day tiles they executed a monster tug-of-war in the bottom corridor!
Stephen and Bramble fought their usual battle in top hats, and Master
Paul insisted on wearing the same decoration while washing up Oliver's
tea-things. It was a splendid hit, and for once in a way Guinea-pigs
and Tadpoles scored one, for the Fifth appeared next day in their
ordinary "boilers," and the dignity of the monitors was vindicated.

But the blood was up between Fifth and Sixth, and each Form looked
forward to the match, Sixth _versus_ School, with redoubled interest.

"Were not these boys fools?" some one asks.

To be sure they were, sir. But what of that? they were none the less
boys, and most of them fine young fellows, too, with all their nonsense.

However, as has been said, all this came out of the circumstances which
attended the bringing out of the first number of the _Dominican_, and
there seemed but a poor look-out for Number 2, which was now nearly due,
in consequence.

"What on earth am I to do?" asked Pembury of Tom Senior one day; "I've
not got a single contribution yet. There's you making out you're too
busy, and Rick the same. It's all humbug, I know! What are you busy at
I'd like to know? I never saw you busy yet."

"Upon my word, old man," said Tom, "I'm awfully sorry, but I've got a
tremendous lot to do. I'm going to try for the French prize; I am,
really."

"And you'll get it, too; rather! Wasn't it you who translated `I know
the way to write' into `_Je non le chemin a writer_' eh? Oh, stick to
French by all means, Tom; it's in your line! But you might just as well
write for Number 2."

"I really can't this time," said Tom.

Ricketts had an excuse very similar. Bullinger had hurt his foot, he
said, and could not possibly write; and Braddy had begun to study
fossils, he said, and was bound to devote all his spare time to them.
To all of whom Master Pembury gave a piece of his mind.

"Wray, old man," said he, that evening, "you and Noll and I shall have
to do the whole thing between us, that's all about it."

"Awfully sorry!" said Wraysford; "you'll have to let me off this time.
I'm working like nails for the Nightingale."

"Bother the Nightingale, I say! What is it to the _Dominican_? Come, I
say, old man, that won't do! you aren't going to leave me in the lurch
like all the rest?"

But Wraysford was; he would gladly have helped if he could, but he
really must not this time; perhaps he would for t