ced some bad language from his lips.

The letter he had received from Mansfield a week ago had been nothing to
this. Mansfield and he were equals, and a reverse at Mansfield's hands
was at least an ordinary misfortune of war.

But to be coolly flouted, and to have all the work of a term upset by
three wretched youngsters, who called themselves his affectionate young
friends, was a drop too much in the bucket of the "spider's"
humiliation.

He stared at the letter in a stupid way, like one bewildered. Even its
quaint phrases and artless attempts at conciliation failed to raise a
sneer on his lips. Something told him it was the hardest hit yet, and
that out of the mouths of these honest babes and sucklings his confusion
had reached its climax.

If Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote snapped their fingers at him in the
face of all Templeton, who else would care a fig about him?

The one grain of comfort was in the possession of the secret of Mr
Webster's pencil, to which Pledge clung as his last and winning card.

How to make the most of it was the important question Pledge decided not
to be impatient. Wednesday was to be the great election for the
"Sociables," and, if our heroes' names appeared on the list, as rumour
already said they would, his blow would tell best if held over till
then.

So he sat down, and acknowledged the "Firm's" note as follows:--

My Dear Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote,--Pray do as you like.
Promises are never made to be kept by "Select Sociables" of your high
character. I do not understand what you mean about your row. What
row are you in? _Are_ you in a row? You don't call that little
matter that I am expecting to talk to the "Sociables" about on
Wednesday a row, do you? Please give my kind regards to Georgie
Heathcote, and tell him he will need to beg hard before I trouble him
to lay my cloth. No doubt he has given you many interesting stories
of the miserable week he spent with me last holidays in London. I'm
not surprised at his turning against me after that. I hope I shall
not have to tell anyone some of the stories he has told me of
Richardson and Coote. Excuse this long letter, and believe me, my
dear young jail-birds, your "affectionate" P. Pledge.

This bitter effusion was read next morning by the "Firm" as they walked
down to the "Tub." Its full sting did not come out till after three or
four careful perusals, and then the "Firm" looked