hey had the unspeakable anguish of beholding Wally, D'Arcy,
Ashby, and Fisher minor, with _their_ ball, having a ding-dong game of
punt-about on the sacred Modern grass, under their very eyes.

How these four enjoyed themselves and kicked about the ball, nodding and
kissing their hands all the while at the mortified enemy, who sat like
caged beasts glaring at them through their bars, and gnawing their
fingers in impotent fury!

Sometimes, to add a little relish to the sport, they invited a passing
prefect of their own house to give the ball a punt, and once a neat
drop-kick from D'Arcy left a muddy splotch on the face of the sundial
above border's door.

This was too much; and when, a few minutes later, they caught sight of
the marauders waving to them and calling attention by pantomimic gesture
to the fact that they were carrying off the ball once more to their own
quarters, Percy could contain himself no longer.

"Beasts!" he ejaculated.

"Wheatfield," said Mr Forder, who was in charge of the class, "write me
out fifty lines of the _Paradise Lost_ and a letter of apology in Latin
for using bad language in class."

Percy was conducted home by his friends that morning in a critical
state. He felt it necessary to kick somebody, and therefore kicked
them; and they, entirely misunderstanding his motives, kicked back.
Consequently, a good deal of time was occupied in arranging matters all
round on a comfortable footing; by the end of which time the fraternity,
though marred in visage, felt generally easier in its mind.

It was no use appealing to the Modern prefects. They had made a mess of
it so far, and weren't to be trusted. Nor did the course of lodging a
complaint with Yorke commend itself to the company. It might be
mistaken for telling tales. How would it do to--

Here entered Robert, the school porter, with a letter addressed
"Wheatfield minor, Mr Forder's," in a scholarly hand.

"Wheatfield minor," snarled Percy; "that's not me, Bob. What do you
take me for! Here, take it over to Wakefield's, and look about for the
dirtiest, ugliest, beastliest kid you can see. That's Wheatfield
minor."

"You'll be sore to know him by his likeness to Percy," added Cash, by
way of encouragement.

"But Wakefield's ain't Forder's," observed the sage Robert. "Look what
the envelope says."

True; it must be meant for Percy after all.

"You go and tell him it's like his howling cheek to call me minor,
whoever it