aying
cards upon the table, and pushing back his chair. "I shan't play any
more to-night; I've got no more tin."

"Oh, go on; I'll lend you some," answered Fletcher. "I don't care
whether I win or lose; it's only the game I play for."

As a matter of fact, Fletcher nearly always _did_ win, and was mightily
displeased on the rare occasions when he lost.

"No; I've borrowed enough already," returned the other. "I shan't be
able to square up as it is till next term. It's all very well for
fellows like you three, who have rich people, and can write home any
time for a fiver; but I'm not so flush of cash.--Look here, Gull, have
you got that banjo? Sing us a song."

"All right," answered Gull, reaching down and picking a small
five-stringed instrument off the floor; "what'll you have?"

"Oh, something with a good swing to it. I feel like kicking up a row."

Gull tuned up, struck a few chords, and then launched out into a
rattling nigger song with an amount of "go" and clatter sufficient to
inspire the hearer with an almost irresistible desire to get up and
dance. The three listeners shouted the chorus at the top of their
voices, pounding the table with their fists by way of a sort of drum
accompaniment. Gull was just preparing to commence the fourth verse
when there was a knock at the study door.

"Wait a jiff," said Thurston.--"Who's there? What d'you want?"

"Why," came the answer, uttered in rather a drawling tone, "I wish you
fellows wouldn't make so much row. I can't possibly work. Do be
quiet."

"Oh, go to Bath!" shouted Thurston.--"It's only that old stew-pot
Browse," he added. "The beggar's got the next study, and he's cramming
up for some 'exam.'--Go on, Gull."

The entertainment continued, and waxed more noisy than ever, the
performers hammering the table with a ruler and two walking-sticks to
add zest to the choruses.

Soon there came another interruption, very different in tone from the
mild expostulation of the studious Browse. The door was violently
shaken, and from without came the sharp, peremptory order of the
school captain,--

"Look here, Thurston, just shut up; we've had enough of this horrible
row for one night. Stop it, d'you hear?"

"All right," growled the owner of the study; "keep your hair on, old
fellow!"

"Sh! steady on, Thirsty," said Fletcher, in a low tone. "Don't go too
far, or he'll put a stop to our next merry meeting. I know Allingford,
and he's rather a ha