e
and sit here out of the cold."

Horace picked himself up, laughing.

"All very well," said he. "I'm certain I should have done it twelve
times if you hadn't put me off my jump. Never mind, I'll do it yet."

"Oh, Horace," interposed one of the others, beseechingly, "if you love
us, lie down now. I'm quite ill watching you, I assure you. We'll all
vow we saw you do it twelve times; we'll put it in the _Times_ if you
like, and say the net was five feet ten; anything, as long as you don't
start at it again."

This appeal had the effect of reducing the volatile Horace to a state of
quiescence, and inducing him to come and share the shade with his
companions.

"Never saw such a lazy lot," said he, lying flat on his back and
balancing his racquet on his finger; "you won't do anything yourselves
and you won't let any one else do anything. Regular dogs in the
manger."

"My dear fellow," said the fourth of the party in a half drawl, "we've
been doing nothing but invite you in to the manger for the last hour,
and you wouldn't come. Can't you take a holiday while we've got one?"

"Bad luck to it," said Reginald; "there's only a week more."

"I don't see why you need growl, old man," said the visitor who had
spoken first; "you'll get into the sixth and have a study to yourself,
and no mathematics unless you like."

"Poor Harker," said Horace, "he's always down on mathematics. Anyhow, I
shan't be sorry to show up at Wilderham again, shall you, Bland?"

"Depends on the set we get," drawled Bland (whose full name was
Blandford). "I hear there's a crowd of new fellows coming, and I hate
new fellows."

"A fellow must be new some time or other," said Horace. "Harker and I
were new boys once, weren't we, Harker?"

Harker, who had shared the distinction of being tossed with Horace in
the same blanket every night for the first week of his sojourn at
Wilderham, had not forgotten the fact, and ejaculated,--

"Rather!"

"The mischief is," continued Blandford, "they get such a shady lot of
fellows there now. The school's not half as respectable as it was--
there are far too many shopkeepers' sons and that sort of--"

"Sort of animal, he'd like to say," laughed Horace. "Bland can't get
over being beaten for the French prize by Barber, the tailor's son."

Blandford flushed up, and was going to answer when Reginald interposed.

"Well, and suppose he can't, it's no wonder. I don't see why those
fellows shouldn't h