sceptically.

"I'll show it you now," said Arthur, "if you'll promise to keep it dark.
I'm not making up a bit of it."

"If you aren't, all I can say is--Where are they?"

"Come and see," said Arthur, leading the way to his study.

Dig was out on leave in the village.

"There you are," said Arthur, when he had opened his locker and produced
the precious relics. "There's the match-box. Have you ever seen any
others of the same kind? I have."

"I fancy I saw one once," said Felgate.

"Belonging to a fellow six foot two who could reach up to the ledge?"

Felgate nodded.

"Now look at that paper--a bit of the _Standard_: there's part of the
address. I fancy I know my sister Daisy's fist when I see it. There
you are! That was screwed up to jam open the door to keep it from
sliding-to. Six foot two again. Then there's the sack--precious like
an M and an R those two letters, aren't they? and M R is precious like
the initials of six foot two again. I don't blame him if he did scrag
old Bickers--very good job; and as it happens, it don't hurt our house
very much now we're going to get all the sports; and I'm booked for the
Swift Exhibition--L20 a-year for three years. We mean to back him up,
and that's one reason why we're going to give him the testimonial--
though none of the chaps except Dig knows about these things. I say, be
sure you keep it quiet, Felgate, won't you? I trust you not to tell
anybody a word about it."

"Don't you be afraid of me, youngster," said Felgate. "I'd advise you
to take good care of those things. We'll have some fun with them when
the trial comes on again. Don't go saying too much about it till then.
Did I give you the sixpence? No? There it is. Put it down from `A
Friend.' I must go now, young 'un."

He departed, leaving Arthur to pack up his treasures, amid some
misgivings lest the sixpence in his hand was after all hardly worth the
secret he had bought it with.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

CHALLENGING THE RECORD.

On the Monday before Railsford's sports, Ainger and Barnworth sat rather
dismally conning a document which lay on the table between them.

It was Smedley's report of the School sports held the Saturday before,
and was sufficiently alarming to dishearten any ordinary reader.

"`The Mile Race. Smedley 1, Branscombe 2. Time 4 minutes 50 seconds.'
Whew!" said Ainger, "I can't beat that; 4.52 is the shortest I've done
it in, and I doubt if I could do that