paused.     

       "'French bad; conduct disgraceful—'"     

       "Everybody rags in French."     

       "'Mathematics bad. Inattentive and idle.'"     

       "Nobody does much work in Math."     

       "'Latin poor. Greek, very poor.'"     

       "We were doing Thucydides, Book Two, last term—all speeches and doubtful readings, and cruxes and things—beastly hard! Everybody says so."     

       "Here are Mr. Appleby's remarks: 'The boy has genuine ability, which he declines to use in the smallest degree.'"     

       Mike moaned a moan of righteous indignation.     

       "'An abnormal proficiency at games has apparently destroyed all desire in him to realize the more serious issues of life.' There is more to the same effect."     

       Mr. Appleby was a master with very definite ideas as to what constituted a public-school master's duties. As a man he was distinctly pro-Mike. He understood cricket, and some of Mike's strokes on the off gave him thrills of pure aesthetic joy; but as a master he always made it his habit to regard the manners and customs of the boys in his form with an unbiased eye, and to an unbiased eye Mike in a form room was about as near the extreme edge as a boy could be, and Mr. Appleby said as much in a clear firm hand.     

       "You remember what I said to you about your report at Christmas, Mike?"       said Mr. Jackson, folding the lethal document and replacing it in its envelope.     

       Mike said nothing; there was a sinking feeling in his interior.     

       "I shall abide by what I said."     

       Mike's heart thumped.     

       "You will not go back to Wrykyn next term."     

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