"Moncrief major. Yes, yes; of course I will. It's an awfully lazy sort of morning, don't you think, Percival?" answered Waterman, stretching himself as he took the letter.

That was Waterman's opinion of mornings generally. Every morning was a "lazy sort of a morning."

"Yes, Watey," answered Paul, taking him by the arm and hurrying him towards the grounds where most of the scholars were. In a little while he espied Stanley, playing with Newall and Parfitt in the fives-court.

"How fellows can f.a.g about at that stupid game I could never make out,"

remarked Waterman. "Am I to wait for an answer?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Mind? Not in the least. Waiting is so restful."

He strolled off leisurely with the letter. Paul watched him. He reached the fives-court, and, waiting his opportunity, handed the note to Stanley. He looked at it; then questioned Waterman. A laugh went up from Newall and Parfitt as he did so. Then Stanley, without opening the letter, tore it into fragments and threw them contemptuously into the air.

Waterman thrust his hands deep in his pockets, shrugged his shoulders, and returned to Paul.

"You saw what happened, Percival?" he said.

"Yes, I saw what happened," came the slow answer. "What was it he asked for?"

"He only asked who it was from. I told him."

"And then he deliberately tore my letter up and tossed the pieces in the air. Waterman, I'm sorry that you were so insulted."

"Don't think of me. I rather liked it--really. A snub does one good on a lazy sort of morning like this--it really does."

He was about to pa.s.s on, but, checking himself, said in a more serious tone:

"I wish I could have brought you a better answer, Percival."

That day was one of the longest days Paul ever remembered: it dragged so slowly along. There was Stanley in the same room, sitting at times within a few feet of him, and yet they did not look at each other. No word pa.s.sed between them.

"I will never hold out my hand to him again," said Paul in the bitterness of his heart. He had done all that could be done to bring Stanley to reason, but every effort failed. "He must go his own way, and I must go mine. Some day, perhaps, he'll be sorry that he did not read my letter."

Belonging to the Fourth Form was a boy named d.i.c.k Jessel. He was a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy--quite a Saxon type--with a shrewd, sharp wit. His father was the editor of a provincial paper, and Jessel ran a journal of his own at the school, by the aid of a hectograph and Jowitt, of the same Form, who was sub-editor, reporter, and "printer's devil"

rolled into one. They were called the "two J's."

A couple of days after the struggle at the sand-pit a number was issued of the _Gargoyle Record_--so the journal was named. Among other items of news appeared the following:

_Motto for the Fifth._

He who fights and runs away Will live to fight another day.

"Lost, stolen, or strayed.--A few pages from the Black Book.

Whoever will bring the same to the P. D., at the office of this paper, will be rewarded."

"Hints on Fashion.--A fresher of the Third is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why. References exchanged and given--through the matron--preferably by carte-de-visite."

"Lost, stolen, or strayed.--Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on a window in the Forum. Believed to have hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his pursuers."

"Notice.--Our poet is stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger.' If any one can oblige the poet we'll give him a paragraph all to himself in the next number. N.B.--The rhyme must be a name of some kind--bird, beast, or fish."

"Dropped. Somewhere near the sand-pit on Cranstead Common. Honour of the Fifth. When last seen was covered by crawlers--believed to be Beetles."

Plunger was one of the earliest to obtain a copy of the _Gargoyle Record_. He read the first two paragraphs, and then raced into the common room bubbling over with excitement.

Several boys were standing round the fire--some of the Third Form, including Harry Moncrief, Baldry, and Sedgefield; one or two of the Fourth, and three or four of the Fifth, including Stanley Moncrief, Newall--the two were now almost inseparable--Arbery, and Leveson.

"Oh, I say, have you seen the last number of the _Record_? It's a slashing number, I can tell you," Plunger burst out.

Immediately everybody was eager to get possession of the _Record_.

Baldry made a s.n.a.t.c.h at it.

"No, you don't, Baldhead," said Plunger, putting it behind him, with his back to the wall. "Manners! If you can't listen like a gentleman, you'd better git."

"Don't mind him, Plunger. He's only an outsider," said Arbery soothingly. "Read."

"Read--read!" came in a chorus.

"And keep your eyebrows out of your head while you're about it," said Leveson. "I never saw such eyebrows."

Plunger glared at Leveson.

"Never mind him, Plunger," came the soothing voice of Arbery. "It's only envy, you know. I wish I had eyebrows like 'em. Get on."

"I will get on--I will," said Plunger, with a last savage glance at Leveson. "Listen to this--here's a splendid hit against the Fifth." And he read: "'Motto for the Fifth. He who fights and runs away, Will live to fight another day.' Isn't it just splendid!"

Those of the Fifth who were present maintained a gloomy silence, while those of the lower forms giggled and chuckled softly to themselves. They dared not do it too openly, for fear of bringing down upon their heads the wrath of the senior Form.

When Plunger thought his first item of news had soaked itself thoroughly into the "bounders" of the Fifth, he read the second item. This fell rather flat and elicited no comment.

Then Plunger began to bubble over again. He could not get on for a minute or two.

"What's the a.s.s giggling for?" "Get on, get on," and so forth, were some of the comments that greeted him.

"'Hints on Fashion,'" read Plunger. "'A fresher of the Third'--ho, ho!--'is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why.'--Ho, ho! Hold me up.--'References exchanged and given--through the matron--preferably by carte-de-visite.' Ho, ho! Hold me up."

Plunger's eyebrows disappeared into his thatch of hair, and he laughed till he was black in the face, while all eyes went to poor Harry Moncrief, who devoutly wished that the ground might open and he might sink through.

"Is that all, Plunger?" inquired Arbery. "Get on to the next paragraph, or you'll choke."

"I couldn't get any farther for laughter," explained Plunger. "I thought you fellows would like that little t.i.t-bit, so I rushed in here." He took up the paper again, and glanced at the next item. "This seems rather a good bit. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on--on----"

Plunger came to an abrupt pause, hummed and hawed, and began to look exceedingly uncomfortable.

"'Last seen in all his native beauty----' Well, Plunger, what are you stopping for now?" cried Leveson. "If you can't read it yourself, hand over the _Record_ to some one who can."

"Shan't; it's my paper, and I'm not going to hand it over to any one--see," answered Plunger defiantly, putting the paper behind his back.