think that we should have extracted something soon, either his arm from its socket or a full confession, but we were interrupted. The door flew open, and Prater (the same being our House-master, and rather a good sort) appeared.     

       'Now then, now then,' he said. Prater's manner is always abrupt.     

       'What's this? I can't have this. I can't have this. Get up at once. Where's Bradshaw?'     

       I rose gracefully to my feet, thereby disclosing the classic features of the lost one.     

       'The Headmaster wants to see you at once, Bradshaw, at the School House. You others had better find something to do, or you will be getting into trouble.'     

       He and Bradshaw left together, while we speculated on the cause of the summons.     

       We were not left very long in suspense. In a quarter of an hour Bradshaw returned, walking painfully, and bearing what, to the expert's eye, are the unmistakable signs of a 'touching up', which, being interpreted, is corporal punishment.     

       'Hullo,' said White, as he appeared, 'what's all this?'     

       'How many?' enquired the statistically-minded Kendal. 'You'll be thankful for this when you're a man, Bradshaw.'     

       'That's what I always say to myself when I'm touched up,' added Kendal.     

       I said nothing, but it was to me that the wounded one addressed himself.     

       'You utter ass,' he said, in tones of concentrated venom.     

       'Look here, Bradshaw—' I began, protestingly.     

       'It's all through you—you idiot,' he snarled. 'I got twelve.'     

       'Twelve isn't so dusty,' said White, critically. 'Most I ever got was six.'     

       'But why was it?' asked Kendal. 'That's what we want to know. What have you been and gone and done?'     

       'It's about that Euripides paper,' said Bradshaw.     

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