part of
London. Therefore it was of paramount importance that Mr Julius
Workman should be kept in good-humour.

"Boys are nuisances, terrible nuisances," he had often remarked testily
to Mr Ebden, "and 'pon my word those you have nearly worry me out of my
life. There is no peace in the terrace. All day one can hear their
chatter, and, out in the gardens behind, their shouts are simply
unbearable. Be good enough to see that they are less noisy in future,
please, for not only do they annoy me, but the neighbours complain, and
I have no intention of allowing Silverdale Terrace to be depopulated on
their account."

There was always a scarcely-veiled threat about the man's words. If he
had put them into plainer sentences they would have run: "Your boys are
nuisances, and if I am worried again, I will give you notice to leave."

"Bother the surly old chap!" Mr Ebden would exclaim under his breath,
"he has me fairly on the hip. I am a good tenant and he knows it, but
for all that I can never have a long lease of the house. Two years is
as much as he will allow; if he were to give me notice to quit, I should
have precious little time to look about me, and then--supposing I had to
go elsewhere--what would become of the school? I should lose half my
pupils and half my income at one blow."

Consequently Mr Ebden took care to conciliate the old man; but not so
his pupils. Amongst those mischievous lads Mr Julius Workman was known
as "old Bumble."

"Old Bumble" was voted a bore and a cantankerous Johnny, and each lad,
finding that a shout annoyed him, took particular pains to lift his
voice to the highest pitch whenever "Bumble" was in the vicinity.

Now the old gentleman was inordinately proud of the two plaster statues
in the centre of the lake, and the lads at Ebden's knew it well. Often
before had they thought of playing some practical joke at "Bumble's"
expense, but never had they given it such deep consideration as upon
this night. As they filed in to tea each was bothering his brains as to
how a joke could be played upon him, and afterwards, as they sat at
"prep." with their books in front of them, the glorious life and deeds
of Caesar were forgotten in a vision of "Bumble" surveying his statues.

"Wheeler, what are you gazing at? Go on with your work, sir," Mr
Ebden's voice suddenly rapped out.

Wheeler buried his head in his hands, and pretended to be very deep in
his book. There was silence in the bi