of his pretty pink ears, but feeling the majority and the bully
were against Brown, ventured to say--

"He's only running you!"

Nellie Underwood pushed herself into a prominent position in the group
and cried--

"I seen him coming out of Dene Hall gates, and old Mr. Carew was with
him. So there!"

John Brown chose another weather-board and the group closed round him to
read--

"John Carew-Brown, only grandson of Captain Carew, of Dene Hall,
Willoughby, Sydney, N.S. Wales, Australia, Southern Hemisphere," which
certainly looked imposing and had the effect of silencing every one for
almost half a minute.

Then the bully's eyes glared into Cyril's pretty blue ones, and he said
angrily--

"You said you were the only grandson."

Cyril did not speak.

"You said," repeated the bully, "you said the Captain was going to
adopt you, and give you his collection of guinea pigs."

Cyril hung his crimson face and kicked the ground with the toe of his
boot.

John Brown chose another weather-board and wrote--

"Captain Carew has no guinea pigs," which sent most of the blood away
from Cyril's face. The bully was eyeing him angrily, and even went as
far as doubling up one fist.

"You said he was going to give you five shillings a week pocket-money,
and let you buy my white mice," he muttered, and Cyril found himself
face to face with the occasion, and with no clever intervening Betty to
throw the right word into the right place, and so save his skin and his
honour.

"So he is," he said, moving away from Brown as far as he dared--"and so
I am the only grandson." He looked over his shoulder and beheld Brown's
back, whereupon he felt if Brown could not see he could not hear.
"_He's_ only the gardener's boy," he said; "ask"--his mind made a swift
excursion for an authority--"ask my grandfather," he said, "any of you
who like, ask my grandfather."

Brown and his chalk advanced to Cyril.

"Who told you I was the gardener's boy?" he asked. Cyril looked from foe
to foe, and the wild thought of denying he had said such words entered
his mind, only to be followed by a swift remembrance of various daring
deeds of the bully's.

So he went over recklessly to Arthur Smedley's side.

"My grandfather!" he said.

"Are you going to be adopted?" asked the bully.

"Yes," said Cyril in desperation.

"Are you going to have five shillings a week?" demanded the bully.

"No--I'm going to have ten," roared Cyril.

A window belongi