common way of prefacing
any unlikely story at Fellsgarth; and what with fact and fiction, the
hero had come to be quite a mythical celebrity at Fellsgarth.

His thrift was another of his characteristics. He had never been seen
to spend a penny, unless it was to save twopence. If fellows had dared,
they would have liked now and then to pay his subscriptions to the
clubs; or even hand on an old pair of cricket shoes or part of the
contents of a hamper for his benefit. But woe betide them if they ever
tried it! The only extravagance he had ever been known to commit was
some months ago, when he bought a book of trout-flies, which rumour said
must have cost him as much as an ordinary Classic's pocket-money for a
whole term.

To an impressionable youth like Fisher minor it was only natural that
Rollitt should be an object of awe. For a day or two after his arrival,
when the stories he had heard were fresh in his memory, the junior was
wont to change his walk to a tip-toe as he passed the queer boy's door.
If ever he met him face to face, he started and quaked like one who has
encountered a ghost or a burglar. After a week this excess of deference
toned down. Finding that Rollitt neither hurt nor heeded him, he
abandoned his fears, and, instead of running away, stood and stared at
his man, as if by keeping his eye hard on him he could discover his
mystery.

It was two or three days after Elections that Fisher minor, having
discovered by the absence of everybody from their ordinary haunts that
it was a half-holiday, took it into his head to explore a little way
down the Shargle Valley. He believed the other fellows had gone up; and
he thought it a little unfriendly that they should have left him in the
lurch.

He was not particularly fond of woods, unless there were nuts in them;
or of rivers, unless there were stones on the banks to shy in. Still,
it seemed to be half-holiday form at Fellsgarth to go down valleys, so
he went, quite indifferent to the beauties of Nature, and equally
indifferent as to where this walk brought him.

A mile below Fellsgarth, as everybody knows, the Shargle tumbles wildly
into the Shayle, with a great fuss of rapids and cataracts and "narrows"
to celebrate the fact; and a mile further, the united streams flow
tamely out among reeds and gravel islands into Hawkswater.

Fisher minor had nearly reached the junction, and was proceeding to
speculate on the possibility of picking his way a