From that day Jack thought Acton the finest fellow in St. Amory's.

"He did not spread-eagle that fool," he said to himself, "but let me have the glory of pounding the ugly brute into jelly, and made me go in and win when I was ready to give in to the cad. Why did not Phil give him his cap? There's something rotten somewhere."

As for Acton, as I said before, he regarded this little incident as a treasure trove upon which he could draw almost unlimitedly in his campaign against Bourne. "I'll strike at Bourne, senr., through his young brother. I'll train him up in the way he should go, and when our unspeakable prig of a Philip sees what a beautiful article young Jack finally emerges, he'll wish he'd left me alone. Jack, my boy, I'm sorry, but I'm going to make you a bad boy, just to give your elder brother something to think about. You're going to become a terrible monster of iniquity, just to shock your reverend brother."

Acton took not the smallest interest in the usual Easter Term games.

Footer was only played occasionally, but there was one blessing, the fellows need not play the usual Thursday Old Game. As for cross-country running, paper chases, _et hoc genus omne_, Acton refused to have anything to do with them. "That sort," he said to d.i.c.k Worcester, "isn't in the same street with footer."

"Why not try and lift the Public School Heavy at Aldershot?" suggested Worcester.

"There's Hodgson in for it, d.i.c.k."

"A good man; but if you would only apply yourself seriously to the business I'd back you. You're a good weight, and got a longer reach than Hodgson."

"There's Bourne, too."

"Personally, I believe Phil is only pacing Hodgson to take him along quicker."

"It's an awful f.a.g, and I believe Eton have got the Heavy safe and sure this year. A cousin of mine there says that their pet, Jarvis, would walk right through the best man we've ever turned out."

"Oh, that's their usual brag!"

"Personally, I don't think so. They have got a young Bermondsey professor--who is up to all the latest dodges--to coach. Our sergeant is a bit old-fashioned--good, but old-fashioned. Does not do enough with his right."

"I'm quite an amateur," said d.i.c.k. "Don't understand the finer shades of the arts. Should have thought the sergeant good enough."

"_Dubito!_ Anyhow, d.i.c.k, I'll think it over; and if I think I can make a decent show I'll have a shot. When does it come off?"

"At Aldershot? Oh!--last week in March."

"That gives me nearly two months. One can turn round in two months; and if I'm satisfied as to my coaching I'll certainly try at Aldershot. But what has a fellow to do on the half-holidays now? No footer, and one might do enough practice after tea for the Heavy. I wish Kipling would write a book every week. He is the only fellow in England who can write."

So Acton, on the half-holidays, prepared to read his novels by his fireside. Not that he was particularly fond of toasting himself, but because, for him, it was all he could do.

But Corker came to his rescue. The old man, after having had his back to the wall for an age, consented to monitors being allowed to cycle by themselves, and even to be _chaperon_ to any f.a.gs who cared to run with them, and--important _proviso_--whom the monitors did not object to. Otherwise the old rule of no cycling _sans_ house-master was in force.

Acton thereupon invested in a swell machine, and he and young Bourne, or Grim, or Wilson on the hired article, would cover no end of country between dinner and roll call.

By-and-by Phil noticed that his brother was getting pretty thick with Acton.

"Rather thick with Acton, Jack? I don't think he'll do you any good."

"He has, anyhow, Phil."

"How?"

Jack explained.

"I'm glad you licked the animal, young 'un; but, all the same, I wish some other fellow had seen you through."

"I don't!" said Jack, hotly.

"I wonder," said Phil, dryly, "what is the great attraction which a Sixth Form fellow sees in a f.a.g? Above all, a f.a.g of the name of Bourne?"

"Fact is, I don't see it myself," said Jack, shortly. "Better ask him."

"No, I don't think I shall. All the same, I would not dog Acton's footsteps quite so much."

"He's a monitor."

"Who'll make you useful. Take my word for it."

"We'll see."

"Oh! Certainly we shall."

Jack was thoroughly unhinged by his brother's dry bantering tone, and said hotly--

"I cannot understand, Phil, why he didn't get his cap. He deserved it."

"There's no need for you to understand it, young 'un."

"My opinion is----"

"Not worth the breath you're going to waste."

"It's considered a shame pretty generally."

"I've heard so; but, still, that does not alter matters. However, I did not want to talk politics with you, Jack. Don't put your innocent little toes into any sc.r.a.pe--that is all I wanted to tell you. Here is half a crown for you to buy b.u.t.terscotch, and while you're sucking it think over what I've said. What! Little boys given up toffee? Then I'd better say good night, Jack." Jack went out pretty sore.

About a week or so after this, Acton and young Bourne sped down to the old Lodestone Farm, and as they pedalled in at the gate young Hill, the farmer's son, said to Acton--

"The man's been here since twelve, sir."

"That's all right," said Acton. "Has he got the stable ready?"

"He's been putting it to rights the last hour."

"I say, Bourne," said Acton, turning to Jack, "ever heard of the Alabama c.o.o.n?"

"The fellow who won that fight in Holland? The prize-fighter?"

"The very same."

"Rather!"

"Well, I've engaged him to give me a few lessons here. I'm going to try for the Heavy at Aldershot. Like to see the fun?"