part and parcel of Fellsgarth, every one put
up with him.

As has already been hinted, his management of the School shop had been a
conspicuous failure--both for himself and the young innocents who
squandered their substance on his tarts. He complained that he could
make no profit; and as his method for recouping himself was to supply
the worst possible article at the highest possible price, his young
customers neglected him and aggravated his loss.

It was rumoured that another more questionable method of replenishing
his exchequer was by laying odds on the School games, which (as in the
case of the second Rendlesham match) did not always turn out in the way
he expected. This, however, was only rumour, and was not to be reckoned
among Bob's known transgressions, which were general stupidity,
surliness, unsteadiness, and an inveterate distaste for veracity.

Such being his reputation, it astonished no one on the Monday following
the events recorded in the last chapter to see the shutters of the shop
at the Watch-tower Gate up, and a rudely scrawled announcement, "This
shop is closed."

But what did cause astonishment was a subsequent announcement inscribed
in print letters:--

"This establishment will reopen on Wednesday under entirely new
management. Superior grub at greatly reduced prices. No more shoe-
leather or flat swipes! Best tarts 1 penny each; ditto ginger-beer 11/2
pence a bottle. Fresh fruit and pastry daily. Rally round the old
shop!

"By Order."

Speculation ran high as to who the enterprising new tradesman could be.
Some said it was Mrs Wisdom. Others said one of the Penchurch shops
was going to run it as a branch. Others suggested that some of the
seniors had a hand in it. But the truth never once leaked out.

Our nine juniors played an artful part in that day's business. They
mingled with the crowd in front of the notice, and freely bandied about
wild conjectures as to who the new manager or managers could be, at the
same time hinting broadly that _they_ intended to patronise the new
concern.

"Tell you what," said D'Arcy, "perhaps it's the doctor wants to turn an
honest penny. Don't blame him either."

"Perhaps it's Rollitt," suggested Cash, amid laughter. "What a game!
He'll go selling tarts by the pint and ginger-beer by the ounce. Whew!
think of Rollitt's ginger-beer."

"I asked Bob if he knew who it was," said Wally, "and he said, `No, he
wished he did; he'd get someth