you know, of the Guards, did this and that together, and might perhaps spend their next holidays together at Tempest Hall, in Lincolnshire, if he could spare the boy from home,” and so on.

It was an awful fascination for some of us to speculate what the “Dux” would have to say if he could hear this sort of talk. We trembled for Tipton’s father, and his shop, and the whole neighbourhood in which he flourished.

Tempest’s presence at the “College” did, however, add quite a little prestige to the place. No one seemed to suppose that it had anything to do with the fact that the terms were exceptionally moderate, and that his gallant father had left very slender means behind him. Even Dr Plummer had a habit, so people said, of dragging his aristocratic head pupil’s name into his conversation with possible clients, while we boys mingled a little awe with the esteem in which we held our broad-backed and well-dressed comrade.

Within the last few weeks especially the school had had reason to be proud of him. He had taken an exhibition at Low Heath, one of the crack public schools, and was going up there at Midsummer. This was an event in the annals of Plummer’s which had never happened before and in all probability would never happen again.

To do the Dux justice, he set no special store by himself. He believed in the Tempests as a race, but did not care a snap whether anybody else believed in them or not. Any boy who liked him he usually liked back, and showed his affection, as he did in my case, by frequent lickings. Boys he did not like he left severely alone, and there were a good many such at Dangerfield.

As to the exhibition, that had been entirely his own idea. He had not said a word about it to Plummer or any of us, and it was not till after he had got it, and Plummer in the fulness of his heart gave us a holiday in celebration of the event, that we had any of us known that the Dux had been in for it.

The second bell had already sounded before I had completed my toilet, the finishing touches of which, consequently, I was left to add in solitude.

When I descended to the refectory I was struck at once by an unusual air of gloom and mystery about the place. Something unpleasant must have occurred, but what it was nobody appeared exactly to know, unless it was the principal himself. Dr Plummer was just about to make a communication when I made my belated entry.

“Jones,” said he, as much in sorrow as in anger, “this is not the first time this term that you have been late.”

It certainly was not.

“What is the reason?”

“Please, sir,” said I, stammering out my stereotyped excuse, “I think I can’t have heard the first bell.”

“Perhaps the first six sums of compound proportion written out ten times will enable you to hear it more distinctly in future. We will try it, if you please, Jones.”

Then turning sternly to the assembled school, he said, “I was about to say something to you, boys, when this disturbance interrupted me. A shameful act has been done by some one in the night, in which I sincerely hope no one here has had a hand. The dog has been killed.”

A whistle of consternation went round the room. What? Hector killed?—Hector the collie—the beast—the brute—the sneak—the traitor—the arch-enemy of every boy at Plummer’s? Hector, who was reported to be worth thirty guineas? Hector, the darling of Mrs P. and the young P.’s? Hector of the teeth, and the snarl, and the snap, the incorruptible, the sleepless, the unforgiving?

What miscreant hero had dared perform this sacrilegious exploit? “Perish Hector!” had been an immemorial war-cry at Plummer’s; but Hector had never yet perished. No one had been found daring enough to bell the cat—that is, to shoot the dog. To what scoundrel was Dangerfield College now indebted for this inestimable blessing?

Dead silence followed the doctor’s announcement. Boys’ faces were studies as they stood there rent in twain by delight at the news and horror at the inevitable doom of the culprit.

“I repeat,” said the head master, “Hector was found this morning shot in his kennel. Does any boy here know anything about it?”

Dead silence. The master’s eyes passed rapidly along the forms, but returned evidently baffled.

“I trust I am to understand by your silence that none of you know anything about it. There is no doubt whatever that the guilty person will be found. I do not say that his name is known yet. If he is in this room,”—here he most unjustifiably fixed me with his eye—“he knows as well as I do what will be the consequence to him. Now go to breakfast. I shall have more to say about this matter presently.”

If Dr Plummer had been anxious to save his tea and bread-and-butter from too fierce an inroad he could hardly have selected a better method. Dangerfield College was completely “off its feed” this morning. Indeed, Ramsbottom, the usher, had almost to bully the victuals down the boys’ throats in order to get the meal over. The only boy who made any pretence to an appetite was the Dux, who ate steadily, much to my amazement, in the intervals of the conversation.

“It’s a bit of a go, ain’t it?” observed Dicky Brown, who, despite his educational advantages, could never quite master the politest form of his native tongue.

“Rather,” said I—“awkward for somebody.”

Then, as my eyes fell once more on Tempest, complacently cutting another slice off the loaf, an idea occurred to me.

“You know, Dicky,” said I, feeling that I was walking on thin ice, “I almost fancied I heard a sound of a gun in the night.”

Dicky laughed.

“Trust you for knowing all about a thing after it’s happened. It would have been a rum thing if you hadn’t.”

This was unfeeling of Dicky. I am sure I have never pretended to know as much about anything as he did.

“Oh, but I really did—a shot, and a yell too,” said I.

“Go it, you’re getting on,” said Dicky. “You can pile it up, Tom. Why don’t you say you saw me do it while you are about it?”

“Because I didn’t.”

“All I can say,” said the Dux, buttering his bread liberally, “I’m precious glad the beast is off the hooks. I always hated him. Which of you kids did it?”

We both promptly replied that he was quite under a wrong impression. We were pained by the very suggestion.

“All right,” said he, laughing in his reckless way, and talking quite loud enough for Plummer to hear him if he happened to come in, “you’ve less to be proud of than I fancied. If you didn’t do it, who did, eh?”

That was the question which was puzzling every one, except perhaps myself, who was undergoing a most uncomfortable mental argument as I slowly recalled the events of last night.

“Give it up; ask another,” said Faulkner. “I’m precious glad I’ve not got a pistol.” Here the Dux coloured a little, and relapsed into silence. He disliked Faulkner, and objected to his cutting into the conversation.

“One comfort,” said I, endeavouring to change the topic: “we may get off that brutal Latin exercise if Plummer takes on hard about this affair.”

“Poor old Hector!” said Dicky. “If that’s so, we shall owe him one good turn at least—eh, old Compound Proportion?”

This pointed allusion to my misfortunes disinclined me to hold further conversation with Richard Brown, and the meal ended in general silence.

As we trooped back to the schoolroom I overheard Faulkner say to another of the seniors—

“I say, did you see the way Tempest flared up when I said that about the pistol just now? Rather awkward for him, I fancy, if he’s got one.”

“What’s the odds if he didn’t shoot the dog?” was the philosophical reply.

For all that, I had observed the Dux’s confusion, and the sight of it made me very uncomfortable on his account. Faulkner was right. It