The Willoughby Captains

Talbot Baines Reed (continued 8)

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Riddell, on whom these incautious words had acted with a result wholly different from what was intended, could scarcely contain himself to talk coolly as he replied, “Please leave my room. I don’t want you here.” Silk looked round in a startled way at the words, and his face changed colour.

“What?” he demanded. “Please leave my room,” replied the captain. “Not till you promise to get back the names.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort.”

“You won’t? You know the consequence?” Riddell said nothing. “I shall tell of Wyndham,” said Silk. “Please leave my room,” once more said the captain. Silk glared at him, and took a step forward as though he meant to try one last method for extorting the promise.

But Riddell stood his ground boldly, and the spirit of the bully faltered.

“You’ll be sorry for it,” snarled the latter. Riddell said nothing, but waited patiently for him to go. Seeing that nothing more was to be gained, and baffled on all points—even on the point where he made sure of having his enemy, Silk turned on his heel and went, slamming the door viciously behind him.

Riddell had rarely felt such a sense of relief as he experienced on being thus left to himself.

The suddenness of Silk’s disclosure and the strange way in which it had been followed up had disconcerted him. But now he had time to think calmly over the whole affair.

And two things seemed pretty clear. One was that, strange as it seemed, there must be something in Silk’s story. He could hardly have invented it and stuck to it in the way he had for no other purpose than embarrassing the captain; and the pressure he had applied to get Riddell to withdraw the names before the doctor saw them, confirmed this idea.

The other point made clear was that his duty, at whatever cost, even at the cost of young Wyndham himself, was to report the fight and make no terms with the offenders. If the result was what Silk threatened, he could only hope the doctor would deal leniently with the boy.

One other thing was clear too. He must see both Wyndham and Bloomfield in the morning.

With which resolve, and not without a prayer for wisdom better than his own to act in this crisis, he retired to bed.

Early next morning, before almost any sign of life showed itself in Willoughby, the captain was up and dressed.

The magic that so often attends on a night’s sleep had done its work on him, and as he walked across the quadrangle that fresh summer morning his head was clear and his mind made up.

The outer door of the schoolhouse was still unopened, and he paced outside, as it seemed to him, for half an hour before he could get in.

He went at once to Wyndham’s study, and found that young athlete arraying himself in his cricket flannels.

“Hullo, Riddell!” cried he, as the captain entered; “have you come to see the practice? We’re going to play a scratch match with some of the seniors. You play too, will you?”

The captain did not reply to this invitation, and his serious face convinced Wyndham something must be wrong.

“What’s up, I say?” he inquired, looking concerned.

“Nothing very pleasant,” said Riddell. “You heard of the fight last night?”

“Eh? between Silk and Gilks? Yes. I half guessed it would come to that. They’ve been quarrelling a lot lately.”

“I reported them, and they are to go to the doctor’s after breakfast,” said Riddell.

“They’ll catch it, I expect,” said Wyndham. “Paddy’s sure to be down on them because they’re seniors.”

“They expect to catch it. At least, Silk says so. He came to me last night and tried to get me to withdraw the names. And when I said I couldn’t be threatened to tell about you, and get you into a row.”

Wyndham’s face changed colour.

“What? I say, do you think he really will?” he exclaimed.

“I think it’s very likely,” said the captain.

“Of course, you can’t withdraw the names?” said the boy.

“I’ve no right to do it—no, I can’t,” replied the captain.

“Oh, of course. But I say, what had I better do?” faltered the boy. “I hoped that bother was all over.”

“I would advise you to go to the doctor before chapel and tell him yourself.”

The boy’s face fell.

“How can I? I promised I wouldn’t, and Silk wouldn’t let me off when I asked him.”

“But he is going to tell of you, he says. You had much better let the doctor hear it from you than from him.”

“If only I could!” exclaimed the boy; “but how can I?”

“I don’t want to persuade you to break a promise,” said the captain, “but I’m sorry for it.”

“I suppose I’m sure to get expelled,” said the boy, dismally; “they’re sure to make it as bad against me as they can.”

Riddell reflected a little, and then said, “Perhaps it’s only a threat, and no more. At any rate, if the doctor is told he is sure to give you a chance of telling him everything, so don’t give up hope, old man.”

Poor Wyndham did not look or feel very hopeful certainly as he thought over the situation.

“Thanks for telling me about it, anyhow,” said he. “I say, shall you be there to hear what they say?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But if you are sent for let me know, and I’ll go with you.”

With this grain of comfort the captain went, leaving Wyndham anything but disposed to show up at the cricket practice. Indeed, for a little while he gave up all thought of going out, and it was not till a messenger arrived to tell him he was keeping everybody waiting that he screwed himself up to the effort and went.

Riddell meanwhile, with the other half of his mission still to execute, went over to Parrett’s. Parson was lounging about at the door, with a towel over his arm, waiting, as any one might have guessed, for Telson.

“Has Bloomfield gone out?” asked the captain of this youthful hero.

Parson, who ever since the famous breakfast in Riddell’s room had looked upon the captain with eyes of favour, replied, “No, I don’t think so, I’ll go and see if you like.”

“Thanks. If he’s in, tell him I want to speak to him.”

“All serene. Hold my towel, do you mind? It’s Bosher’s, and he may try to collar it if he sees me. And tell Telson I’ll be back in a second.”

And off he went, leaving the captain in charge of Bosher’s towel.

He soon returned with a message that Bloomfield was getting up, and would be out in a minute or two.

“I say,” said he, after the two had waited impatiently some time, each for his own expected schoolfellow, “did you see much of the fight last night?”

“No,” said Riddell, “I didn’t see it at all.”

“Oh, hard lines. I got there late, as I went to tell Telson. Gilks used his right too much, you know. We both thought so. He keeps no guard to speak of, and— Hullo! where on earth have you been all this time?”

This last exclamation was in honour of Telson, who appeared on the scene at that moment, and with whom the speaker joyfully departed, leaving Riddell only half informed as to the scientific defects in Gilks’s style of boxing.

In due time Bloomfield appeared, not a little curious to know the object of this early interview.

Riddell, too, was embarrassed, for the last time they met they had parted on anything but cordial terms. However, that had nothing to do with his duty now.

“Good-morning,” he said, in reply to Bloomfield’s nod. “Do you mind taking a turn? I want to tell you something.”

Bloomfield obeyed, and that morning any one who looked out might have witnessed the unusual spectacle of the Willoughby captains walking together round the quadrangle in eager conversation.

“You heard of the fight?” said Riddell.

“Yes; what about it?” inquired Bloomfield.

“I’ve reported it. And last night Silk came to me and asked me to get back the names.”

“You won’t do it, will you?” asked Bloomfield.

“No. But the reason why Silk wanted it was because he was afraid of something else coming out. He says it was Gilks who cut the rudder-lines.”

“What! Gilks?” exclaimed Bloomfield, standing still in astonishment. “It can’t be! Gilks was one of us. He backed our boat all along!”

“That’s just what I can’t make out,” said the captain; “and I wanted to see what you think had better be done.”

“Have you asked Gilks?” inquired Bloomfield.

“No. I thought perhaps the best thing was to wait till they had been up to the doctor. They may let out about it to him, if there’s anything in it. If they don’t, we should see what Gilks says.”

“If it had been your lines that were cut,” said Bloomfield, “I could have believed it. He had a spite against all your fellows, and especially you, since he was kicked out of the boat. But he had betted over a sovereign on us, I know.”

“I shouldn’t have believed it at all,” said Riddell, “if Silk hadn’t sent me an anonymous note a week or two ago. Here it is, by the way.”

Bloomfield read the note.

“Did you go and see the boat-boy?” he asked.

“Yes; and all I could get out of him was that some one had got into the boat-house that night, and scrambled out of the window just in time to avoid being seen. But the fellow, whoever he was, dropped a knife, which I managed to get from Tom, and which turned out to be one young Wyndham had lost.”

“Young Wyndham! Then it was true you suspected him?”

“It was true.”

And then the captain told his companion the story of the complication of misunderstandings which had led him almost to the point of denouncing the boy as the culprit; at the end of which Bloomfield said, in a more friendly tone than he had yet assumed, “It was a shave, certainly. Young Wyndham ought to be grateful to you. He’d have found it not so easy to clear himself if you’d reported him at once.”

“I dare say it would have been hard,” said Riddell.

“I’m rather ashamed of myself now for trying to make you do it,” said Bloomfield.

“Oh, not at all,” said Riddell, dreading as he always did this sort of talk. “But, I say, what do you think ought to be done?”

“I think we’d better wait, as you say, till they’ve been to Paddy. Then if nothing has come out, you ought to see Gilks.”

“I think so, but I wish you’d be there too. As captain of the clubs, you’ve really more to do with it than I have.”

“You’re captain of the school, though,” said Bloomfield, “but I’ll be there too, if you like.”

“Thanks,” said Riddell.

And the two walked on discussing the situation, and drifting from it into other topics in so natural a way that it occurred to neither of them at the time to wonder how they two, of all boys, should have so much in common.

“I shall be awfully glad when it’s all cleared up,” said Riddell.

“So shall I. If it is cleared up the credit of it will belong to you, I say.”

“Not much credit in getting a fellow expelled,” said Riddell.

“Anyhow, it was to your credit sticking by young Wyndham as you did.”

“I was going to report him for it, though, the very day the matter was explained.”

“Well, all the more credit for making up your mind to an unpleasant duty like that when you might have shirked it.”

The bell for chapel began to ring at this point.

“There goes the bell,” said Bloomfield. “I say, how should you like to ask me to breakfast with you? I’d ask you to my room, only our fellows would be so inquisitive.”

Riddell jumped at the hint with the utmost delight, and to all the marvels of that wonderful term was added this other, of the two Willoughby captains breakfasting tête-à-tête, partaking of coffee out of the same pot and toast cut off the same loaf.

They talked far more than they ate or drank. It was more like the talk of two friends who had just met after a long separation, than of two schoolfellows who had sat shoulder to shoulder in the same class-room for weeks. Bloomfield confided all his troubles, and failures, and disappointments, and Riddell confessed his mistakes, and discouragements, and anxieties. And the Parrett’s captain marvelled to think how he could have gone on all this term without finding out what a much finer fellow the captain of the school was than himself. And Riddell reproached himself inwardly for never having made more serious efforts to secure the friendship of this honest, kind-hearted athlete, and gradually these secret thoughts oozed out in words.

Bloomfield, as was only natural and only right, took to himself most of the blame, although Riddell chivalrously insisted on claiming as much as ever he could. And when at last this wonderful meal ended, a revolution had taken place in Willoughby which the unsuspecting school, as it breakfasted elsewhere, little dreamed of.

“Upon my honour we have been fools,” said Bloomfield: “that is, I have. But we’ll astonish the fellows soon, I fancy. Do you know I’ve a good mind to break bounds or have a fight with some one just to make you give me an impot!”

“As long as you don’t do anything which calls for personal chastisement,” said the captain, laughing, “I’ll promise to oblige you.”

“I say,” said Bloomfield, as the bell for first school was beginning to ring, “I’m glad we—that is I—have come to our senses before old Wyndham comes down. His young brother has persuaded him to come and umpire for the school in the Templeton match.”

Riddell’s face became troubled.

“I hope young Wyndham may be here himself. You know, Silk threatened that unless I withdrew the names he would tell the doctor about that affair of Beamish’s and get Wyndham expelled to spite me.”

Bloomfield laughed.

“Not he. It’s all brag, depend on it. But why on earth doesn’t the young ’un go and make a clean breast to the doctor, before he gets to know of it any other way?”

“That’s just the worst of it. They made him promise he wouldn’t say a word about it to any one, and he’s such an honest young beggar that even though Silk tells of him, he won’t tell of Silk.”

“That’s awkward,” said Bloomfield, musing. “Did he tell you about it, then?”

“No. His mouth was shut, you see. If I hadn’t found out about it from Parson and Telson, who saw the three of them coming out, I shouldn’t have known it till now.”

Bloomfield’s face brightened.

“Then you found it out quite independently?” asked he.

“To be sure.”

“All right. Then the best thing you can do is to report him for it at once.”

“What?” exclaimed Riddell, aghast, “report him?”

“Yes. And then you can go to Paddy and tell him all about it, and explain how he was led into it, and he’s sure not to be very down on it.”

“Upon my word,” said Riddell, struck with the idea, “I do believe you are right. It’s the very best thing I could do. What a donkey I was never to think of it before.”

So it was decided that young Wyndham was forthwith to be reported for his transgression, and as the time had now arrived when all the school but Gilks and Silk were due in class, the two captains hurried off to their places, each feeling that he had discovered a friend; and in that friend a hope for Willoughby, of which he had scarcely even dreamed till now.

Chapter Thirty Four.

A Busy Day for the Doctor.

Riddell had not been many minutes in class before a message came from the doctor summoning him to the library.

On his arrival there he found, to his surprise, Silk standing alone in the middle of the room, while the doctor was quietly writing at his table.

“Riddell,” said the doctor, as the captain entered, “you reported two boys to me. Only one is here.”

“I told Gilks he was to be here at nine o’clock, sir,” said the captain.

“You had better go and see why he is not here.”

Riddell obeyed, and found on inquiry at the schoolhouse that Gilks was on the sick-list, and had obtained leave from the matron to remain in bed till after dinner.

The captain had his private doubts as to the seriousness of the invalid’s case, especially as, of the two, he was the less damaged in yesterday’s fight. However, he had no right to question the matron’s decision, and returned accordingly to report the matter to the doctor.

“Humph!” said the doctor, who also evidently considered it a curious coincidence that Gilks should be taken unwell the very morning when his presence was required in the library; “he had better have come. You say he is to be up after dinner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let him know he is to come here at four o’clock, and you, Silk, come too at that hour.”

Silk, who had evidently screwed himself up for the present interview, looked disappointed.

“I should like just to say, sir—” began he, with a glance at Riddell.

But the doctor interrupted.

“Not now, Silk. Go to your class now, and come here at four o’clock.”

“But it’s not about—”

“Do you hear me, sir?” said the doctor, sternly.

Silk went.

The captain was about to follow his example, when it occurred to him he might not have so favourable an opportunity again that day for acting on Bloomfield’s advice respecting Wyndham.

“Can you spare a few minutes, sir?” said he, turning back.

“Yes, what is it?” said the doctor.

“It’s about young Wyndham, sir.”

“Ah! Nothing wrong, I hope. He has seemed a good deal steadier than he was, of late.”

“So he is, sir. But this is about something he did some time ago.”

The doctor settled himself judicially in his chair, and waited for the captain’s report.

“He got into bad company early in the term, sir, and was tempted down into the town without leave, and once let himself be taken to Beamish’s Aquarium.”

The doctor gave a grunt of displeasure, which sounded rather ominous.

“How long ago was this?”

“A few days before the boat-race, sir. It has been weighing on his mind ever since.”

“Did he tell you of it?” asked the doctor.

“No, I found it out accidentally. When I spoke to him about it he admitted it and seemed very sorry.”

“And why did he not come to me himself at once?”

“That’s just it, sir,” said the captain. “I advised him to do it, and he told me he had promised the—the companions with whom he went never to mention the matter to anybody, and this prevented his coming. He even went to them, and begged them to let him off the promise so that he might come and confess to you, but he did not succeed.”

“Did he ask you, then, to come and tell me?”

“No, sir. But he is in constant dread of your hearing about it from any one else, so that I thought it would be the best thing to tell you of it myself.”

The doctor nodded his head.

“He does not know, of course, of your doing this?”

“Oh no, sir.”

“And who were the companions who you say took him to this place?”

Riddell coloured up and felt very uncomfortable.

“Do you mind me not telling you, sir?” he said. “Wyndham only wanted you to know about his part in it. I’ll tell you if you wish,” added he, “but I’d rather not if you do not mind.”

“You need not do so at present,” said the doctor, greatly to the captain’s relief, “but you had better send Wyndham to me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Riddell, turning to go, but lingering for one final word. “I hope, sir—you—that is, if you can—you will take a lenient view of it. Young Wyndham’s very steady now.”

“I must see Wyndham before I can decide,” said the doctor, “but you have acted rightly in the matter—quite rightly.”

The captain went to find Wyndham, hoping for the best, but decidedly anxious.

That young gentleman was engaged in the agonies of Euclid when the school messenger entered, and announced that the doctor wanted to see him at once. His face fell, and his heart beat fast as he heard the summons. It needed not much effort to guess what it all meant. Gilks and Silk had of course been up before the doctor, and the latter had carried out the threat of which Riddell had told him; and now he was summoned to hear his fate!

At the schoolhouse door he found Riddell waiting for him.

“Oh, Riddell, I say!” exclaimed he, in tones of misery, “I’ve to go to the doctor at once. Silk has told about me. I say, do come with me.”

“Silk hasn’t told about you at all,” said the captain; “I’ve reported you myself.”

“You!” cried Wyndham, in tones of mingled amazement and reproach; “oh, why?”

“Wouldn’t you sooner have had me do it than Silk?” asked Riddell.

The boy saw his meaning at once, and as usual flew from one extreme to the other.

“Oh, of course! What a brute I was not to see it. Thanks awfully, old man. What awful grief I should have come to if it hadn’t been for you!”

“I don’t know at all what view the doctor takes of the matter,” said the captain, gravely; “you had better not expect too much.”

Wyndham groaned.

“If only I’m not expelled!” said he. “I suppose you can’t come too?”

“No. The doctor wants to see you alone, I think.”

“Well, here goes. By the way, of course, you didn’t mention the other fellows’ names?” he added.

The manner in which he said this made Riddell feel doubly glad that the doctor had not insisted on his telling.

“No—I didn’t,” he said.

And off went Wyndham, dismally, to the doctor’s study.

It was an anxious morning for the captain. Wyndham had not returned before first school was over, and Riddell felt he could not rest till he knew his fate.

He told Bloomfield of his morning’s proceedings, but even this new friend’s encouragement failed to shake off the suspense that weighed upon him.

Presently when he could wait patiently no longer, it occurred to him Wyndham might possibly have gone back to his study unobserved, and be waiting there for him. So he went across to the schoolhouse to find out.

But nearly all the studies in the schoolhouse, Wyndham’s included, were empty, as they almost always were at this hour of the day during summer; and the captain was about to return, more uncomfortable than ever, to the Big, when a door at the end of the passage opened, and some one called his name.

It was Gilks, who, as he was dressed, had evidently recovered from his indisposition earlier than was expected.

He beckoned as the captain looked round; and Riddell, inwardly wondering when his work as a police-officer would cease, and he would be able to retire again into private life, turned and entered his study.

Gilks shut the door carefully behind him. He had a haggard look about him which may have been the result of his ailment, or may have been caused by mental trouble, but which certainly was not the expression to which the captain had been used.

“I’m to go to the doctor at four?” he asked.

“Yes. He put it off, as you were reported on the sick-list.”

“Of course he thinks I was shamming?”

“I don’t know.”

“I was—and I wasn’t. I couldn’t make out what to do, that was it, so I stayed in bed. Was Silk there?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No; the doctor told him to come again at four.”

Gilks took one or two uncomfortable turns up and down the room, and then said, “I may as well tell you, it’s no use keeping it back any longer, for it’s sure to come out. I was the fellow who cut the rudder-line. Did you know that?”

“I had heard it.”

“Who told you—Silk?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. I knew he would. And he’ll tell Paddy this afternoon. I don’t care if he does.”

“I scarcely believed it when he said so,” said Riddell.

“Eh? I suppose you thought it was rather too low even for me. So it would have been once,” he said, bitterly.

“But you backed the Parrett’s boat all along,” said Riddell. “Oh, that. If that’s all that puzzled you it’s easily explained. Perhaps if you were doing a thing like that in the dark, expecting to be caught out every moment, you might make a mistake too.”

“Then you meant to cut our lines?” asked the captain, seeing the whole mystery explained at last.

“Of course I did; and so I should have done if the rudders hadn’t been shifted, and Parrett’s put into the schoolhouse boat.” He took a few more turns, and then continued, “You may fancy what a pleasant state of mind I’ve been in since. I daresay you’ll be glad to hear I’ve been miserable day and night.”

“I’m very sorry for you,” said Riddell, so sympathetically that the unhappy boy started.

“You wouldn’t be if you knew it was all to spite you. I was as bad as Silk in that, though it was his idea about cutting the lines. The accident turned out well for us in one way—nobody suspected either of us. But Silk has led me the life of a dog ever since. I’ve not known what minute it might all come out. He was always holding it over my head, and I had to do anything he told me. I can tell you I’ve thought of bolting more than once, or telling Paddy.”

“It must have been a dreadful time for you,” said Riddell. “So it was. But I’m glad it’s all over now. I shall be glad to be expelled. I’ve been ashamed to look any one in the face for weeks. I used to be happy enough before I knew Silk, but I don’t expect ever to be happy again now.”

There was a tremble in his voice as he said this, which went to the captain’s heart.

“I hope it’s not so bad as that,” said he, quietly. “Everybody here hates me, and they’ll hate me all the more now,” said Gilks. “You and young Wyndham are the only fellows that have been good to me, and I’ve done both of you nothing but mischief.”

“I think,” said Riddell, “the fellows will soon forgive. They would, I know, if they guessed how you have suffered already.”

“You are right. I have suffered,” said Gilks. Another long pause followed, during which the minds of both were full.

The one sensation in the captain’s heart was pity. He forgot all about the crime in commiseration of the wretchedness of the criminal. Yet he knew it was useless to hold out any hope of a reprieve, even if that had been to be desired. All he could do was to let the poor fellow know at least that he was not friendless; and this sign of sympathy Gilks gratefully appreciated.

“I don’t know why you should trouble yourself about me,” he said, after some further talk. “You owe me less than anybody. I’ve been nothing less than a brute to you.”

“Oh, no,” said Riddell; “but, do you know, I think it would be well to go to the doctor at once?”

“I mean to go at once. Do you think he’ll let me go off this afternoon, I say? I wouldn’t dare to face the fellows. I’ve got most of my things packed up.”

“I expect he would. But you stay till the morning. You can have my study. It’s quieter than this.”

Perhaps no more hospitable invitation had been issued in Willoughby, and Gilks knew it. And it was too welcome not to be accepted gratefully.

The captain soon afterwards departed, leaving the penitent behind him, subdued and softened, not by any sermon or moral lecture, which at such a time Riddell felt would be only out of place, but by sheer force of kindness—that virtue which costs so little, yet achieves so much.

In this new excitement the captain had for the moment forgotten young Wyndham, but he was soon reminded of that afflicted youth’s existence on reaching the Big.

He was there, waiting impatiently. A glance sufficed to show that at any rate the worst had not happened, but Wyndham’s face was such a mixture of relief and woe that the captain felt some misgivings as he inquired eagerly what was the news.

“He was frightfully kind,” said Wyndham, “and talked to me like a father. I never felt so ashamed of myself. I’m certain it’s what you said made him let me off so easy—that is, so what he means for easy. He said nothing about expelling, even when I couldn’t tell him the names of those two fellows. But he’s gated me till the end of the term! I may only go out for the half-hour after first school, and half an hour after half-past five. And you know what that means,” he added, with a groan.

“What?” asked Riddell, too rejoiced that his friend was safe to be over-curious as to the exact consequence of his sentence.

“Why!” exclaimed Wyndham, “it’s all up with the second-eleven!”

It was a blow undoubtedly—perhaps the next hardest blow to expulsion—but so much less hard that not even the boy himself could for long regard it as a crushing infliction.

He had had his lesson, and after the suspense of the last few weeks he was ready to expiate his transgression manfully, if sorrowfully.

“Anyhow,” said he, after pouring out all his disappointment into the captain’s sympathetic ear, “it’s not as bad as being sent off home. And if it hadn’t been for you that’s what might have happened. I say, and think of my brother coming down to umpire, too! What a fool I shall look! Never mind; it can’t be helped. I’m sure to get into the eleven next season. I say, by the way, I’ve no right to be standing out here. I shall have to go in.”

And so ended the story of young Wyndham’s transgressions.

Riddell had to officiate at yet one more investigation that eventful day.

Scarcely had Wyndham disappeared when a message reached him that the doctor wished to see him again.

With no doubt this time as to the purport of the summons, he obeyed.

He found Gilks standing in the doctor’s presence, where Silk had stood an hour or so earlier.

“Riddell,” said the doctor, whose face was grave, and whose voice was more than unusually solemn, “Gilks here has just been making a very serious statement about an accident that happened early in the term—the breaking of the line at the boat-race, which he confesses was his doing. I wish you to hear it.”

“Gilks told me of it just before he came to you, sir,” said the captain.

“I never expected to hear such a confession from a Willoughby boy,” said the doctor. “The honour of the whole school has suffered by this disgraceful action, and if I were to allow it to pass without the severest possible punishment I should not be doing my duty. Gilks has done the one thing possible to him to show his remorse for what has occurred. He has confessed it voluntarily, but I have told him he must leave the school to-morrow morning.”

Gilks remained where he was, with his eyes on the ground, while the doctor was speaking, and attempted no plea to mitigate the sentence against him.

“I find,” continued the doctor, “that if he tells the truth he has not been the only, and perhaps not the principal, culprit. He says he did what he did at the suggestion of Silk. Perhaps you will send for Silk now, Riddell.”

Riddell went off to discharge the errand. When he returned Gilks looked up and said, nervously, “Need I stay, sir? I don’t want to see Silk.”

The doctor looked at him doubtfully, and replied, “Yes, you must stay.”

A long, uncomfortable pause followed, during which no one spoke or stirred. At length the silence was broken by a knock on the door, and Silk entered.

He glanced hurriedly round, and seemed to take in the position of affairs with moderate readiness, though he was evidently not quite sure whether Gilks or the captain was his accuser.

The doctor, however, soon made that clear.

“Silk,” he said, “Gilks accuses you of being a party to the cutting of the rudder-links of one of the boats in the race last May. Repeat your story, Gilks.”

“He needn’t do it,” said Silk, “I’ve heard it already.”

“He says you suggested it,” said the doctor.

“That’s a lie,” said Silk sullenly; “I never heard of it till afterwards.”

“You know you did,” said Gilks. “When I was turned out of the boat, and couldn’t baulk the race that way, it was you suggested cutting the lines, and I was glad enough to do it.”

“So you were,” snarled Silk, incautiously—“precious glad.”

“Then you did suggest it?” said the doctor, sharply.

Silk saw his mistake, and tried to cover it, but his confusion only made the case against him worse.

“No, I didn’t—he told me about it afterwards—that is, I heard about it—I never suggested it. He said he knew how to get at the boats, and I said—”

“Then you did speak about it beforehand?” said the doctor.

“No—that is—we only said—”

“Silk,” said the doctor, sternly, “you’re not speaking the truth. Let me implore you not to make your fault greater by this denial.”

Silk gave in. He knew that his case was hopeless, and that when Gilks had said all, Riddell could corroborate it with what had been said last night.

“Well—yes, I did know of it,” said he, doggedly.

“Yes,” said the doctor; “I’m glad at least you do not persist in denying it. You must quit Willoughby, Silk; I shall telegraph to your father this afternoon. You must be ready to leave by this time to-morrow.”

Silk hesitated for a moment, then with a look round at Riddell, he said, “Before I go, sir, I think you ought to know that Wyndham junior—”

“What about him?” asked the doctor, coldly.

“He is in the habit, as Riddell here knows, of frequenting low places of amusement in Shellport. I have not mentioned it before; but now I am leaving, and Riddell is not likely to tell you of it, I think you ought to know of it, sir.”

“The matter has already been reported,” said the doctor, almost contemptuously. “You can go, Silk.”

The game was fairly played out at last, and Silk slunk off, followed shortly afterwards by the captain and Gilks.

Chapter Thirty Five.

A Transformation Scene.

Willoughby little dreamed that night, as it went to bed, of the revolutions and changes of the day which had just passed.

It knew that Silk and Gilks had been reported for fighting, and naturally concluded that they had also been punished. It had heard, too, a rumour of young Wyndham’s having been “gated” for breaking bounds.

But beyond that it knew nothing. Nothing of the treaty of peace between the two captains, of the discovery of the boat-race mystery, of the double expulsion that was impending.

And still less did it dream of the unwonted scene which was taking place that evening in the captain’s study.

Riddell and Gilks sat and talked far into the night.

I am not going to describe that talk. Let the reader imagine it.

Let him imagine all that a sympathetic and honest fellow like Riddell could say to cheer and encourage a broken-down penitent like Gilks. And let him imagine all that that forlorn, expelled boy, who had only just discovered that he had a friend in Willoughby, would have to say on this last night at the old school.

It was a relief to him to unburden his mind, and Riddell encouraged him to do it. He told all the sad history of the failures, and follies, and sins which had reached their catastrophe that day; and the captain, on his side, in his quiet manly way, strove all he could to infuse some hope for the future, and courage to bear his present punishment.

Whether he succeeded or not he could hardly tell; but when the evening ended, and the two finally betook themselves to bed in anticipation of Gilks’s early start in the morning, it was with a feeling of comfort and relief on both sides.

“If only I had known you before!” said Gilks. “I don’t know why you should be so kind to me. And now it’s too late to be friends.”

“I hope not,” said Riddell, cheerily. “We needn’t stop being friends because you’re going away.”

“Needn’t we!—will you write to me now and then?” asked Gilks, eagerly.

“Of course I will, and you must do the same. I’ll let you know all the news here.”

Gilks sighed.

“I’m afraid the news here won’t be very pleasant for me to hear,” said he. “What a fury the fellows will be in when they hear about it. I say, Riddell, if you get a chance tell them how ashamed and miserable I was, will you?”

“I will, I promise you,” replied Riddell.

“And, I say, will you say something to young Wyndham? Tell him how I hate myself for all the mischief I did to him, and how thankful I am he had you to keep him straight when I was trying to lead him all wrong. Will you tell him that?”

“I’ll try,” said the captain, with a smile, “part of it. But we ought to be turning in now, or we shall not be up in time.”

“All right,” said Gilks. “Good-night, Riddell.”

“Good-night, old fellow.”

Bloomfield was up early next morning. He had only received the evening before the melancholy notification of the fact that young Wyndham, owing to circumstances over which he had no control, would be unable to play in the second-eleven match next week; and he had it on his mind consequently to find a successor without delay.

Probably, on the principle that the early bird gets the worm, he determined to be out in good time this morning. But for once in a way the bird was too early for the worm, and Bloomfield prowled about for a good quarter of an hour before the aspiring youth of Willoughby mustered at the wickets.

It was during this early prowl, while the hands of the clock were between half-past six and seven, that he received something like a shock from seeing the captain alight at the school gate from the town omnibus.

“Why, whatever’s up? Where have you been?” inquired Bloomfield.

“I have just been to see poor Gilks off,” said the captain.

“What! then it was true?”

“Yes, I hadn’t time to tell you yesterday. He’s been expelled.”

“The cad!” cried Bloomfield. “It’s lucky for him he was able to slink off unnoticed.”

“Oh! don’t be too down on him,” said the captain. “You’d have been sorry for him if you’d have seen how cut up and ashamed he was. After all, he was little better than a tool in somebody else’s hands.”

“Silk’s you mean?” said Bloomfield. “And I suppose he gets off scot-free?”

“No; he is expelled too. He had to confess that he suggested the whole thing, and he is to go this morning.”

“That’s a comfort! But why on earth did they cut our lines instead of yours?”

“That was a blunder. Gilks, in his flurry, got hold of the wrong rudder. I really think that’s why it wasn’t found out long ago.”

“Very likely. But what a nice pair of consciences they must have had ever since! I suppose the doctor will announce that they’ve been expelled?”

“I don’t know. But I hope he won’t be too hard on Gilks if he does. I never saw a fellow so broken-down and sorry. He quite broke down just now at the station as he was starting.”

“Poor fellow!” said Bloomfield. “The fellows won’t take the trouble to abuse him much now he’s gone.”

At this point two Parrett’s juniors came past. They were Lawkins and Pringle, two of the noisiest and most impudent of their respectable fraternity.

Among their innocent amusements, that of hooting the captain had long been a favourite, and at the sight of him now, as they concluded, in altercation with their own hero, they thought they detected a magnificent opening for a little demonstration.

“Hullo! Booh! Fiddle de Riddell!” cried Pringle, jocosely, from a safe distance.

“Who cut the rudder-lines? Cheat! Kick him out!” echoed Lawkins.

The captain, who was accustomed to elegant compliments of this kind from the infant lips of Willoughby, took about as much notice of them now as he usually did. In other words, he took no notice at all.

But Bloomfield turned wrathfully, and shouted to the two boys, “Come here, you two!”

“Oh, yes; we’ll come to you!” cried Lawkins.

“You’re our captain; we’ll obey you!” said Pringle, with a withering look at Riddell.

“What’s that you said just now?” demanded Bloomfield.

“I only said, ‘Kick him out!’” said Lawkins, somewhat doubtfully, as he noticed the black looks on the Parrett’s captain’s face.

Bloomfield made a grab at the two luckless youths, and shook them very much as a big dog shakes her refractory puppies.

“And what do you mean by it, you young cubs!” demanded he, in a rage.

“Why, we weren’t speaking to you,” whined the juniors.

“No, you weren’t; but I’m speaking to you! Take that, for being howling young cads, both of you!” and he knocked their two ill-starred heads together with a vigour which made the epithet “howling” painfully accurate. “Now beg Riddell’s pardon at once!” said he.

They obeyed with most abject eagerness.

“Mind I don’t catch you calling my friends names like that any more,” said Bloomfield. “Riddell’s captain here, and if you don’t look out for yourselves you’ll find yourselves in the wrong box, I can tell you! And you can tell the rest of your pack, unless they want a hiding from me, they’d better not cheek the captain!”

So saying, he allowed the two terrified youngsters to depart; which they did, shaking in their shoes and marvelling inwardly what wonder was to happen next.

The morning passed, and before it was over, while all the school was busy in class, Silk left Willoughby. His father had arrived by an early train, and after a long interview with the doctor had returned taking his boy with him. No one saw him before he went, and for none of those whom he had wronged and misled did he leave behind any message of regret or contrition. He simply dropped out of Willoughby life, lamented by none, and missed only by a few who had suffered under his influence and were now far better without him.

After morning classes the doctor summoned the school to the great hall, and there briefly announced the changes that had taken place.

“Two boys,” said he, “are absent to-day—absent because they have left Willoughby for good. Now that they are gone, I need not dwell on the harm they have done, except to warn any boys present, who may be tempted to follow in their steps, of the disgrace and shame which always follow vice and dishonesty.”

There was a great stir and looking round as the doctor reached this point. He had not yet announced the names, though most present were able to guess them.

“It’s not you two, then?” whispered Telson across the bench to where Cusack and Pilbury sat in mutual perplexity.

“Two things at least are comforting in what has passed,” continued the doctor. “One is that by the confession of these two boys a very unpleasant mystery, which affected the honour of the whole school, has been cleared up; I mean, of course, the accident at the boat-race early in the term.”

It was then, that! Willoughby bristled up with startled eagerness to hear the rest, and even Telson found no joke ready to hand.

“The other consolation is that one of the boys, Gilks—”

There was a sudden half-suppressed exclamation as the name was announced, which disconcerted the doctor for a moment.

“Gilks,” pursued he, “expressed deep contrition for what he had done, and wished, when leaving, that the school should know of his shame and sorrow. He left here a softened and, I hope, a changed boy; and I feel sure this appeal to the generosity of his old schoolfellows will secure for him what he most desires—your forgiveness.”

There was a silence, and every face was grave, as the doctor concluded, “I wish I could say as much of his companion, and I fear, leader in wrong—Silk.”

There was another start, but less of surprise than assent this time. For when Gilks had been named as one culprit every one knew the name of the other.

“I have no message for you from him,” said the doctor, with a voice in which a faint tremble was discernible; “but on his behalf we may at least hope that in new scenes, and under more favourable conditions, he may be able to recover the character he lost here. An event like this carries its own lesson. Do not be too ready to blame them, but let their example be humbly taken by each one of you as a warning against the first approach of temptation, from which none of us is free, and which by God’s help only can any of us hope ever to resist or overcome.”

The doctor’s words did not fail to make a deep impression on those present. There were not a few whose consciences told them that after all the difference between them and the expelled boys was not very great, and it had needed a warning like this to arouse them.

The rest of the day a subdued atmosphere hung over Willoughby. A good many boys thought more than was their wont, and even the noisiest shrunk from indulging their high spirits to their customary extent.

But the chief feeling that day was one of relief. Not that two bad boys had been expelled, but because the hateful boat-race mystery had been finally cleared up, and with it the reproach on the honour of Willoughby had been removed. As long as it had hung like a black cloud over the term, boys had lacked spirit and encouragement to rally for the good of the school. House had been divided against house, set against set, captain against captain, and the order and discipline of the school had gone down to a miserable pitch.

Against all these opposing influences the new captain, as we have seen, had struggled gallantly, and not wholly without success; but even his influence could not disperse all the suspicions, and heartburnings, and jealousies that centred round that unlucky race. Now, however, the clearing up of that mystery, and, still more, the new alliance, rumours of which were spreading fast, between the two captains, opened new hopes for the old school.

There were not a few who at first treated the rumours of the new alliance with sceptical derision, but they had soon cause to discover that it was more than a joke.

Stutter and Wibberly, two of the sceptics, happened to be caught that very afternoon by Bloomfield in the act of “skulking” dinner—that is, of answering to their names at the call-over, and then slipping off unobserved to enjoy a rather more elaborate clandestine meal in their own study. It was not a very uncommon offence, or perhaps a very terrible one, but it was an offence which monitors were bound to report.

“Where are you off to?” demanded Bloomfield, encountering these two deserters.

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Wibberly, “we’ve been called over. We’re only going to Stutter’s study.”

“Go back at once,” said Bloomfield, “and go to the captain after six.”

Wibberly laughed.

“You’re joking surely,” said he; “you usen’t to mind the extra feeds now and then.”

“If I shirked my duty once it’s no reason I should do it for ever. Go back, do you hear? at once.”

“What, won’t you let us go this time?” said Wibberly, quite bewildered by this unexpected sternness on the part of his old patron.

“Do you hear what I say?” thundered Bloomfield. “Do you want to be licked into the bargain?”

“Oh, very well,” said Wibberly, with a last fond thought of Stutter’s good bill of fare. “But, I say, you needn’t give us lines, Bloomfield.”

“I’ve nothing to do with giving you lines. That’s the captain’s affair.”

“What do you mean? Do you mean to say you’ll report us to Riddell?”

“Of course. He’s the captain.”

“Oh, look here!” cried Wibberly, quite convinced now that the rumours were no joke. “We’ll go back, and we’ll do lines for you, but for goodness’ sake don’t send us up to him.”

“We had no warning, you see,” said Stutter, “that things were changed.”

“Go back, then,” said Bloomfield, “and make up your minds unless you keep rules you’ll get treated just the same as any other rowdies. I won’t report you this time, but you’d better take care what you do.”

This little incident made a remarkable impression, not only on the two boys immediately concerned, but on the school generally. For it soon got noised about, and no public proclamation could have made the state of Bloomfield’s mind clearer.

But a day or two later the last glimmer of doubt was removed by the proceedings which took place in that august assembly, the Willoughby Parliament.

Honourable members assembled in large numbers, as they always did after any special school excitement, and even had this inducement been lacking, the significant sentence, “Resignation of Mr Bloomfield—Election of President,” on the notice-board would have sufficed to pack the house.

Riddell had implored Bloomfield not to take this step, or at least to defer it to the beginning of the next term. But he might as well have pleaded with a lamp-post. The Parrett’s captain was inexorable.

“No,” said he; “if it was the last day of the term I’d do it. It would serve me right if I was kicked round the school for sticking there so long.”

Before the business began Crossfield rose and asked to be allowed to put a question. This was the signal for a general buzz of anticipation which was not lessened by the sight of Messrs Game and Ashley looking very uncomfortable where they sat.

“I should like to ask Mr Game, whom I see present, if he will kindly report to the House the proceedings of the last special meeting, which he summoned in the interests of the honour of the school. I hope the gentleman will speak out, as we are all anxious to hear him.”

Game blushed up to the roots of his hair, and dug his hands in his pocket, and tried to look as unconcerned as possible at the laughter which greeted this innocent question.

As he made no offer to reply, Crossfield thereupon regaled the House with a highly facetious report of that famous meeting, amid much laughter and cheers, not a few of which were directed to the heroic “Skyrockets.” This little diversion being at an end, it was suggested by the Chair that perhaps the matter might now drop, which, greatly to the relief of the discomfited ex-monitors, it accordingly did, and after a few other questions the orders of the day were reached.

“Gentlemen,” said Bloomfield, rising and speaking nervously, but resolutely, “you will see by the notice-paper that I am going to resign the office of President of the Willoughby Parliament. (No, no.) Gentlemen, there’s a proverb which says, ‘It’s never too late to mend.’ That’s the principle on which I am doing this now. I’ve been in this chair under false pretences. (No, no.) I was elected here under false pretences. (No, no.) I was a fool to let myself be elected, and I’m ashamed of myself now. Gentlemen, I am not the captain of Willoughby! I never was; and I had no more right to be than any fag present. (Loud cheers from Parson, Telson, Cusack, and others.) The only thing I can do now, gentlemen, to show how ashamed I am, is to resign. And I do resign. For goodness’ sake, gentlemen, let’s be done with the folly that’s been working the very mischief in Willoughby all this term. I know I’ve been as bad as any one, so I’ve no right to abuse any one. But we’ve time to pull ourselves right yet. It wants three clear weeks to the holidays. (Groans from Bosher.) In three weeks, if we choose, we can make the old school what it was the day old Wyndham left. (Cheers.) We’ve had more than folly among us this term. We’ve had foul play—thank goodness no one here was concerned in that. We don’t want to kick fellows that are down, but now they’ve gone our chance of pulling up is all the better, and we’ll do it. (Cheers.) I said the only thing I could do to atone for my folly was to resign. No, gentlemen, there is something else I can do, and will do. I propose that the captain of Willoughby be elected our President! (Cheers.) He’s a jolly good fellow, gentlemen—(cheers)—and I can tell you this (and I’m not given to romancing), if it hadn’t been for him, gentlemen, there would have been scarcely anything of Willoughby left to pick up.”

Bloomfield, whose spirited address had carried his audience by storm, as only a genuine, hearty outburst can, sat down amid tremendous cheers. The school had fast been coming round to his way of thinking, but it had wanted some one to give it utterance. Riddell, in his speech a week or two ago, had hit the right nail on the head, and now Bloomfield had driven it home.

When presently the applause subsided, young Wyndham was discovered, all excitement and eagerness, trying to be heard.

“I want to second that!” he cried, in a voice that positively trembled. “I’m only a Limpet, and I’ve been in lots of rows, but you none of you know what a brick he is. Gentlemen, he’s worth the lot of us put together! I mean it. If you only knew what he’s done for me, you’d say so. I’m in a row now.” (“Hear! hear!” from Cusack.) “I’m detained all the rest of the term. (Cheers from Bosher.) I can’t play in the second-eleven next week—(loud laughter)—but, gentlemen, I don’t care a hang now old Riddell’s put where he ought to be, at the head of the school—(applause)—and I’m proud to be allowed to second it.”

This was no ordinary meeting truly. No sooner was Wyndham done, but Telson leapt on his form, and shouted,—

“On behalf of the kids—(laughter)—I third that. (Laughter.) I don’t know what you’re grinning at—(laughter)—but, I can tell you, we all mean to back him up. (Loud cheers.) That’s all I’ve got to say!”

Other speeches followed, equally cordial, from Fairbairn and the captain’s old schoolhouse friends, and even from some unexpected quarters where every one supposed the old partisanship still lurked.

Amid much enthusiasm Riddell was elected President, and duly installed by his old rival.

Then there were loud calls for “A speech!” from the captain. It was long before he could sufficiently overcome his nervousness to attempt it, but at last he said—or rather stammered—amidst the enthusiasm of the meeting, “I am much obliged, gentlemen. I wish Bloomfield had kept the post. I’m afraid I sha’n’t make a good President. Gentlemen, if we go on as we have begun to-day the captain of Willoughby will have nothing to do. The old school is looking up fast. (Cheers.) Now we are all pulling one way, I should like to see what can stop us! But I really can’t make a speech now. If you knew all I feel—but there, I shall only break down if I try to go on, so I’d better stop.”

And thus Willoughby returned once more to her right mind.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Willoughby herself again.

It was the day of the Templeton match, and all Willoughby had once more turned out into the Big to watch the achievements of its heroes.

Yet it was not so much the cricket that fellows crowded out to see. Of course, the contest between the second-eleven and Templeton was moderately interesting. But it was not of the first importance, and Willoughby might have survived had it been deprived of the pleasure of witnessing it.

But the pleasure of witnessing old Wyndham umpiring for the old school in the very Big where his own mighty victories had been achieved, was quite another matter; and in honour of this event it was that Willoughby turned out in a body and watched the Templeton match.

The old captain had not much altered in the few weeks since he had left Willoughby. His whiskers had not had time to grow, and he even wore the same flannel jacket he had on at the athletic sports in May. But in the eyes of the boys he might have been no longer a man, but a demi-god, with such awe and reverence did they behold him.

He had lately scored one hundred and five for the Colts of his county, and had even been selected to play in the eleven against M.C.C. next week. What he might not achieve when he went up to Oxford in the autumn no one could say, but that he would be stroke of the eight and captain of the fifteen, and carry off all the events in the next University athletics, no one at the school ventured to doubt for a moment.

The Templeton boys hardly knew what to make of all this demonstration in favour of their opponents’ umpire, and it added considerably to their nervousness to hear loud cries of “Well umpired, sir!” when any one was given out.

Parson and Telson, having taken the precaution to send Bosher and Lawkins early in the day to keep seats for them on the round bench under the schoolhouse elms, viewed the match luxuriously, and not a little to the envy of other juniors, who had to stand or sit on the ground where they could.

“Boshy play, you know,” says Telson, helping himself to monkey-nuts out of Parson’s hospitable pocket; “but it’s stunning to see the way old Wynd. gives middle. Any one else would take double the time over it.”

“Right you are! And he’s awfully fair too. See the neat way he gave Forbes out leg before, just now!”

“There’s another two for Tedbury. We’ll cheer him next time. Hullo, Bosher, old man! you needn’t be coming here. There’s no room; we’re full up.”

“You might let us sit down a bit,” says Bosher; “I kept the seat from half-past ten to twelve for you.”

“Jolly muff not to sit down, then, when you had the chance. Jolly gross conduct of the evil Bosher, eh, Telson?”

“Rather! He’s small in the world, but he’d better get out of the light, my boy, or he’ll catch it!”

Bosher subsides at this point, and the two friends resume their divided interest in the match, and old Wyndham, and the monkey-nuts.

Presently two familiar forms saunter past, arm-in-arm.

“There go Riddell and Bloomfield,” says Parson. “Awfully chummy they’ve got, haven’t they? Different from what it used to be!”

“So it is,” says Parson. “Not nearly as much chance of a lark. But perhaps it’s no harm; it keeps those Welcher kids quiet.”

“More than it’s doing just now! Look at the way young Cusack is bellowing over there! He’s as mad on this match as if he was in the eleven.”

“So he expects to be, some day. But they’re not going to have it all their own way in Welch’s again. Our club’s going ahead like blazes now, and we’ve challenged them for a return match the day before break-up.”

“There’s Tedbury out,” says Telson. “Twenty runs he’s made—not a bad score. We’d better cheer him, I say.”

And the two grandees suit the action to the word, and rejoice the heart of Tedbury as he retires to the tent, by their lusty applause.

The Willoughbites do not do badly as a whole. A few of them, either through incompetence or terror at the presence of old Wyndham, fail to break their duck’s-eggs, but the others among them put together the respectable score of one hundred and five—the identical figures, by the way, which Wyndham scored off his own bat the other day in the Colts’ match of his county.

During the interval there is a general incursion of spectators into the ground, and a stampede by the more enthusiastic to the tent where the great umpire is known to be “on show” for a short time.

Amongst others, Parson and Telson incautiously quit their seats, which are promptly “bagged” by Bosher and Lawkins, who have had their eyes on them all the morning, and are determined now, at any rate, to take the reward of their patience, and hold them against all comers.

The crowd in the tent has not a long time wherein to feast its eyes on the old captain, for Willoughby goes out to field almost at once, and Templeton’s innings begins. Whatever may have been the case with the school, Templeton seems quite unable to perform under the eyes of the great “M.C.C.” man, and wicket after wicket falls in rapid succession, until with the miserable total of fifty-one they finally retire for this innings.

“A follow-on,” says Game, who from near the tent is patronisingly looking on, in company with Ashley, Tipper, and Wibberly. “I suppose they ought to do them in one innings now?”

“Ought to try,” says Tipper. “Some of these kids play fairly well.”

“They get well coached, that’s what it is. What with Bloomfield, and Fairbairn, and Mr Parrett, they’ve been drilled, and no mistake.”

“Let’s see,” says Wibberly, “there are five Parretts in the eleven, aren’t there.”

Ashley laughs.

“I don’t fancy any one thought of counting,” says he. “Perhaps we’d better not, or it may turn out as bad for us as in the Rockshire match.”

“After all,” says Tipper, “I’m just as glad those rows are over. We’re none the worse off now.”

“No, I suppose not,” says Game, a little doubtfully; “and Bloomfield and he are such friends. It’s just as well to keep in with the captain.”

“Not very difficult either,” says Ashley.

“He’s friendly enough, and doesn’t seem to have any grudge. He told me he hoped I’d be on the monitors’ list again next term.”

“Ah, I’m having a shot at that too,” says Game. “Ah, it is a follow-on, then. There go our fellows to field again.”

Just as the second innings of Templeton is half-over, a melancholy figure crosses the Big from the school and makes its way to the tent. It is young Wyndham, whose half-hour’s liberty has come round at last, and who now has come to witness the achievements of that second-eleven in which, alas! he may not play.

However, he does not waste his time in growling, but cheers vociferously every piece of good fielding, and his voice becomes an inspiriting feature of the innings. But you can see, by the way he is constantly looking at his watch, that his liberty is limited, and that soon, like Cinderella at midnight, he must vanish once more into obscurity. He knows to half a second how long it takes him to run from the tent to the schoolhouse, and at one minute and twelve seconds to six, whatever he is doing, he will bolt like mad to his quarters.

Before, however, his time is half-over the captain joins him.

“Well, old man,” says the latter, “I wish you were playing. It’s hard lines for you.”

“Not a bit—(Well thrown up, Gamble!)—not a bit hard lines,” says the boy. “Lucky for me I’m here at all to see the match.”

“Well, it’ll be all right next term,” says the captain. “I say, it would have done you good to see the cheer your brother got when he turned up.”

“Oh, I heard it,” said the boy. “Fairbairn lets me stick in his study—that window there, that looks right through the gap in the elms, so I can see most of what’s going on—(Now then, sir, pick it up there; fielded indeed!)”

The match is nearly over, and it looks as if Wyndham will be able to see the end of it. Nine wickets are down for forty-nine, and five runs must yet be scored to save Templeton from a single-innings defeat.

The last man begins ominously, for he makes two off his first ball. Willoughby presses round, breathless, to watch the next. It whizzes over the wicket, but does no harm. The next ball—one of Forbes’s shooters—strikes on the batsman’s pad.

“How’s that, umpire?” yells every one.

“Not out!” says old Wyndham.

The next ball comes—but before it has left the bowler’s hand young Wyndham has begun to run. Loud shouts and laughter follow his headlong progress.

“Well run, sir; put it on!” scream Parson and Telson.

“Stop thief!” howl Bosher and his friends.

“He’s gaining, there! Pull yourself together!” cry Cusack and Pilbury.

Heedless of these familiar cheers—for lately this has been a daily performance—Wyndham saves his honour at two seconds to six, the identical moment when Forbes’s last ball sends the Templeton bails flying high over long-stop’s head, and Willoughby is proclaimed winner of the match by one innings and three runs.

A jovial party assembles an hour later for “high tea” in the captain’s study.

Fairbairn, Coates, Porter, and Crossfield are there, and Bloomfield and Riddell, and the two Wyndhams, and assuredly a cheerier party never sat down in Willoughby.

“I never expected to find you a Welcher,” says old Wyndham to the captain.

“No? A fellow’s sure to find his level, you see, some day,” replied Riddell, laughing.

“Yes, but the thing is, Welch’s is coming up to his level,” says Bloomfield, “instead of his going down to Welch’s.”

“I should say,” says young Wyndham, blushing a little to hear his own voice before this imposing assembly, “all Willoughby’s coming up to his level!”

“The young ’un’s right, though he is a Limpet,” says Crossfield. “I had my doubts of old Riddell once, but I’ve more doubts about myself than him now.”

“You know, Wynd.,” says Porter, “we’re such a happy family, I shouldn’t wonder if I forget before long what house I belong to.”

“I’ll see you’re reminded of that, my boy, before the house football matches next term,” says Fairbairn, laughing.

“Yes,” says the old captain, “you’ll be a poor show if you don’t stick up for your own house.”

“Well, I don’t know,” says Porter, “we’ve had such a lot of sticking up for our own houses this term, that I’m rather sick of it.”

“Sticking up for ourselves, you mean,” says Bloomfield, “that’s where one or two I could name went wrong.”

“It seems to me,” says Coates, “that sticking up for your house, and sticking up for your school, and sticking up for yourself, are none of them bad things.”

“But,” says old Wyndham, “unless you put them in the right order they may do more harm than good.”

“And what do you say the right order is?” asks Crossfield.

“Why, of course, Willoughby first, your house next, and yourself last.”

“In other words,” says the captain, “if you stick up for Willoughby you can save yourself any trouble about the other two, for they are both included in the good of the old school. At least, that’s my notion!”

And with what better notion could we say good-bye to the Willoughby Captains?