"What the blazes do you want?" said Lovell, the owner of the room.

"I want Scaife," said John. "I mean that Trieve wants Scaife."

"Oh, Miss Trieve wants Master Scaife, does she? Well, young 'un, you
tell Trieve, with my compliments, that Scaife can't come. See?
Now--hook it!"

But John still stared at Scaife. The boy's dishevelled appearance, his
wild eyes, his shrill laughter, revealed another Scaife.

"You'd better come, Scaife," he faltered.

"Not I," said Scaife. He spoke in a curiously high-pitched voice,
quite unlike his usual cool quiet tone. "Wait a mo'--I'm not Trieve's
fag. I'm nobody's fag now, am I?"

He appealed to the crowd. It was an unwritten rule at the Manor, that
members of the House cricket- or football-Elevens were exempt from
fagging. But the common law of fagging at Harrow holds that any lower
boy is bound to obey the Monitors, provided such obedience is not
contrary to the rules of the school. In practice, however, no boy is
fagged outside his own house, except for cricket-fagging in the summer
term.

"Fag? Not you! Tell Miss Trieve to mind her own business."

John departed, feeling that an older and wiser boy might have tact to
cope with this situation. For him, no course of action presented
itself except delivering what amounted to a declaration of war.

"Won't come? Is he mad?"

"'Can't come,' they said."

"Oh, can't come? Has he hurt himself--sprained anything?"

John was truthful (more of a habit than some people believe). He told
the truth, just as some boys quibble and prevaricate, simply and
naturally. But now, he hesitated. If he hinted--a hint would
suffice--that Scaife had hurt himself--and what more likely after the
furious bit of playing which had secured his "fez"?--Trieve, probably,
would do nothing. John felt in his bones that Trieve would be glad of
an excuse to do--nothing.

"No; he hasn't sprained himself."

"Then why don't he come?"

"I--I----" Then he burst into excited speech. "He looks as if he
_was_ a little mad. Oh, Trieve, won't you leave him alone? Please do!
They must stop before prayers, and then Lawrence will be here."

O unhappy John--thou art not a diplomatist! Why lug in Lawrence, who
has inspired mordant jealousy and envy in the heart of his second in
command?

"Tell Scaife to come here at once," said Trieve, eying a couple of
canes in the corner. "And if he should happen to ask what I want him
for, say that I me