d
made himself an ass, as usual, over some paragraph in the _Record_. That
was it."

Leveson had screwed up the paper, it will be remembered, when he had
read the paragraph about the honour of the Fifth, and, as Paul entered,
had flung it contemptuously from him into a corner of the room. Paul's
eye went to it as Waterman was speaking.

"Paragraph in the _Record_," he repeated, as he smoothed it out. "What
have they got to say about Plunger?"

He quickly read the paragraphs which had reference to Plunger, and then
he read the one which he knew well enough had reference to himself.
Waterman rose from his chair as the paper dropped from Paul's hand and
placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You're cut up, Percival. I wouldn't let that paragraph worry me. It's
really not worth it. There's nothing in the world worth worrying
about--there really isn't."

"You don't mean what you say, Waterman--though it's kind of you to say
it. Honour's worth troubling about--one's own honour; the honour of
one's form; the honour of one's school; and I know that, disguise it as
you may, you're just as keen on it as any in the school. And all the
fellows believe that I've dragged it through the mud."

"Oh, well, things will clear up some day, Percival; then you'll come
into your own," said Waterman cheerfully.

"Some day I suppose they will; but it may be a long time first, and
there's no game so hard to play as the waiting game."

"That's where you're wrong, Percival. There's no game in the world like
it--the waiting game, I mean. There's no fag about it, and that's what I
like. Just wait your time, you know--take it easy--no flurry--go as you
please. It's the game of all games for my ha'pence. It really is,
Percival. So don't worry, old fellow--and don't flurry."

Paul could not help smiling to himself at Waterman's easy view of
things, but the smile quickly disappeared when he was once more alone.
Waterman had talked about "things clearing up," and "coming into his
own"; but would things ever clear up? Would he ever win back the honour
of the Form, and the confidence of those who belonged to it? Saddest of
all was the memory that Stanley, who had been his greatest friend, now
appeared to be his greatest enemy.

Suddenly it occurred to him--he would write to Mr. Walter Moncrief, and
tell him what had happened that night when he went to Dormitory X. The
idea had occurred to him before, but he had put it off in the hope that
he might h