disgust. After a brief struggle
Scaife succumbed, helpless and senseless.

"One is reminded sometimes," said the Caterpillar, solemnly, "that the
poor Demon is the son of a Liverpool merchant, bred in or about the
Docks."

Nobody, however, paid any attention to Egerton, who, to do him justice,
was the only boy present absolutely unmindful of his own peril.
Expulsion loomed imminent. The window was flung wide open, eau de
Cologne liberally applied. Scaife lay like a log.

And then, in the middle of the confusion, Trieve walked in.

"Scaife has had a sort of fit," explained an accomplished liar. "You
know what his temper is, Trieve? And when he heard that you meant to
'whop' him, he went stark staring mad."

This explanation was so near the truth that Trieve accepted it,
probably with mental reservations.

"You had better send for Mrs. Puttick," he replied coldly.

The Caterpillar was despatched for the matron; but before that worthy
woman panted upstairs, Scaife had been carried to his own room, hastily
undressed and put into bed, where he lay breathing stertorously. The
matron, good easy soul, accepted the boys' story unhesitatingly. A
fit, of course, poor dear child! Mr. Rutford must be summoned.

With the optimism of youth, those present began to hope that dust might
be thrown into the eyes of Dirty Dick. And, with a little discreet
delay, the Demon might recover, when he could be relied upon to play
his part with adroitness and ability. Accordingly, the matron was
urged to try her ministering hand first, amid the chaff, which, even in
emergencies, slips so easily out of boys' mouths.

"Mrs. Puttick, you're better than any doctor--Scaife is all right,
_really_. We knew that he was subject to fits--Rather! Some one was
telling me that one of his aunts died in a fit.--Shut up, you silly
fool," this in a whisper, emphasized by a kick; "do you want to send
her out of this with a hornets' nest tied to her back hair?--That's a
lie, Mrs. Puttick. He's humbugging you. Scaife told me that his fits
were nothing. Yes; he had a slight sunstroke when he was a kid, you
know, and the least bit of excitement affects him."

"Perhaps I'd better fetch a drop of brandy," said Mrs. Puttick, staring
anxiously at Scaife. "He looks very bad."

"Yes, please do, Mrs. Puttick."

She bustled away.

"Now we _must_ bring him to," said the Fifth Form.

Everything was tried, even to the expedient of flicking Scaife's