chimed in Mr Ashford, appearing at the same moment.

“Please, sir,” said Dick, “we didn’t wait for Tom, and drove home, and there was a little accident. I was driving at the time, sir. We got spilt, and the trap was a little damaged. We left word for Tom to see to it, and I’ll write and get my father to pay for mending it. We’re all awfully sorry, sir. Dr Winter sends his regards, and we shall hear the result of the exam. on Thursday. One of the wheels came off, but I fancy it will go on again. It was a rut did it. We were coming along at a very good pace, and should have been here an hour ago if it hadn’t been for the accident. We’re sorry to be late, sir.”

After which ample explanation and apology the boys felt themselves decidedly aggrieved that they were not at once ushered in to supper. Mr Ashford, however, being a mortal of only limited perception, required a good deal more information; and a painful and somewhat petulant cross-examination ensued, the result of which was that our heroes were informed they were not to be trusted, that both Mr and Mrs Ashford were disappointed in them, that they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and that they would hear more about the matter to-morrow.

And what about the supper?—that glorious spread of coffee and hot toast, and eggs and bacon, the anticipation of which had borne them up in all the perils and fatigue of the day, and had shone like a beacon star to guide them home? The subject was ignored, basely ignored; and the culprits were ordered to join the ordinary school supper and appease their hunger on bread and cheese and cold boiled beef, and slake their thirst on “swipes.”

Then did the spirits of Richardson, Heathcote and Coote wax fierce within them. Then did they call Mr Ashford a cad, and Mrs Ashford a sneak. Then did they kick all the little boys within reach, and scowl furiously upon the big ones. Then did they wish the mare was dead and Templeton a ruin!

As, when Jove frowns and Mercury and Vulcan scowl, the hills hide their heads and the valleys tremble beneath the storm, so did the youth of Mountjoy quake and cower that evening as it raised its eyes and beheld those three gloomy heroes devour their beef and drink their swipes. No one ventured to ask how they had fared, or wherefore they looked sad; but they knew something had happened. The little boys gazed with awe-struck wonder at the heroes who had that day been at Templeton, and contended for Templeton honours. The elder boys wondered if gloom was part of Templeton “form,” and when their turn would come to look as black and majestic; and all marvelled at the supper those three ate, and at the chasm they left in the cold boiled beef!

“Come on, you fellows,” said Richardson, as soon as the meal was finished. “I’m going to bed; I’m fagged.”

“So am I,” said Heathcote.

“So am I,” said Coote.

And the triumvirate stalked from the room, leaving Mountjoy more than ever convinced something terrific had happened.

If Coote had had his way, he would rather have stayed up. He slept in a different room from Richardson and Heathcote, and it was rather slow going to bed by himself at half-past seven. But as it was evident from Dick’s manner that this was the proper course to take under the circumstances, he took it, and was very soon dreaming that he and Edward the Fifth’s father were trotting round the Templeton quadrangle on the mare, much to the admiration of the Templeton boys, who assembled in their thousands to witness the exploit.

Next day the uncomfortable topic of the mare and the waggonette was renewed in a long conference with Mr Ashford.

As supper was no longer pending, and as a night’s rest had intervened, the boys were rather more disposed to enter into details. But they failed to satisfy Mr Ashford that they were not to blame for what had occurred.

“I am less concerned,” said he, “about the damage done to the waggonette than I am to think I cannot trust you as fully as I ought to be able to trust my head boys. I hope during the week or two that remains of this term you will try to win back the confidence you have lost. I must, in justice to my other boys, punish you. Under the circumstances, I shall not cane you, but till the end of the term you must each of you lose your hour’s play between twelve and one.”

Mr Ashford paused. Perhaps he expected an outburst of gratitude. Perhaps he didn’t exactly know what to say next. In either case, he found he had made a mistake.

The boys, with an instinct not, certainly, of self-righteousness, but of common justice, felt that they had had punishment enough already for their sin. Mr Ashford took no account of those few seconds when the waggonette was dashing through the gate and reeling to its fall. He reckoned as nothing the weary jolt home, the indignity of that supper last night, and the suspense of that early morning. He made no allowance for an absence of malice in what they had done, and gave them no credit—although, indeed, neither did they give themselves credit—for the regret and straightforwardness with which they had confessed it. He proposed to treat them, the head boys of Mountjoy, as common delinquents, and punish them as he would punish a cheat, or a bully, or mutineer.

It wasn’t fair—they knew it; and if Ashford didn’t know it, too—well, he ought.

“We’d rather be caned, sir,” said Richardson, speaking for all three.

Mr Ashford regarded the speaker with sharp surprise.

“Richardson, kindly remember I am the best judge of what punishment you deserve.”

“It’s not fair to keep us in all the term,” said Dick, his cheeks mounting colour with the desperateness of his boldness.

Mr Ashford changed colour, too, but his cheeks turned pale.

“Leave my sight, sir, instantly! How do you dare to use language like that to me!”

Fortunately for the dignity, as well as for the comfort, of the three boys, Dick made no attempt to prolong the argument. He turned and left the room, followed by his two faithful henchmen, little imagining that, if any one had scored in this unsatisfactory interview, he had.

Don’t let the reader imagine that any mystical glory belongs to the schoolboy who happens to “score one” off his master. If he does it consciously, the chances are he is a snob for doing it. If he does it unconsciously, as Dick did here, then the misfortune of the master by no means means the bliss of the boy.

Dick felt anything but blissful as he stalked moodily to the schoolroom that morning and growled his injuries to his allies.

But Mr Ashford, as soon as his first burst of temper had evaporated, like an honest, sensible man, sat down and reviewed the situation; and it occurred to him, on reviewing it, that he had made a mistake. It was, of course, extremely painful and humiliating to have to acknowledge it; but, once acknowledged, it would have been far more humiliating to Mr Ashford’s sense of honour to persist in it.

He summoned the boys once more to his presence, and they trooped in like three prisoners brought up on remand to hear their final sentence.

The master’s mouth twitched nervously, and he half repented of the ordeal he had set before himself.

“You said just now, Richardson, that the punishment I proposed to inflict on you was not fair?”

“Yes, sir, we think so,” replied Dick, simply.

“I think so, too,” said Mr Ashford, equally simply, “and I shall say no more about it. Now you can go.”

The boys gaped at him in mingled admiration and bewilderment.

“You can go,” repeated the master.

Richardson took a hasty survey of his companions’ countenances, and said—

“Will you cane us instead, please sir?”

“No, Richardson, that would not be fair either.”

Richardson made one more effort.

“Please, sir, we think we deserve something.”

“People don’t always get their deserts in this