he said. Prater’s manner is always abrupt.
“What’s this? I can’t have this. I can’t have this. Get up at once. Where’s Bradshaw?”
I rose gracefully to my feet, thereby disclosing the classic features of the lost one.
“The Headmaster wants to see you at once, Bradshaw, at the School House. You others had better find something to do, or you will be getting into trouble.”
He and Bradshaw left together, while we speculated on the cause of the summons.
We were not left very long in suspense. In a quarter of an hour Bradshaw returned, walking painfully, and bearing what, to the expert’s eye, are the unmistakable signs of a “touching up,” which, being interpreted, is corporal punishment.
“Hullo,” said White, as he appeared, “what’s all this?”
“How many?” enquired the statistically-minded Kendal. “You’ll be thankful for this when you’re a man, Bradshaw.”
“That’s what I always say to myself when I’m touched up,” added Kendal.
I said nothing, but it was to me that the wounded one addressed himself.
“You utter ass,” he said, in tones of concentrated venom.
“Look here, Bradshaw—” I began, protestingly.
“It’s all through you—you idiot,” he snarled. “I got twelve.”
“Twelve isn’t so dusty,” said White, critically. “Most I ever got was six.”
“But why was it?” asked Kendal. “That’s what we want to know. What have you been and gone and done?”
“It’s about that Euripides paper,” said Bradshaw.
“Ah!” said Kendal.
“Yes, I don’t mind telling you about it now. When Mellish had me up after school today, I’d got my yarn all ready. There wasn’t a flaw in it anywhere as far as I could see. My idea was this. I told him I’d been to Yorke’s room the day before the exam, to ask him if he had any marks for us. That was all right. Yorke was doing the two Unseen papers, and it was just the sort of thing a fellow would do to go and ask him about the marks.”
“Well?”
“Then when I got there he was out, and I looked about for the marks, and on the table I saw the Euripides paper.”
“By Jove!” said Kendal. We began to understand, and to realize that here was a mastermind.
“Well, of course, I read it, not knowing what it was, and then, as the only way of not taking an unfair advantage, I did as badly as I could in the exam. That was what I told Mellish. Any beak would have swallowed it.”
“Well, didn’t he?”
“Mellish did all right, but the rotter couldn’t keep it to himself. Went and told the Old Man. The Old Man sent for me. He was as decent as anything at first. That was just his guile. He made me describe exactly where I had seen the paper, and so on. That was rather risky, of course, but I put it as vaguely as I could. When I had finished, he suddenly whipped round, and said, ‘Bradshaw, why are you telling me all these lies?’ That’s the sort of thing that makes you feel rather a wreck. I was too surprised to say anything.”
“I can guess the rest,” said Kendal. “But how on earth did he know it was all lies? Why didn’t you stick to your yarn?”
“And, besides,” I put in, “where do I come in? I don’t see what I’ve got to do with it.”
Bradshaw eyed me fiercely. “Why, the whole thing was your fault,” he said. “You told me Yorke was setting the paper.”
“Well, so he did, didn’t he?”
“No, he didn’t. The Old Man set it himself,” said Bradshaw, gloomily.
How Pillingshot Scored
Pillingshot was annoyed. He was disgusted, mortified; no other word for it. He had no objection, of course, to Mr. Mellish saying that his work during the term, and especially his Livy, had been disgraceful. A master has the right to say that sort of thing if he likes. It is one of the perquisites of the position. But when he went on to observe, without a touch of shame, that there would be an examination in the Livy as far as they had gone in it on the following Saturday, Pillingshot felt that he exceeded. It was not playing the game. There were the examinations at the end of term. Those were fair enough. You knew exactly when they were coming, and could make your arrangements accordingly. But to spring an examination on you in the middle of the term out of a blue sky, as it were, was underhand and unsportsmanlike, and would not do at all. Pillingshot wished that he could put his foot down. He would have liked to have stalked up to Mr. Mellish’s desk, fixed him with a blazing eye, and remarked, “Sir, withdraw that remark. Cancel that statement instantly, or—!” or words to that effect.
What he did say was: “Oo, si-i-r!!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Mellish, not troubling to conceal his triumph at Pillingshot’s reception of the news, “there will be a Livy examination next Saturday. And—” (he almost intoned this last observation)—“anybody who does not get fifty percent, Pillingshot, fifty percent, will be severely punished. Very severely punished, Pillingshot.”
After which the lesson had proceeded on its course.
“Yes, it is rather low, isn’t it?” said Pillingshot’s friend, Parker, as Pillingshot came to the end of a stirring excursus on the rights of the citizen, with special reference to midterm Livy examinations. “That’s the worst of Mellish. He always has you somehow.”
“But what am I to do?” raved Pillingshot.
“I should advise you to swot it up before Saturday,” said Parker.
“Oh, don’t be an ass,” said Pillingshot, irritably.
What was the good of friends if they could only make idiotic suggestions like that?
He retired, brooding, to his house.
The day was Wednesday. There were only two more days, therefore, in which to prepare a quarter of a book of Livy. It couldn’t be done. The thing was not possible.
In the house he met Smythe.
“What are you going to do about it?” he inquired. Smythe was top of the form, and if he didn’t know how to grapple with a crisis of this sort,
