preach me a humbugging canting sermon
first."

But there was no sternness in the Doctor's voice as he went on. It was
solemn, almost affectionate.

"I am sorry to say I have received bad news, I fear very bad news, but--
we must hope for the best."

"What, sir?" shouted Haviland, springing to his feet. "Who is it?
Who?"

"Your father."

Haviland's face went deadly white. He staggered forward, and in his
agony of grief seized the headmaster--the terrible headmaster--by the
coat sleeve.

"Is he--is he--?"

"Alive, yes. But, my poor boy, you must go to him at once. Everything
is arranged for you to catch the earliest train for London, and you have
just a quarter of an hour to get ready in."

"Tell me, sir, what have you heard?" besought Haviland piteously.

Dr Bowen, like many hot-tempered men, was at bottom soft-hearted, and
now he could hardly control his voice to reply, so deeply was he
affected. For the telegram which he had received was to the effect that
Haviland's father had met with a street accident, and was not expected
to live till night. If his son arrived in time to see him again, it was
all that could be hoped.

"Remember, Haviland," he said, after conveying this as feelingly as
possible, "that, after all, while there is life there is hope, however
small. Go now and get ready. In view of this great grief which has
been sent you I will say nothing of what is past, except that when you
return to us next term, I am sure you will redeem what is past and start
afresh."

The latter was intended to convey that, under the great sorrow which had
fallen upon him, Haviland might consider the past overlooked, and that
although he was going home now, it was not under expulsion.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

HUNTED.

On, through the steamy forest, heavy and damp with the tropical rain;
on, over stodgy swamp land, whose miasmatic exhalations rise misty and
foul in visible vapour, the fugitive is wending. Toiling for very life
is he, dragging with infinite labour each spent footstep over the
yielding and spongy ground, drawing breath in long gasps; and ever
throughout his entire frame that sinking and yet sickening and agonising
sensation of feeling utterly spent; wounded too, in more places than
one, unarmed and without means of defence--a solitary fugitive in the
mighty heart of that vast stretch of African forest land. What chance
has he?

He stumbles on, and a sigh of relief, of thankfulness, es