sing away about Browning the other
day, and said that he believed that in heaven you could do all the
things you wanted to do on earth! And by Jove I would have a hot
time--some place, heaven!"

"By Jove, yes; but you know, Bradford, there won't be much left for you
to do in heaven; at the rate you are going you will have done most
things on earth."

"Oh, I am going to reform, and then I shall write to Claremont and tell
him how I, a wandering sheep, was brought home by his interpretation of
Andrew Dol Portio--I think that's what the thing was called."

"Of course, that is an idea," said Mansell, "but I am not so sure of
what's going to happen when we're dead. I am going to have a jolly good
time, and then take the risk. I never hedge my bets."

"Well, you may go on your way to the eternal bonfire," said Bradford,
"but I am for righteousness. Now, listen to this, it's in the book we
have to read for confirmagers, _Daily Lies on the Daily Path_: '... If
you think that in your house things are being talked about that would
shock your mother or sister, don't merely shun it as something vile. It
is your duty to fight against it; reason with the boys. They probably
have some grain of decency left in them. If that fails, report the
matter to your house master. He will take your side. The boys will
probably be expelled, but you will have done your duty, as Solomon says
in Proverbs....' There now, Mansell. I am one of the children of light.
So you know what to expect from me. Shall I reason with you, lad? Have
you a grain of decency left in you, or must I----"

At this point a well-aimed cushion put an end to the fervour of the new
child of light. Betteridge sat on his head.

"Look here, Bradford," he began, "you may be a convert and all that, but
don't play John the Baptist in here. It does not pay. Very shortly I
shall carry your head to the dustbin in a saucer. Let me tell you the
story of one Stevenson in Mr Macdonald's house. He was, like you, about
to be confirmed, and was, like you, very full of himself. And being, as
Lovelace, a lover of the race-course, he walked about in his study in
hall, chanting us a dirge out of sheer religious fervour: 'My name is
down for the confirmation stakes.' Macdonald passed the door and, on
hearing him, entered and said: 'Well you are scratched now at any rate!
'Take that to heart, and be not as the seeds that are sown on stony
ground, who spring up in the night and wither in the mo