In the stampede which followed I missed my opportunity of restoring Redwood's property, as he vanished immediately after the game, and my comrades would by no means allow me out of their sight. Indeed, it was not till after evening chapel that I contrived to elude their vigilance and start on my second run to Bridge Street.

But if I eluded them I was less fortunate with another sentinel. For at the gates I encountered the forbidding presence of Mr Jarman.

"What are you doing here?"

"Please, sir, this is Redwood's belt, and I promised to give it to him."

"Go back. What is your name?"

"Jones, sir."

"Whose house are you in?"

"Mr Sharpe's."

"Do not let me find you out of bounds again, Jones."

And he fixed me with his eye as if to impress me with the fact that he would certainly know me again.

"But, sir, Redwood--"

"Did you hear me, sir?"

I capitulated, cowed and indignant. I was beginning to understand what the fellows said about Mr Jarman.

"It's all rot," said the Philosophers, when I confided my grievance to them; "it's not out of bounds before 6:30--and if it was, it's no business of his. It's the house master's business, or the house captain's. If you get lagged by them, all right; but _he's_ got no right to lag fellows, the cad."

In my present humour I was far from disputing the appellation.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CHEAP ADVERTISING EXTRAORDINARY.

I spent a bad quarter of an hour that evening before bed-time in inditing a letter of "explanation" to Crofter. I had come to the conclusion this would be easier and safer than a personal interview, and that the sooner it was done the better. How to do it was another problem. To write a letter in the raggery was out of the question. I tried it, but failed miserably. For either my paper was twitched away from under my pen, or some one looked over my shoulder and pretended to read expressions of endearment which were not there, or some one got under the table and heaved it about tempestuously to the detriment of my handwriting, or some one drew skeleton figures of spider-legged bipeds on the margin of the paper. Worse still, it was evident every word I wrote would be common property, which I did not desire. I had therefore to abandon the attempt till later on; when, finding myself in Pridgin's study, I ventured to inquire if I might write there.

Pridgin was good enough to express admiration of my cheek, but said if I spread one newspaper over his carpet and another over his table-cloth to catch the blots, and didn't ask him how to spell any word of less than four letters, or borrow a stamp, I might.

All which I faithfully undertook to do, and sat down to my delicate task. It took me a long time, considering the result, and I was by no means satisfied with the performance when it was done.

"Dear Crofter," I wrote; but that seemed too familiar, whereas "Dear Sir" from one schoolfellow to another was too formal. So I attempted my explanation in the "oblique oration":--

"Jones iv. is sorry he accidentally told Crofter he was a beast yesterday. He did not know it was him when he saw him, or he would not have told him what Tempest said about him, which was quite unintentional. He also must explain that what he said about his being expelled was in consequence of a dog's death, about which there was a misunderstanding. He hopes Crofter will not tell him he told him, as he would be very angry with him."

"Done?" said Pridgin, who, comfortably ensconced in his easy-chair with his feet upon the window-ledge, was reading a comic paper.

"Yes, thanks," said I, half terrified lest he should demand to read my not too lucid epistle.

"All right. Go and tell Crofter I want him, will you? Look alive, and then cut to bed."

Here was a blow! I had been at all this labour in order to avoid the painful necessity of an interview with Crofter, and here I was as badly off as ever.

"Can't you hear?" said Pridgin as I hesitated.

"If you please, Pridgin," said I, resolved to take the bull by the horns, "I'm awfully sorry, but I don't want Crofter to catch me. The fact is--"

Pridgin's good-humoured reply was to shy a book at me, which I was fortunate enough to miss, but which Tempest, who entered the study at the moment, caught fairly on his forehead.

"Hullo! Are you and the kid playing catch?" said he. "Sorry to disturb you, really; but my f.a.g's skulking somewhere, and I want to borrow yours to take a message to Crofter."

"Was it a plot, or what? I had far better have written in the f.a.ggery after all."

"That was exactly the subject about which the kid and I were playing catch just now," said Pridgin. "I asked him to go to Crofter too."

"What, has he been sending you a _billet-doux_?" said Tempest.

"Well, yes. He seems to be sore I didn't ask him to tea yesterday, and says he's afraid some one has been libelling him, though how he knew I had any one here last night I can't imagine."

"That's funny," said Tempest; "he writes to me to say he is sorry I should take the trouble to call him a beast in public. He understands a fellow's right to his private opinion, he says, and would be sorry not to be allowed his about me, but he thinks it imprudent to shout it out for every one to hear. Just his style."

"I was going to send him word to ask him to come in and make himself a cup of tea out of my pot, just to show there was no ill-feeling," said Pridgin.

"And I was going to say that I hope he won't trouble to think better of me in private then I think of him in public. Though for the life of me I can't imagine what he refers to."

"The fact is. Tempest," said Pridgin, putting his feet up on the window-ledge again, "it's just as well to be above board with Crofter.

He's a slippery customer, and if he knows what we think of him, and we know what he thinks of us, we shall get on much better."

"If he'd only give a chap a chance of a row with him," said Tempest; "but he won't. The more down on him you are, the more affectionate he is, and the sweeter he smiles. Ugh!"

"But who on earth has been blabbing to him?" said Pridgin; "not Wales?"

"Wales?" said Tempest; "rather not. He's not that sort."

"I don't think he is," said Pridgin; "and yet, old man--the fact is-- I--"

"You don't fancy Wales, I know."

"Hardly that. I don't mind him; but he's more of a pull over you than he has over me. I can't be bothered with his fashions. It's too much grind. But you aren't lazy like me, and--well--you know he runs you into a lot of expense. That picnic last term, for instance. We could have had quite a jolly day for half the cost. Chicken and ham's all very well, but cold boiled eggs are just as good for keeping a chap going."

"But Wales can't stand things not being--"

"Dear!" said Pridgin. "Don't flare up, old chap. You've got your work cut out for you this term, and can't afford to spend all your time paying bills, even if you had the tin."

"All very well for you who've let me in for c.o.c.king the house," said Tempest, with a laugh. "Anyhow, you've a right to talk to me like a father. All the same, I fancy you've a little downer on old Wales.

He's a good sort of chap, and there's nothing of the eel about him."

"Which brings us back to Crofter," said Pridgin. "Some one has told him that he's not popular in this study, and he doesn't like it. I wonder who our candid friend is."