each in turn. The verdict was unanimous.

"He hates me like poison," said Duff. "I shall catch it hot. What an
unlucky beggar I am!"

"Pooh!" said Scaife. "He knows jolly well that the whole school calls
him Dirty Dick."

But whatever hopes Duff may have entertained of his house-master's
deafness were speedily laid in the dust. Within five minutes Rutford
reappeared. He stood in the doorway, glaring.

"Just now, Duff," said he, "I happened to overhear your voice, which is
singularly, I may say vulgarly, penetrating. You were speaking of me,
your house-master, as 'Dick.' But you used an adjective before it. What
was it?"

Duff writhed. "I don't--remember."

"Oh yes, you do. Why lie, Duff?"

John's brown face grew pale.

"The adjective you used," continued Rutford, "was 'dirty.' You spoke of
_me_ as 'Dirty Dick,' and I fancy I caught the word 'beast.' You will
write out, if you please, one hundred Greek lines, accents and stops,
and bring them to me, or leave them with Dumbleton, _twenty-five_ lines
at a time, _every_ alternate half hour during the afternoon of the next
half holiday. Good night to you."

"Good night, sir," said all the boys, save John and Scaife.

"Good night, Verney."

Master and pupil confronted each other. John's face looked impassive;
and Rutford turned from the new boy to Scaife.

"Good night, Scaife."

Scaife drew himself up, and, in a quiet, cool voice, replied--

"Good night, sir."

Duff waited till Rutford's heavy step was no longer heard; then he
rushed at John.

"I say," he spluttered, "you're a good sort--ain't he, Demon? Refusing
to say 'Good night' to the beast because he was ragging me. But he'll
never forgive you--never!"

"Oh yes, he will," said Scaife. "It won't be difficult for Dirty Dick to
forgive the future Verney of Verney Boscobel."

John stared. "Verney Boscobel?" he repeated. "Why, that belongs to my
uncle. Mother and I hope he'll marry and have a lot of jolly kids of his
own."

"You hope he'll marry? Well, I'm----"

John's jaw stuck out. The emphasis on the "hope" and the upraised
eyebrow smote hard.

"You don't mean to say," he began hotly, "you don't _think_ that----"

"I can think what I please," said Scaife, curtly; "and so can you." He
laughed derisively. "_Thinking_ what they please is about the only
liberty allowed to new boys. Even the Duffer learned to hold his tongue
during his first term."

The Caterpillar--the tall, thin, aristocratic