“they’re all milksops at home. I’d sooner be here.”

“I wouldn’t,” put in the sturdy Ashby. “I think it’s horrid not to see a face you know.”

“There you are; what did I say! Screaming for his mammy,” gibed Wally.

“And if I was,” retorted Master Ashby, warming up, “she’s a lot better worth it than yours, so now!”

Master Wally naturally fired up at this. Such language was hardly respectful from a new junior to an old.

“I’ll pull your nose, new kid, if you cheek me.”

“And I’ll pull yours, if you cheek my mother.”

“Booh, booh, poor baby! Who’s cheeking your mother? I wouldn’t cheek her with a pair of tongs. Something better to do. I say, are both you kids Classics?”

“Yes,” they replied.

“I thought you must be Moderns, you’re both so precious green. All right, there’ll be lamb’s singing directly, then you’ll have to sit up.”

“What’s lamb’s singing?” said Ashby.

“Don’t you know?” replied Wally, glad to have recovered the whip hand. “It’s this way. Every new kid has to sing in his house the first-night. You’ll have to.”

“Oh,” faltered Ashby, “I can’t; I don’t know anything.”

“Can’t get out of it; you must,” said the twin, charmed to see the torture he was inflicting. “So must you, Hair-parting.”

Fisher minor was too knowing a hand to be caught napping. He had had the tip about lamb’s singing from his brother last term, and was prepared. He joined in, therefore, against Ashby.

“What, didn’t you know that, kid? You must be green. I knew it all along.”

“That’s all right,” said Wheatfield. “Now I’m going. I can’t fool away all my evening with you. By the way, mind you don’t get taking up with any Modern kids. It’s not allowed, and you’ll get it hot if you do. My young brother,” (each twin was particularly addicted to casting reflections on his brother’s age) “is a Modern. Don’t you have anything to do with him. And whatever you do, don’t lend any of them money, or there’ll be a most awful row. That’s why we always call up subscriptions for the house clubs on first-night. It cleans the fellows out, and then they can’t lend any to the Moderns. You’ll have to shell out pretty soon, as soon as Lamb’s singing is over. Ta, ta.”

This last communication put Fisher minor in a terrible panic. He had evidently committed a gross breach of etiquette in lending that Modern boy (whose name he did not even know) a half-crown; and now, when the subscriptions were called for, he would have to declare himself before all Wakefield’s a pauper.

“I say,” said he to Ashby, dropping the patronising for the pathetic, “could you ever lend me half-a-crown? I’ve—I’ve lost mine—I’ll pay it you back next week faithfully.”

“I’ve only got five bob,” said Ashby; “to last all the term, and half a crown of that will go in the clubs to-night.”

“But you’ll get it back in a week—really you will,” pleaded Fisher minor, “and I’ll—”

But here there was a sudden interruption. Every one, from the captain down, looked towards the new boys, and a shout of “lamb’s singing,” headed by Wally Wheatfield, left little doubt as to what it all meant.

“Pass up the new kids down there,” called one of the prefects. Whereupon Fisher minor and Ashby, rather pale and very nervous, were hustled up to the top of the room, where sat the grandees in a row round the table on which the sacrifice was to take place.

For the benefit of the curious it may be explained that “lamb’s singing,” the name applied to the musical performances of new boys at Fellsgarth on first-night, is supposed to have derived its title from the frequency with which these young gentlemen fell back upon “Mary had a little lamb” as their theme on such occasions.

“Isn’t one of them your minor?” asked Yorke of Fisher senior.

“Yes,” said the latter rather apologetically; “the one with the light hair. He’s not much to look at. The fact is, I only know him slightly. They say at home he’s a nice boy.”

“Does he spend much of his time under tables, as a rule?” asked Ranger, recognising the lost property which had hung on to his legs at dinner-time. “If so, I’ll take the other one for my fag.”

“He’s bagged already,” said Denton. “Fisher and I put our names down for him an hour ago.”

“Well, that’s cool. If Fisher wanted a fag he might as well have taken his own minor.”

“Fisher major knew better,” said the gentleman in question. “It might raise awkward family questions if I had him.”

“Wouldn’t it be fairer to toss up?” suggested the captain. “Or I don’t mind swopping Wally Wheatfield for him; if you really—”

Ranger laughed.

“No, thank you, I draw the line at Wally. I wouldn’t deprive you of him for the world. I suppose I must have this youngster. Let’s hear him sing first.”

“Yes, lamb’s singing. Now, you two, one at a time. Who’s first? Alphabetical order.”

Ashby, with an inward groan, mounted the rostrum. If anything could have been more cruel than the noise which greeted his appearance, it was the dead silence which followed it. Fellows sat round, staring him out of countenance with critical faces, and rejoicing in his embarrassment.

“What’s the title!” demanded some one.

“I don’t know any songs,” said Ashby presently, “and I can’t sing.”

“Ho, ho! we’ve heard that before. Come, forge ahead.”

“I only know the words of one that my con—somebody I know—sings, called the Vigil. I don’t know the tune.”

“That doesn’t matter—out with it.”

So Ashby, pulling himself desperately together, plunged recklessly into the following appropriate ditty; which, failing its proper tune, he manfully set at the top of his voice, and with all the energy he was capable of, to the air of the Vicar of Bray—

The stealthy night creeps o’er the lea,
My darling, haste away with me.
Beloved, come I see where I stand,
With arms outstretched upon the strand.
 
The night creeps on; my love is late,
O love, my love, I wait, I wait;
The soft wind sighs mid crag and pine;
Haste, O my sweet; be mine, be mine!

This spirited song, the last two lines of which were aught up as a chorus, fairly brought down the house; and Ashby, much to his surprise, found himself famous. He had no idea he could sing so well, or that the fellows would like the words as much as they seemed to do. Yet they cheered him and encored him, and yelled the chorus till the roof almost fell in.

“Bravo,” shouted every one, the captain himself included, as he descended from the table; “that’s a ripping song.”

“That sends up the price of our fag, I fancy,” said Denton to his chum. “Your young brother won’t beat that.”

“Next man in,” shouted Wheatfield, hustling forward Fisher minor. “Now, kid, lamm it on and show them what you can do.”

“Title! title!” cried the meeting.

Now, if truth must be told, Fisher minor had come to Fellsgarth determined that whatever else he failed in, he would make a hit at “lamb’s singing.” He had made a careful calculation as to what sort of song would go down with the company and at the same time redeem his reputation from all suspicion of greenness; and he flattered himself he had hit upon the exact article.

“Oh,” said he, with an attempt at offhand swagger, in response to the demand. “It’s a comic song, called Oh no.”

It disconcerted him a little to see how seriously everybody settled down to listen, and how red his brother’s face turned as he took a back seat among the seniors. Never mind. Wait till they heard his song. That would fetch them!

He