bat?" said another.

"Well, it would be all light again, just the same as it was before."

"Light?" cried the objector. "Why, it would be all black. The wood
would all burn away before the fire got to the lead."

"Would it?" said the inventor of the scheme thoughtfully. "Well, I
suppose it would. But we must do something."

This was agreed to _nem con_, and, after a long meeting for boys, their
faces indicated a satisfactory termination of their debate.

That something had been done was proved two days later, for the
intervening day had been wet; and as usual, on the second day, when it
was time to turn out in the grounds, Slegge ordered up his little band
of slaves and marched them to the cricket-shed for the necessary
implements. Half-a-dozen balls were got out of one locker, the stumps
and bails from another, and from his own particular lock-up, flap-topped
receptacle, Slegge proceeded to take out the special bat with which he
practised hitting--two more, his club-bat and his match-bat, lying there
in their cases of green flannel.

Taking his key, one of a bunch, from his pocket, Slegge proceeded to
unlock the flap-topped cupboard; but somehow the key would not go in,
and he withdrew it, and under the impression that he had made a wrong
selection he passed another along the ring and tried that. This was
worse, and he tried a third, before withdrawing it, blowing into the
pipe, and making it whistle, and then tapping it and bringing forth a
few grains of sand.

"Here, what game's this?" shouted the big fellow in what his enemies
called a bubble-and-squeak voice, due to the fact that in the change
that was taking place his tones were an awkward mingling of treble and
bass; and as he spoke he seized the boy nearest to him by the ear.

"Oh, please don't, sir! Please don't! Please don't! I haven't done
nothing!"

"Done nothing, you little vermin!" shouted Slegge. "Who said you had?
But you've done something. Now, don't deny it, for I'll half-skin you.
You can't deceive me. You have been blowing this lock full of sand and
gravel with a pea-shooter."

"I haven't, sir; I haven't indeed!" cried the boy.

"Then tell me who has?" cried Slegge; and, seizing the boy's fingers, he
held his hand, palm downwards, on the top of the locker, and then began
to torture him by sawing the knuckles of his own doubled fist across the
back.

The boy squealed and yelped, but bore the inquisition-like torture
bravely