anybody. For instance, what villainy could be
concealed in his bowling for an hour at the wickets, or rescuing young
Aspinall from his tormentors? "He will try to make a blackguard of
you." Supposing Junius was right, would it not be warning enough to
fight shy of him when he began to try? Heathcote had reached this stage
in his meditations when he heard Pledge approaching. He hurriedly
crushed the letter away into his pocket, and returned to the bookcase.

"Hullo, young fellow," said Pledge, entering. "Putting things straight?
Thanks. What about your Latin verses? Not done, as usual, I suppose.
Let's have a look. I'll do them for you, and you can fetch them in the
morning. Good-night."

Heathcote retired, utterly puzzled. He could believe a good deal that
he was told, but it took hard persuasion to make him believe that a
senior who could do his Latin verses for him could be his worst enemy.

CHAPTER NINE.

A LITERARY GHOST.

For two whole days Heathcote let "Junius's" letter burn holes in his
pocket, not knowing what to think of it, or what to do with it. For him
to take Dick into his confidence was, however, a mere matter of time,
for Heathcote's nature was not one which could hold a secret for many
days together, and his loyalty to his "leader" was such that whenever
the secret had to come out, Dick's was the bosom that had to receive it.

"It's rum," said the latter, after having read the mysterious document
twice through. "I don't like it, Georgie."

"The thing is, I can't imagine who wrote it. You didn't, did you?"

Dick laughed.

"Rather not. I don't see the good of hole-in-the-corner ways of doing
things like that."

"Do you think Cresswell wrote it? He's about the only senior that knows
me, except Pledge."

"I don't fancy he did; it's not his style," said Dick, who seemed quite
to have taken the whipper-in under his wing.

"He might know. I wonder, Dick, if you'd mind trying to find out? It
maybe a trick, you know, after all."

"Don't look like it," said Dick, glancing again at the letter. "It's
too like what everybody says about _him_."

"That's the worst of it. He's hardly said a word to me since I've been
his fag, and certainly nothing bad; and he writes my Latin verses for
me, too. I fancy fellows are down on him too much."

"Well," said Dick, "I'll try and pump Cresswell; but I _wish_ to
goodness, Georgie, you weren't that beast's fag."

Every conversation he