the
boys led the procession, going two and two, with the girls tripping
demurely behind, as was compatible with the masculine idea of the
fitness of things. The procession marched along quietly enough. Only
one digression occurred, when Neil Neil and Patsy Regan halted long
enough to hold a muscular dispute as to who should lead the van, a
contest in which both the Flag that Braved a Thousand Years and the
Maple Leaf Forever were trampled in the dust of the highway. The
matter was settled by their teacher setting the two belligerents, with
sundry cuffs and jerks, to march side by side, which they did in
perfect peace until they reached the grove.

And then it occurred--the great disaster! Just how it was managed, or
whether it was impromptu or with malice aforethought, the schoolmaster
did not know. But just as they entered the leafy path and he was
clearing his throat to give the keynote of "Upon the Heights of
Queenston," without warning or disturbance, the flags of their country
were flung to the ground and the disloyal young Britons were scurrying
off through the woods in twenty different directions, leaping over
fallen logs, crashing through underbrush and whooping like a pack of
wild Indians. The crucial moment had proved too much for schoolboy
modesty. Mr. Watson glared around to find himself left with only a
handful of embarrassed and giggling girls. Just one boy remained,
little Tommy Basketful, who was too small to run away and who held to
his sister's hand. There was no use trying to have the procession now;
the master dismissed the girls in a choking voice and went raging
through the woods to find Mr. Egerton, his progress and his wrath
accelerated by snatches of the interrupted song coming in high falsetto
voice or deep bass growl, from tree-top or hollow stump.

"I'll wager my next year's salary it's that young Turk, Neil, who's at
the bottom of it all!" he cried when he had finished the dismal recital
and wiped the perspiration from his face. "By Jove, if it isn't a fix!
There's Splinterin' Andra over by the platform; he'll never get over
it! Yes sir, it's young Neil Neil's done it all, with Patsy Regan's
help. They think they're safe because it's holidays, but I'll lay my
rawhide on to them next term or my name's not George Watson!"

"Never mind," said the minister, with his usual kindly cheerfulness,
"we shall have the programme at any rate."

"Programme! That's just what we won't have