end of an hour Mr Deane could bear it no longer, for it
had happened at a time when he was not so well as usual, and it required
a strong effort of will to be patient with the inattentive lads when
suffering pain.

And so it was that at last he uttered the "dear dears" and "tut tuts,"
and roused the two boys from their dreams about what they would see in
the afternoon.

"Are you unwell, Vincent Burnet?" he said.

"Unwell, sir?--oh no!" said the lad, colouring a little.

"You seem so strange in your manner this morning; and Michael Ladelle
here is the same. I hope you are not both sickening for something."

"Oh, I'm quite well, sir," said Mike hurriedly. "Perhaps it's the
weather."

"Perhaps it is," said Mr Deane drily. "Now, pray get on with those
problems."

"Yes, of course," cried Vince; and he began to work away most
industriously, till, as the tutor was resting his head upon his hand and
looking down at the paper upon which he was himself working out the
problem he had set the boys, so as to be able to show them, step by
step, how it was best done, Mike scribbled something on a scrap, shut it
in a book, and passed it to Vince, after glancing across the table and
then giving him a nudge.

Vince glanced across too; but Mr Deane was apparently intent upon the
problem, his delicate right-hand guiding the new quill pen, and forming
a long series of beautifully formed characters which were always looked
upon by the boys with envy and surprise.

Vince opened the book at the scrap of paper and read:

"I say: let's tell old Deane, and make him go with us."

Vince turned the paper over and wrote:

"What for? He'd spoil it all. Want to knock all the fun out of our
discovery?"

The scrap was shut up in the book and pushed back to the sender; the
work continued, and then came another nudge and the book once more, with
a fresh scrap of paper stuck in.

"I say, I can't get on a bit for thinking about the Black Scraw."

Vince wrote on the back:

"More can I. Get on with your work, and don't bother."

This was forwarded by library table post, and then there was nothing
heard but the scratching of the tutor's pen. But Mike's restlessness
increased: he fidgeted and shuffled about in his chair, shook the table,
and tried all kinds of positions to help him in solving his algebraic
problem, but without avail. Scrub oaks, ravens and red-legged choughs
danced before his eyes; great dark holes opened in the roc