"Well, read on," shouted Arbery. "We're dying to hear who the Missing Link can be."

"You'd better get a paper of your own, then; I'm not going to read any more of the trash."

"Thought it was a slashing number? What's come over you, Freddy?" asked Baldry.

"Shut up--oh!"

The exclamation came from Plunger as he felt the paper s.n.a.t.c.hed from behind him by Leveson; then, as he tried to regain possession of it, his arms were pinioned behind him by one of the Fifth Form boys.

"Oh, oh, just listen!" laughed Leveson, "and see if you can guess why Plunger put the brake on. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty in the Forum. Believed to have hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his pursuers.'"

There was an outburst of laughter, as all eyes went to Plunger, who was making furious efforts to get away.

"When it's a question of beauty, there's only one person in it," went on Leveson calmly, "and that is----"

"Plunger!" came in a chorus.

"When we do agree, our unanimity is wonderful, as the Head used to tell us," went on Leveson. "Any other pretty bits? Oh--ah! Listen to this: '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.' Ho, ho! Don't squirm so, Plunger. What branch of the animal kingdom do you belong to?"

While they were shrieking with laughter at his discomfiture Plunger shouted above it all:

"Go on--go on! As you have gone so far, you'd better go on a bit farther. Ah, you're not quite so ready with your reading now, Mr.

Leveson."

The laughter suddenly stopped.

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

And Leveson read: "'Dropped--somewhere near sand-pit on Cranstead Common--Honour of the Fifth. When last seen, was covered by crawlers--believed to be Beetles.'"

There was an ominous silence on the part of the senior boys. The juniors t.i.ttered. Leveson screwed up the paper in his hand.

"Mind what you're doing, Leveson. That's my paper," cried Plunger. Then there was silence again, as Paul Percival entered the room.

CHAPTER XVIII

PAUL WRITES A LETTER

Stanley's head had fallen to his breast as Leveson read that bitter paragraph from the _Record_. He looked up quickly as Paul entered the room. For the moment it seemed as though he would speak; then he bit his lips fiercely to keep back the words that sprang to them, and went from the room. Newall followed him, then Arbery. One by one they followed his example--Third Form boys as well as Fifth--until one only remained--Waterman, who had been comfortably resting in a chair by the fire throughout the scene described in the last chapter. As the last boy went out, he glanced up.

"Hallo, Percival! Is that you?"

"Why don't you do the same as the rest of the fellows, and clear out?"

asked Paul bitterly.

"I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you."

And Waterman stretched out his legs, and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. Paul could see that it was not altogether a question of comfort with Waterman. His laziness was only a cloak to disguise a real feeling of friendship towards him.

"The fellows were discussing me as I came in?"

"I don't quite know what they were discussing. Oh, young Plunger had made himself an a.s.s, as usual, over some paragraph in the _Record_. That was it."

Leveson had screwed up the paper, it will be remembered, when he had read the paragraph about the honour of the Fifth, and, as Paul entered, had flung it contemptuously from him into a corner of the room. Paul's eye went to it as Waterman was speaking.

"Paragraph in the _Record_," he repeated, as he smoothed it out. "What have they got to say about Plunger?"

He quickly read the paragraphs which had reference to Plunger, and then he read the one which he knew well enough had reference to himself.

Waterman rose from his chair as the paper dropped from Paul's hand and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You're cut up, Percival. I wouldn't let that paragraph worry me. It's really not worth it. There's nothing in the world worth worrying about--there really isn't."

"You don't mean what you say, Waterman--though it's kind of you to say it. Honour's worth troubling about--one's own honour; the honour of one's form; the honour of one's school; and I know that, disguise it as you may, you're just as keen on it as any in the school. And all the fellows believe that I've dragged it through the mud."

"Oh, well, things will clear up some day, Percival; then you'll come into your own," said Waterman cheerfully.

"Some day I suppose they will; but it may be a long time first, and there's no game so hard to play as the waiting game."

"That's where you're wrong, Percival. There's no game in the world like it--the waiting game, I mean. There's no f.a.g about it, and that's what I like. Just wait your time, you know--take it easy--no flurry--go as you please. It's the game of all games for my ha'pence. It really is, Percival. So don't worry, old fellow--and don't flurry."

Paul could not help smiling to himself at Waterman's easy view of things, but the smile quickly disappeared when he was once more alone.

Waterman had talked about "things clearing up," and "coming into his own"; but would things ever clear up? Would he ever win back the honour of the Form, and the confidence of those who belonged to it? Saddest of all was the memory that Stanley, who had been his greatest friend, now appeared to be his greatest enemy.

Suddenly it occurred to him--he would write to Mr. Walter Moncrief, and tell him what had happened that night when he went to Dormitory X. The idea had occurred to him before, but he had put it off in the hope that he might have surer evidence to go upon. No further evidence had been forthcoming, but delay might be dangerous; so he determined to write.

So he went into the writing-room, and wrote to Mr. Moncrief, telling him exactly what had happened on the night he went to Dormitory X.

"I am pretty well certain," he went on, "that the man I saw with Mr.

Weevil is one of the men who came after me on the night I came to your house at Redmead--the chief of the two. It was night-time, but I had a fairly good view of his face. What he has to do with Mr. Weevil, I can't make out. I should be sorry to think that Mr. Weevil has anything to do with a traitor to his country; but there must be something at the bottom of it all. What that something is, you may be able to find out better than I can. Dr. Colville, our Head, is away, so I cannot go to him. What ought to be done? Will you let me know what you think?"

Having written this letter, Paul felt more comfortable. So soon as he heard from Mr. Moncrief, his lips would be unsealed, and he might take steps to clear his own honour. He would then be able to explain to his Form--to all the school if need be--what had prevented him from confronting Wyndham at the sand-pit.

But having finished his letter, there was one great difficulty in the way. All letters written in the school were supposed to pa.s.s, first of all, through the hands of the master. How could he let that letter pa.s.s through the hands of Mr. Weevil? As he was thinking over this dilemma, Hibbert entered the room, and told him that Mr. Travers wished to speak to him. Mr. Travers was master of the Fifth.

Paul rose to his feet, and thrust the letter in his pocket, wondering what Mr. Travers could want with him. Then it occurred to him that Hibbert was just the boy he wanted; he could trust Hibbert with anything. Hibbert would post the letter for him.

"Hibbert, I want you to do me a great favour," he said, drawing the letter from his pocket. "I want you to post this letter for me. There's nothing wrong in it, I give you my word of honour; but, I don't want Mr.

Weevil to know. That's why I am not sending it through the school post."

Hibbert expressed his willingness to post it, and Paul handed him the letter, then went to Mr. Travers' room. Hibbert hastened off with the letter, but, as ill-luck would have it, he ran full tilt against Mr.

Weevil, just as he reached the outer door. In doing so, he stumbled, and would have fallen to the ground had not the master caught him by the arm.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AS ILL-LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, HIBBERT RAN FULL TILT AGAINST MR. WEEVIL, JUST AS HE REACHED THE OUTER DOOR."]