heard a great confusion of merry voices and suppressed laughing, and
saw the heads of some of the lads bobbing about near Mrs. King's garden.

Was it time already to set off, he wondered, looking up to the sun; but
then those boys seemed to be in an uproarious state such as did not suit
his present mood, nor did he think Mr. Cope would consider it befitting.
He would have let them go by, feeling himself such a scare-crow as they
might think a blot upon them; but he remembered that Charles Hayward had
his ticket, and as he looked at himself, he doubted whether he should be
let into a strange church.

'Paul! Paul Blackthorn!' called Harold, with a voice all aglee.

'Well!' said Paul, 'what do you want of me?'

'Come on, and you'll see.'

'I don't want a row. Is Charlie Hayward there? Just ask him for my
card, and don't make a work.'

'He'll give it you if you'll come for it,' said Harold; and seeing there
was no other chance, Paul slowly came. Harold led him to the stable,
where just within the door stood a knot of stout hearty boys, snorting
with fun, hiding their heads on each other's shoulders, and bending their
buskined knees with merriment.

'Now then!' cried Charles Hayward, and he had got hold of the only button
that held Paul's coat together.

Paul was bursting out with something, but George Grant's arms were round
his waist, and his hands were fumbling at his fastenings. They were each
one much stronger than he was now, and they drowned his voice with shouts
of laughter, while as fast as one garment was pulled off, another was put
on.

'Mind, you needn't make such a work, it bain't presents,' said George
Grant, 'only we won't have them asking up at Elbury if we've saved the
guy to bring in.'

'It is a present, though, old Betty Bushel's shirt,' said Charles
Hayward. 'She said she'd throw it at his head if he brought it back
again; but the frock's mine.'

'And the corduroys is mine,' said George Grant. 'My! they be a sight too
big in the band! Run in, Harold, and see if your mother can lend us a
pin.'

'And the waistcoat is my summer one,' said Fred Bunting. 'He's too big
too; why, Paul, you're no better than a natomy!'

'Never mind, my white frock will hide it all,' said Charles, 'and here's
Ned's cap for you. Oh! and it's poor Alfred's boots.'

Paul could not make up his mind to walk all the way in the boots, but to
satisfy the boys he engaged to put them on as soon as they were gettin