play-ground, as
Abel Newt and some of the other boys were resting after a game at ball.
There were no personal allusions in what Abel had said, but Gabriel took
him up a little curtly:

"Pooh! Abel, how would you like to have Gyles Blanding shy his boots at
your head?"

Abel looked at him a moment, sarcastically. Then he replied:

"My young friend, I should like to see him try it. But fagging concerns
small boys, not large ones."

"Yes!" retorted Gabriel, his eyes flashing, as he kept tossing the ball
nervously, and catching it; "yes, that's the meanness of it: the little
boy can't help himself."

"By golly, I'd kick!" put in Little Malacca.

"Then you'd be licked till you dropped, my small Sir," said Abel,
sneeringly.

"Yes, Abel," replied Gabriel, "but it's a mean thing for an American boy
to want fagging."

"Not at all," he answered; "there are some young American gentlemen I
know who would be greatly benefited by being well fagged; yes, made to
lie down in the dirt and lick a little of it, and fetch and carry. And to
be kicked out of bed every morning and into bed every night would be the
very best thing that could happen to 'em. By George, I should like to
have the kicking and licking begin now!"

Gabriel had the same dislike of Abel which the latter felt for him,
but they had never had any open quarrel. Even thus far in the present
conversation there had been nothing personal said. It was only a warm
general discussion. Gabriel merely asked, when the other stopped,

"What good does the fagging do the fellow that flings the boots and
bullies the little one?"

"Good?" answered Abel--"what good does it do? Why,
he has been through it all himself, and he's just paying it
off."

Abel smiled grimly as he looked round upon the boys, who did not seem at
all enthusiastic for his suggestion.

"Well," said he, "I'm afraid I shall have to postpone my millennium of
fagging. But I don't know what else will make men of you. And mark you,
my merry men, there's more than one kind of fagging;" and he looked in a
droll way--a droll way that was not in the least funny, but made the boys
all wonder what Abel Newt was up to now.

CHAPTER IV.

NIGHT.

It was already dusk, but the summer evening is the best time for play.
The sport in the play-ground at Mr. Gray's was at its height, and the
hot, eager, panting boys were shouting and scampering in every direction,
when a man ran in from the road and cried ou