ackside of Forbes, who looked like going to sleep. To
crown everything, Briault gave his celebrated imitation of a dog-fight.
Consternation reigned. Lovelace tried to hide under Trundle's desk;
Gordon endeavoured to get through a window that was hardly a foot
square. Macdonald's class-room was just the other side of the V. A
green; he chuckled to himself. "I hoped Caruthers would enjoy himself. I
think we shall have to put him on to construe when he returns. If he
goes to music-hall shows in school time he must pay for it, you know."

There was an immense scuffling of feet, but much louder rang the noise
of the French students. A question had arisen as to what book they
should read that term. Everyone was shouting the name of his favourite
author. "Let's do _The Little Thing_," yelled Dyke. "No; de Maupassant,"
shouted Mansell, adding, in an undertone: "I saw one of his books in a
shop in Villiers Street, looked pretty hot stuff." Then louder again:
"Let's have de Maupassant." "No; _The Black Tulip_," Lovelace implored,
and went on in a stage whisper: "Now don't be silly fools, I have got a
crib of this. Have some sense." "You don't imagine we're going to
prepare the stuff, do you?" was Hunter's retort. Above the uproar
Forbes' voice drawled: "I say, if there's a French translation of _Five
Nights_, let's read that. I know the book pretty well by heart."

It was ultimately decided to read _six contes_ by Francois Coppee; but
by the time the decision had been reached, the hour had been exhausted.
Rather sadly Trundle watched the set pour out into the cloister,
shouting and laughing. Even masters have souls. Boys don't realise this.

Every day till the end of the term that farce continued. Sometimes
Trundle lost his temper. One day, Archie was singing: _Meet me under the
Roses_, while Gordon was giving a lively if inaccurate translation.

"Fletcher, stop that singing!"

"Mayn't I sing, sir?"

"Of course not. This is a class-room."

"Is it, sir? I thought it was a place of amusement."

"Fifty lines, Fletcher."

"But, sir, it is, you know----"

"One hundred lines, Fletcher."

"Really, sir----"

"One hundred and fifty lines, Fletcher."

Fletcher collapsed. Next morning a magnificent blue envelope, sealed at
every corner, arrived at Mr Trundle's house. It contained a vast
quantity of blank paper.

"But, sir, I really thought I put in the lines. Hunter, you swine, that
is your fault. Sir, I believe Hunter stol