istian name, isn't it?"

"Dick,--Don't be a fool. You were a fine fellow when you came. What
are you now? Don't let fellows lead you astray. You can be a fine
fellow without being a bad one. Let the 'Sociables' alone. They'll
teach you to be a cad. If you don't care for yourself, think of
Heathcote, who only needs your encouragement to make a worse failure
than he has made already. Save him from Pledge. Then you'll be a fine
fellow, with a vengeance. Your real friend,--

"Junius.

"P.S.--Translate 'Dominat qui in se dominatur.'"

The first thing that struck Dick about this extraordinary epistle was,
that it was odd the ghost should write his letters on Templeton exercise
paper. It then occurred to him that it was rather rough to put him
through his paces in Latin idioms at a time like this. Couldn't the
ghost get a dictionary, or ask a senior, and find out for himself?

It then occurred to him, who on earth was it who had written to him like
this? Some one who knew him, that was certain; and he almost fancied it
must be some one who liked him, for a fellow wouldn't take the trouble
to tell him he was a fine fellow at the beginning of the term, and all
that sort of thing, unless he had a fancy for him.

What did he mean by "What are you now?" It sounded as if he meant "You
are not a fine fellow now." Rather a personal remark.

"What's it got to do with him what I am now?" reflected Dick, digging
his hands into his pockets, and resuming his promenade. "And what does
he mean by fellows leading me astray? Like to catch any one trying it
on, that's all. Like to catch _him_, for the matter of that, for his
howling cheek!"

Dick sat down on one of the stone benches, and pulled out the letter for
another perusal.

"'Let the Sociables alone.' Oh, ah! most likely he's been blackballed
himself, and don't like any one to--. Humph! wonder if they _are_ a
shady lot or not? What does he mean by saying they'll teach me to be a
cad? Who'll teach me to be a cad? Not a muff like Braider."

At that moment a door opened at the end of the corridor, and a voice
shouted--

"Richardson!"

It was Braider's voice, and Dick knew it.

He crumpled the letter up in his hand, and the colour came and went from
his cheeks.

"Richardson! where are you?" called Braider again, for it was dusk, and
our hero's seat was screened from view.

Dick coloured again, and bit his lips; and finally got up from the
bench, and