ion. Scaife, very red in the face, burst into shrill shouts of
laughter. Somehow the laughter disconcerted John. He forgot to deliver
his message, but stood staring at Scaife, quaking with a young boy's
terror of the unknown. Upon the table were some siphons, syrups, and the
remains of a "spread."

"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