he next.

Oliver was as bad; he declared the things he had written before--even
with Pembury's assistance--had taken him such ages to do, that he wasn't
going in for the next number. He was very sorry to disappoint, and all
that; but if Tony was in for a scholarship next Michaelmas he would
understand the reason. Why not let the thing drop this month?

This, however, by no means met Tony's views. A pretty figure he would
cut if it were to be said he couldn't keep up a paper for two numbers
running! No! his mind was made up. Number 2 _should_ come out, even if
he wrote every word of it himself! And with that determination he
hobbled off to his study. Here he met Simon waiting for him.

"Oh," said the poet; "I only brought this, if you'll put it in. I think
it's not bad. I could make it longer if you like. I find poetry comes
so easily, you know!"

Tony glanced over the paper and grinned. "Thanks, awfully! This will
do capitally; it would spoil it to make it any longer. You're a brick,
Simon! I wish _I_ could write poetry."

"Oh, never mind. I could do some more bits about other things, you
know, if you like."

Pembury said he didn't think he should require any more "bits," but was
awfully obliged by this one, which was first-rate, a recommendation
which sent Simon away happy to his study, there immediately to compose
the opening stanza of his famous epic, "The Sole's Allegery--a sacred
Poem."

With one contribution in hand, Tony locked his door and sat down to
write. There was something out of the common about Pembury. With the
body of a cripple he had the heart of a lion, and difficulties only made
it more dauntless. Any one else would have thought twice, indeed,
before undertaking the task he was now setting himself to do, and
ninety-nine out of every hundred would have abandoned it before it was
half done. But Tony was indomitable. Every night that week he locked
his study-door, and threats and kicks and entreaties would not open it
even to his dearest friends. And slowly the huge white sheet before him
showed the signs of his diligence. The great long columns, one after
another, filled up; paragraph followed paragraph, and article article.
He coolly continued the "History of Saint Dominic's" begun last month by
Bullinger, and the "Reports of the Sixth Form Debates" commenced by Tom
Senior. And the "Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse" went on just as if
Wraysford had never abandoned it; and t