e citizens rallied
round with bread, jam, and apples. And the army lunched sumptuously.

In the early afternoon they rested, and as evening began to fall, the
march home was started.

* * * * *

At the school, net practice was just coming to an end when, faintly,
as the garrison of Lucknow heard the first skirl of the pipes of the
relieving force, those on the grounds heard the strains of the school
band and a murmur of many voices. Presently the sounds grew more
distinct, and up the Wrykyn road came marching the vanguard of the
column, singing the school song. They looked weary but cheerful.

As the army drew near to the school, it melted away little by little,
each house claiming its representatives. At the school gates only a
handful were left.

Bob Jackson, walking back to Donaldson's, met Wyatt at the gate, and
gazed at him, speechless.

"Hullo," said Wyatt, "been to the nets? I wonder if there's time for a
ginger-beer before the shop shuts."

CHAPTER XII

MIKE GETS HIS CHANCE

The headmaster was quite bland and business-like about it all. There
were no impassioned addresses from the dais. He did not tell the
school that it ought to be ashamed of itself. Nor did he say that he
should never have thought it of them. Prayers on the Saturday morning
were marked by no unusual features. There was, indeed, a stir of
excitement when he came to the edge of the dais, and cleared his
throat as a preliminary to making an announcement. Now for it, thought
the school.

This was the announcement.

"There has been an outbreak of chicken-pox in the town. All streets
except the High Street will in consequence be out of bounds till
further notice."

He then gave the nod of dismissal.

The school streamed downstairs, marvelling.

The less astute of the picnickers, unmindful of the homely proverb
about hallooing before leaving the wood, were openly exulting. It
seemed plain to them that the headmaster, baffled by the magnitude of
the thing, had resolved to pursue the safe course of ignoring it
altogether. To lie low is always a shrewd piece of tactics, and there
seemed no reason why the Head should not have decided on it in the
present instance.

Neville-Smith was among these premature rejoicers.

"I say," he chuckled, overtaking Wyatt in the cloisters, "this is all
right, isn't it! He's funked it. I thought he would. Finds the job too
big to tackle."

Wyatt was damping.