"n.o.body. I'm quite a stranger."

He spoke with a foreign accent, and Paul wondered who he could be. At the same time he could not help pitying the solitary boy. He would have rather a sorry time of it amongst the other "Gargoyles."

"Well, youngster"--a junior was always "a youngster" in the eyes of his senior--"if I can be of help to you at any time, don't be afraid to come to me. What is your name?"

"Hibbert--Tim Hibbert. And--and if you don't mind, I'd like to know yours?"

Paul told him his name, and they entered the grounds together. A number of the boys had already arrived. Some stood in small groups, talking and laughing about incidents that had happened during the vacation. Others were playing at leapfrog, or chasing each other from pillar to post.

Those nearest to the gates paused in their games as Paul entered, and stared at the hunchback. Newall, a senior, said something about "Percival and his camel." The remark was as cruel as offensive. Paul did not mind for himself, but he did for his companion. He glanced at Hibbert, and again noticed the delicate colouring mount to the pale cheek. He had evidently caught the sense of Newall's remark, too.

"They have rough speech as well as rough ways, haven't they?" the boy remarked quietly.

"Some of them--yes; but you mustn't mind that. They're not such a bad lot, take them altogether."

Newall was one of the most arrogant boys at Garside. He had a rough tongue, and loved to domineer. You will always find your Newalls in every public school, no matter where it be. They are terrors to the nervous, sensitive boy; but they always succeed in attracting to themselves followers, lads of like dispositions to themselves.

Paul knew well enough that Newall intended the remark for his benefit, but he paid no heed to it. He looked round the ground in the hope of finding Stanley Moncrief, but saw nothing of him.

"Perhaps he's gone to meet that young cousin of his," he said to himself, as his mind went back to Oakville, and the never-to-be-forgotten evening on which he had met Harry Moncrief.

Hibbert wished to be taken to Mr. Weevil the science master, as he was to receive his introduction to the school through that gentleman.

Paul accordingly took him to Mr. Weevil's rooms. He was fortunate enough to find the master in. He was a sallow-complexioned man, with thin, clean-shaven lips. He had a restless, hungry-looking pair of eyes, which went up quickly to Paul as he entered the room.

"What is it, Percival?"

"I've brought along a new boy, sir--Hibbert."

"Hibbert?" Mr. Weevil at once rose from his seat, and eyed the boy keenly; then his hand went out to the lad: "Welcome to Garside. You can leave us, Percival."

Thus summarily dismissed, Paul went out, leaving Hibbert and the science master together. It seemed as though the master were favourably impressed with the new boy--in spite of the fact that he was a hunchback.

"Bravo, Weevil! That's a point in your favour, at any rate. I didn't think that you had much pity for any one. Poor little chap!"

His heart went out in sympathy to the little hunchback. What a shadow his deformity must cast upon his life?

"They say that hunchbacks are spiteful, and I don't wonder at it. But Hibbert doesn't seem a spiteful sort of fellow. Where did he pick up that foreign accent, I wonder?"

As he thought of him, he could not help thinking how thankful he ought to be to G.o.d that he was healthy and straight of limb. It was not till he came in contact with poor, deformed creatures like Tim Hibbert that he understood G.o.d's goodness to himself.

"Not more than others I deserve, Yet Thou hast given me more,"

he said softly to himself as he returned to the ground.

He had not gone far before he saw Stanley Moncrief coming towards him.

He was about Paul's age and height, with a like ruddy complexion, and frank, open face. The two chums were delighted to meet again, especially as so much had happened since their last meeting. Arm in arm they walked about the ground talking eagerly, when their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a shout of laughter from the other end of the ground.

"I say, Paul, that looks very much like my young cousin coming towards us," said Stanley, looking in the direction whence the laughter came.

"What on earth has the little a.s.s been doing with himself?"

CHAPTER VI

HARRY MONCRIEF ARRIVES AT GARSIDE

Well might Stanley ask the question. His young cousin had attired himself in the most extraordinary fashion. His trousers--plaid ones--were turned up three or four inches at the bottom, as though for the purpose of displaying to the utmost advantage the white spats on his patent shoes, while surmounting the lower half of him was a gorgeous white waistcoat, cutaway jacket, and tall hat. Paul could not help smiling, for he at once saw the reason of this remarkable attire. Young Moncrief had followed out precisely the instructions sent him by his friend Plunger.

"He seems to have got himself up regardless of expense, Stan," smiled Paul. "He means making an impression on the school. But you needn't scowl so, old fellow. It's all done for your sake. He thinks it the correct form, and doesn't want to let you down."

"Correct form--don't want to let me down!" repeated Stanley, bewildered.

"What on earth are you driving at?"

Thereupon Paul related to Stanley the conversation he had had with Harry on the day he had visited Oakville, and the mysterious doc.u.ment he had shown him from Plunger as to the correct way to dress, and what to do on entering Garside.

"And the little soft has nibbled at Plunger's bait," laughed Stanley.

"It isn't a bad joke, and I suppose I mustn't spoil it."

So Stanley and Paul kept out of the way of the throng of boys who, with Harry Moncrief in their midst, were making their way across the grounds in the direction of the schoolhouse. Harry, with his arm linked in Plunger's--a dark boy, with mischief-sparkling eyes--seemed quite unconscious of the fact that the boys were laughing at him.

"Bax is busy with some of the other freshers," Plunger was saying; "so you'd better get over your introduction to Mrs. Trounce, and we'll hunt up old Bax after."

"All right, Freddy," answered Harry, quite elated at the thought that he had at last entered a public school where there were boys bigger and older than himself, and that he was being initiated into its mysteries and ways. "After that I suppose I can find my cousin?"

"Oh, yes!"

"And there's a chum of his I met at home during the vac.--Paul Percival.

Do you know him?"

"Ra-ther. He's one of the seniors--in the same form as your cousin. I didn't know that you knew him."

"I've only met him once, but I should like to meet him again. Pater thinks no end of him."

"Oh, you'll see plenty of him at Garside--a good deal too much. Those Upper Form fellows think no end of themselves, I can tell you. This way to the divine Trounce. You haven't forgotten?"

"Of course not; I've got all the rules by heart. See, here's the photo."

He drew from his pocket a photograph of himself as he spoke, with some writing on the bottom, which he handed to Plunger. The boys following behind grew black in the face trying to choke down their laughter.

"Jolly good of you, Harry!" exclaimed Plunger, regarding the photograph admiringly. "I didn't know you were such an awfully good-looking fellow.

Trounce will think a lot of it, I can tell you."

The matron's rooms were a modern addition to the school, at the end of the building. Mrs. Trounce, who was at heart rather an amiable woman, was busily engaged in her room sorting out an endless array of boys'

wearing apparel. Her motherly face, therefore, wore an unusually severe and worried expression as the boys entered the room. The windows outside were suddenly darkened with innumerable faces peering through the window.

"I have the honour--the distinguished privilege," said Plunger, with an elaborate bow to the matron, "of presenting to you Master Henry Moncrief, of Oakville."