl at any cost.

Well, if you have a financial mind, you will see at a glance that here was a possible opportunity. At least, so it looked to me. Because on the one hand was young Mayne, always fearfully hard up and always getting prizes at the end of each term as a matter of course; while on the other hand was Protheroe min., never hard up but never a scholastic success, so to say, from the beginning of the term to the end--and, of course, never even within sight of a prize of any sort.

Here it seemed to me was the whole problem of supply and demand in a nutshell; and the financier instinct cried out in me, as it were, that I ought to be up and doing.

So I went to young Mayne and said that I thought it was a frightful pity all his great skill was being chucked away, and bringing no return more important than the mournful things that he won as prizes. And he said:

"A time will come, Mitchell."

And then I told him that a time had come.

"I know you sell your prizes for a few bob at home, and that you think nothing of them," I said. "But I had a bit of a yarn with that kid Protheroe yesterday, and it seems that what is nothing to you would be a perfect godsend to him. You may not believe it, but his mother, who is a bit dotty on him, has promised him five pounds if he will bring home a prize."

"Five pounds!" said Mayne. "The best prize old Dun ever gave wasn't worth five bob."

"She doesn't want to sell it--she wants to keep it for the honour and glory of Protheroe min.," I explained. "And the idea in my mind in bringing you chaps together for your mutual advantage was, firstly, that you should let Protheroe have one of your prizes to take home in triumph to his mother; and, secondly, that he should give you a document swearing to let you have two pounds of his five pounds at the beginning of next term."

Mayne was much interested at this suggestion, and, knowing that he must be a snip for at least two prizes, if not three, at the end of the summer term, he had no difficulty whatever in falling in with my scheme.

We were allowed to walk in the playing-fields on Sunday after chapel before dinner, and then Mayne and Protheroe minimus and myself discussed the details.

Funnily enough, they were so full of it between themselves that they did not exactly realize where I came in; so I had to remind Protheroe that it was I who had arranged the supply when I heard about his demand; and I had also to remind him he had certainly said that if anybody could put him in the way of a prize, he would give that person a clear pound at the beginning of next term.

I also had to remind Mayne that he had promised me ten shillings on delivery of his two pounds.

In fact, before the day was done I got them both to sign documents; because, as I say, when they once got together over it, they seemed rather to forget me. So I explained to them that my part was simply that of a financier, and that many men made their whole living in that way, arranging supplies for demands and bringing capitalists together in a friendly spirit. But not for nothing.

They quite saw it, but thought I asked too much. However, I was older than they were, and speedily convinced them that I had not.

There was only one difficulty in the way after this, and Protheroe came to me about it, and I helped him over it free of charge. He said:

"When I take home the prize, what shall I say it's for? You know what my school reports are like. There's never a loophole for a prize of any kind."

"You might say good conduct," I suggested; but Protheroe min. scorned the thought.

"That would give away the whole show at once," he said. "Because even my mother wouldn't be deceived. It's no good taking back a prize for good conduct when the report will be sure to read as usual--'No attempt at any improvement,' which is how it always goes."

Everything I suggested, Protheroe scoffed at in the same way, so I could see the prize would have to be for something not mentioned at all in the school report.

Of course, you don't get book prizes for cricket, or footer, or running, which--especially the latter--were the only things that Protheroe min. could have hoped honestly to get a prize for. But I stuck to the problem, and had a very happy idea three nights before the end of the term. I then advised Protheroe to say the prize was for "calisthenics."

There are no prizes for calisthenics at Merivale; but it sounded rather a likely subject, especially as he was a dab at it. And, anyway, he thought it would satisfy his mother and be all right.

So that was settled, and it only remained for Mayne to get his lawful prizes and hand over the least important to Protheroe min.

It all went exceedingly well--at the start--and young Mayne got the prizes and gave Protheroe the second, which was for literature.

The thing was composed entirely of poems--Longfellow, or Southey, or some such blighter--and Protheroe said that his mother would fairly revel to think that he had won it. He packed it in his box after "breaking up," and we exchanged our agreements; and it came out, when all was over, that young Mayne was to have two pounds out of Protheroe's five, and I was to have ten bob from Mayne and a pound from Protheroe--thirty shillings in all; and Protheroe would have the prize and two pounds, not to mention other pickings, which would doubtless be given to him by his proud and grateful mother.

You might have thought that nothing could go wrong with a sound financial scheme of that sort. I put any amount of time and thought into the transaction, and as it was my first introduction into the world of business, so to speak, and I stood to net a clear thirty shillings, naturally I left no stone unturned, as they say, to make it a brilliant and successful affair.

And yet it all went to utter and hopeless smash, though it was no fault of mine.

And you certainly couldn't blame Protheroe min. or Mayne either. In fact, Protheroe must have carried it off very well when he got home, and the calisthenics went down all right; and Mayne, when his people asked how it was that he hadn't got more than one prize, was ingenious enough to say that he'd suffered from hay fever all the term and been too off colour to make his usual haul.

So everything would have been perfection but for the idiotic and footling behaviour of Protheroe min.'s mother.

This excitable and weak-minded woman was not content with just quietly taking the prize and putting it in a glass case with the prizes won in the past by Protheroe's brothers. She must go fluttering about telling his wretched relations what he'd done; and, as if that was not enough, she got altogether above herself and wrote to Dr. Dunston about it. She said how glad and happy it had made her, and that success in the gymnasium was something to begin with, and that she hoped and prayed that it would lead to better things, and that they would live to be proud of Protheroe minimus yet, and such-like truck!

Well, the result was a knock-down blow to us all, as you may imagine, and the Doctor showed himself both wily and beastly, as usual. For he merely asked Protheroe's mother to send back the prize at the beginning of the term, as he fancied there might have been some mistake; but he begged her not to mention the matter to Protheroe minimus.

So when Protheroe and Mayne and myself all arrived again for the arduous toil of the winter term, and Mayne and I were eager for the financial disimbursements to begin, we heard the shattering news that, at the last moment, Protheroe hadn't got his fiver.

It was to have been given to him on the day that he came back to school; but instead his mother had merely told him that she feared there was a little mistake somewhere, and that she couldn't give him his hard-earned cash till Dr. Dunston had cleared the matter up.

Needless to say that Dunston did clear it up with all the brutality of which he was capable.

As for myself, when the crash came, I hoped it would happen to me as it often does to professional financiers in real life, and that I should escape, as it were. Not, of course, that I had done anything that in fairness made it necessary for me to escape, because to take advantage of supply and demand is a natural law of self-preservation, and everybody does it as a matter of course, not only financiers.

But, much to my annoyance, the common-sense view of the thing was not taken, and I found myself "in the cart," as they say, with young Mayne and Protheroe minimus.

The Doctor, on examining Protheroe's prize for calisthenics, instantly perceived that it was in reality young Mayne's prize for literature. But evidently anything like strategy of this kind was very distasteful to the Doctor. In fact, he took a prejudiced view from the first, and as young Mayne was only eleven and Protheroe min. merely ten and a half, it instantly jumped to Dunston's hateful and suspicious mind that somebody must have helped them in what he called a "nefarious project." And, by dint of some very unmanly cross-questioning, he got my name out of Mayne.

I never blamed Mayne; in fact, I quite believed him when he swore that it only slipped out under the treacherous questions of the Doctor; but the result was, of course, unsatisfactory in every way for me.

I was immediately sent for, and had no course open to me but to explain the whole nature of financial operations to Dr. Dunston, and try to make him see that I had simply fallen in with the iron laws of supply and demand.

Needless to say, I failed, for he was in one of his fiery and snorting conditions and above all appeal to reason.

"It was an ordinary sort of transaction, sir," I said, "and I don't see that anybody was hurt by it. In fact, everybody was pleased, including Mrs. Protheroe."

This made him simply foam at the mouth.

I had never been what you may call a great success with him, and now to hear sound business views from one still at the early age of sixteen, fairly shook him up.

He ordered me to go back to my class, and when I had gone, he flogged young Mayne and Protheroe minimus. He then forgave them and told them to go and sin no more; and the same day, doubtless after the old fool had cooled down a bit, he wrote to my father and put the case before him--though not quite fairly--and said that, apparently, I had no moral sense, and a lot of other insulting and vulgar things. In conclusion, he asked my father to remove me, that I might find another sphere for my activities.

And my father did.

He never took my view of the matter exactly; but he certainly did not take Dr. Dunston's view either. He seemed to be more amused than anything, and was by no means in such a wax with Dr. Dunston as I should have expected.

He said that the scholastic point of view was rather stuffy and lacked humour; and then he explained that I had certainly not acted quite on the straight, but had been a "deceitful and cunning little bounder."

I was a good deal hurt at this view, and when he found a billet for me in the firm of Messrs. Martin & Moss, Stock Brokers, I felt very glad indeed to go into it and shake off the dust of school from my feet, as they say.

It is a good and a busy firm, and I have been here a fortnight now. Ten days ago, happening to pass Mr. Martin's door, and catching my name, I naturally stood and listened and heard an old clerk tell Mr. Martin that I was taking to the work like a duck takes to water.

I am writing this account of the business at Merivale on sheets of the best correspondence paper of Messrs. Martin & Moss!

They would not like it if they knew.

But they won't know.

THE END

Printed in the United States of America.

* * * * * * * *

The following pages contain advertisements of Macmillan books by the same author

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Old Delabole

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

Author of "Brunei's Tower," etc.

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

A critic in reviewing Brunei's Tower remarked that it would seem that Eden Phillpotts was now doing the best work of his career. There was sufficient argument for this contention in the novel then under consideration and further demonstration of its truth is found in Old Delabole, which, because of its cheerful and wise philosophy and its splendid feeling for nature and man's relation to it, will perhaps ultimately take its place as its author's best. The scene is laid in Cornwall. Delabole is a slate mining town and the tale which Mr. Phillpotts tells against it as a background, one in which a matter of honor or of conscience is the pivot, is dramatic in situation and doubly interesting because of the moral problem which it presents. Mr. Phillpotts's artistry and keen perception of those motives which actuate conduct have never been better exhibited.

"Another good story from an able hand."--New York Sun.

"A novel of large significance."--Boston Herald.

"A more effective piece of dramatic description could scarcely be put into print."--North American (Philadelphia).

"Besides being a good story, richly peopled, and brimful of human nature in its finer aspects, the book is seasoned with quiet humor and a deal of mellow wisdom."--New York Times.

Brunei's Tower

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

The regeneration of a faulty character through association with dignified, honest work and simple, sincere people is the theme which Mr. Phillpotts has chosen for his latest novel. Always an artist, he has, in this book, made what will perhaps prove to be his most notable contribution to literature. Humor and a genuine sympathetic understanding of the human soul are reflected throughout it. The scene is largely laid in a pottery, and the reader is introduced in the course of the action to the various processes in the art. The central figure is a lad who, having escaped from a reform school, has sought shelter and work in the pottery. Under the influence of the gentle, kindly folk of the community he comes in a measure to realize himself.

"It touches lightly upon love, upon the pathos of old age, upon the workman's passion for his work, upon the artist's worship of his art, upon an infinite variety of human ways and moods, and it is filled to its depths with reflections upon life that are very near to life itself. It is Mr. Phillpotts at his characteristic best."--Boston Transcript.

"The daily bread of life is in this book ... magnificently written, ... absorbingly interesting, and holds that element of surprise which is never lacking in the work of the true story teller. It is a book for which to be frankly grateful, for it holds matter for many hours' enjoyment.--New York Times.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Faith Tresilion

Decorated Cloth, 12mo, $1.35

"Its movement is brisk, and the development of its plot is emphasized at certain steps with sudden surprises--all of which contribute toward holding the reader's attention."--New York Times.

"A rousing story, having about it the tang and flavor of the sea, and with the sound of trumpets ringing through.... Mr. Phillpotts has chosen a period of thrills for his story and has succeeded very well in putting across the bracing atmosphere of perilous times. His portrayal of the coast folk of Daleham rings true and refreshing."--Kansas City Star.

"A tale picturesque in its scenes and rich in its character."--Boston Transcript.

"Mr. Phillpotts may be congratulated upon having written a remarkable book in which there is not a dull page."--Philadelphia Ledger.

"A book that is distinctly interesting."--New York Herald.

"No character that Mr. Phillpotts has created can surpass that of Emma Tresilion."--Boston Times.

"It is a very readable story."--The Outlook.

"A book of stirring adventure and sensational experiences."--Literary Digest.

"Never has Eden Phillpotts written so swinging a romance."--Bellman.

"A rattling good story."--Los Angeles Times.

OTHER OF MR. EDEN PHILLPOTTS' NOVELS

The Three Brothers

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

"'The Three Brothers' seems to us the best yet of the long series of these remarkable Dartmoor tales. If Shakespeare had written novels we can think that some of his pages would have been like some of these.... The book is full of a very moving interest, and it is agreeable and beautiful."--New York Sun.

Knock at a Venture

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

Sketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, and humorous touches.

The Portreeve

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

"Twice, at least, he has reached and even surpassed the standard of his first notable work. Once was in 'The Secret Woman.' The second time is in 'The Portreeve.' In sheer mastery of technique it is the finest thing he has done. From the beginning to the end the author's touch is assured and unfaltering. There is nothing superfluous, nothing unfinished.... And the characters, even to the least important, have the breath of life in them."--The Providence Journal.

My Devon Year

Cloth, 8vo, $2.00, with 38 Monotint plates, $2.00

"One of the most charming nature books recently published.... This book will inspire such persons and many others to get back to Mother Earth and see her wonders with a new eye. To those who know the rich Devon country it describes 'My Devon Year' is a delight from beginning to end, but this knowledge is not essential to its thorough enjoyment."--New York Mail.

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