with the doctor.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

DEEPEST DEPTHS.

We did not see Tempest again till the afternoon. As we most of us
surmised, he was relieving his feelings after his interview with the
doctor by a spin on the river.

How, I wondered, had the interview gone? Had he agreed to the
humiliating condition of apologising to Mr Jarman, or had his pride
been too much for him after all? If so, this was probably his last spin
on the river.

Had our house been Selkirk's, there would, no doubt, have been wagers on
the event. As it was, the Philosophers contented themselves with
bickering. The general impression seemed to be that he had refused to
surrender. That being so, the game was up--there was no object in
keeping up appearances.

A spirit of defiance seemed to get hold of us. We deliberately sat on
the fence of the prohibited playing fields, in the hope that Mr Jarman
or some one would see us. Trimble even went to the length of crossing
it at one corner.

What made it more trying was the conduct of the day boys, who, with an
acuteness which did them credit, seemed to have discovered our delicate
situation, and resolved to make the most of it.

They paraded the field about twenty yards from our fence, jeering at us
openly, and daring us to set foot on the turf.

"Look at them," said one, "hung up like a lot of washing on the palings.
We'll make them cut. Let's have a scientific meeting. That'll clear
them out."

Whereupon the Urbans ranged themselves on the grass under our noses, and
called upon Mr Flitwick to address them on the "Treatment of Lunatics."

This was too much. We were few in number, and the palings were hard and
uncomfortable. But if they thought they were going to frighten us away
by this demonstration, they were mistaken.

Langrish, in a loud voice, called out "Chair," whereupon I, taking the
cue, and assuming that the Philosophers were in congress, called upon
Mr Trimble to favour us with his oration on "Mud."

"Oh, all serene," said Trimble, who till that moment had had as little
notion of his subject as I had had. "Mud is dirty lumps of stuff lying
about on the grass, like what you see in front of you. It has neither
brains nor sense. It's a vile thing to look at, and worse to touch. If
you--"

"--If you," here broke in Mr Flitwick, "want to see what lunatics
really are, you should look on the palings of some of our school playing
fields. If you happen to see a row of