had carefully studied not only the song but the appropriate action. As he knew perfectly well, there is one invariable attitude for a comic song. The head must be tilted a little to one side. One eyebrow must be raised and the opposite corner of the mouth turned down. One knee should be slightly bent; the first finger and thumb of one hand should rest gracefully in the waistcoat pocket, and the other hand should be free for gesture.

All these points Fisher minor attended to now as carefully as his nervousness would permit, and felt half amused at the thought of how comic the fellows must think him.

“Do you—” he began.

But at this point Ranger unfeelingly interrupted, and put the vocalist completely out.

“Did you say ‘Oh no’ or ‘How now’?”

“Oh no,” repeated the singer.

“You mean h-o-w n-o-w?”

“Oh no; it’s o-h n-o.”

“Thanks—sorry to interrupt. Fire away.” Fisher tried to get himself back into attitude, and began again in a thin treble voice;—

Do you think I’m just as green as grass! Oh no!

Do you take me for a silly ass! Oh no! Do you think I don’t know A from B! Do you think I can’t tell he from she! Do you think I swallow all I see?

Oh no—not me! He was bewildered by the unearthly silence of his audience. No one stirred a muscle except Wheatfield, who was apparently wiping away a tear. Was the song too deep for them, or perhaps he did not sing the words distinctly, or perhaps they had laughed and he had not noticed? At any rate he would try the next verse, which was certain to amuse them. He looked as droll as he could, and by way of heightening the effect, stuck his two thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat and wagged his hands in time with the song.

Do you think I lie abed all day?

Oh no! Do you guess I skate on ice in May?

Oh no! Do you think I can’t tell what is what? Do you think I don’t know pepper’s hot? Or whereabouts my i’s to dot?

Oh no, no rot!

As he concluded, Fisher minor summoned up enough resolution to shake his head and lay one finger to his nose in the most approved style of comedy, and then awaited the result.

Fellows apparently did not take in that the song was at an end, for they neither cheered nor smiled. So Fisher minor made an elaborate bow to show it was all over. The result was the same. A gloomy silence prevailed, in the midst of which the singer, never more perplexed in his life, descended from the table and proceeded to look out for the congratulations of his admirers.

“Beautiful song,” said Wally, still mopping his face.

“I never thought I could be so touched by anything. We generally get comic songs on first-night.”

“This is a comic one,” said Fisher minor.

“Go on,” said Wheatfield; “tell that to D’Arcy here—he’ll believe you—eh, D’Arcy?” D’Arcy looked mysterious.

“It’s no laughing matter, young Wheatfield,” said he, in a loud whisper, evidently intended for the eager ears of Fisher minor. “I heard Yorke just now ask Denton if he thought Fisher’s minor was all there. Denton seemed quite cut up, and said he hadn’t known it before, but it must be a great family trouble to the Fishers. It accounted for Fisher major’s frequent low spirits. You know,” continued D’Arcy confidentially, “I can’t help myself thinking it’s a little rough on Fisher major for his people to send a minor who’s afflicted like this to Fellsgarth. They might at least have put him on the Modern side. He’d have been better understood there.”

This speech Fisher minor listened to with growing perplexity. Was D’Arcy in jest or earnest? He seemed to be in earnest, and the serious faces of his listeners looked like it too. Had the captain really made that remark to Denton? Suppose there was something in it! Suppose, without his knowing, he was really a little queer in his head! His people might have told him of it. And Fisher major, his brother—even he hadn’t heard of it! Oh dear! oh dear! How was he ever to recover his reputation for sanity? Whatever induced him to sing that song?

Poor Fisher minor devoutly wished himself home again, within reach of his mother’s soothing voice and his sisters’ smiles. They understood him. These fellows didn’t. They knew he was not an idiot. These fellows didn’t.

Further reflection was cut short by a loud call to order and cheers, as Yorke, the captain, rose to his feet.

Every one liked Yorke. As captain of the School even the Moderns looked up to him, and were forced to admit that he was a credit to Fellsgarth. In Wakefield’s, his own house, he was naturally an idol. Prodigious stories were afloat as to his wisdom and his prowess. Examiners were reported to have rent their clothes in despair at his answers; and at football, rumour had it that once, in one of the out-matches against Ridgmoor, he had run the ball down the field with six of the other side on his back, and finished up with a drop at the goal from thirty yards.

But his popularity in his own house depended less on these exploits than on his general good-nature and incorruptible fairness. He scorned to hit an opponent when he was down, and yet he would knock down a friend as soon as a foe if the credit of the School required it. A few, indeed, there were whose habit it was to sneer at Yorke for being what they called “a saint.” The captain of Fellsgarth would have been the last to claim such a title for himself; yet those who knew him best knew that in all he did, even in the common concerns of daily school life, he relied on the guidance and help of a Divine Friend, and was not ashamed to own his faith.

The one drawback to his character in the eyes of certain of his fellow-prefects and others at Wakefield’s was that in the standing feud between Classics and Moderns he would take no part. He demanded the allegiance of all parties on behalf of the School, and if any man refused it, Yorke was the sort of person who would make it his business to know the reason why.

Now as he got up and waited for the cheers to cease, no one could deny that he wasn’t as fine a captain as Wakefield’s could expect to see for many a day. And for the first time some of those who even feared him realised with a qualm that this was the last “first-night” on which he would be there to make the usual speech.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we are all glad to be back in the old place,” (cheers). “At any rate I am,” (loud cheers). “On first-night, as you know, we always combine business with pleasure. We have just had the pleasure,” (laughter, in the midst of which Fisher minor pricked up his ears and wondered if his song wasn’t going to be appreciated after all). “The lambs have bleated and done their level best, I’m sure,” (renewed laughter, and cries of “How now?”). “Now for the business. Gentlemen, the house clubs demand your support.” (Fisher minor turned deadly green as he remembered the Modern boy and his half-crown. He looked round wildly for Ashby, but Ashby was standing between Wally and D’Arcy, and the proximity was not encouraging for Fisher’s purpose. The idea occurred to him of appealing to his brother. But Fisher major, pen in hand, sat at the receipt of custom, and he dare not approach). “We hope there will be no shirking. Every fellow in the house is expected to back up the clubs. If the House clubs are not kept up to the mark, the School clubs are sure to go down,” (cheers). “We don’t ask much. The seniors pay 5 shillings, the middle-boys 3 shillings 6 pence, and the juniors 2 shillings 6 pence.” (Fisher minor glanced frantically in the direction of the door, and began to edge that way.) “Now, gentlemen, one word more. You know, last term, there was a lot of bad blood between Classics and Moderns,” (great cheers and three groans for the Moderns). “Of course it’s open to any idiot who likes to make a fool of himself, and quarrel