onable young fellow
who ought to be taken in hand, and with this Christian sentiment to
inspire him Rogers went home to put a few finishing touches to his
sermon for the next day.

CHAPTER II: CARNIVAL

The tradition of Pack Monday Fair at Fernhurst is almost as old as the
School House studies. The legend, whether authenticated or not only
Macdonald, the historian of Fernhurst, could say, was handed down from
generation to generation. It was believed that, when the building of the
Abbey was finished, all the masons, glass-workers and artificers packed
up their tools and paraded the town with music and song, celebrating the
glory of their accomplished work. And from time immemorial the
townspeople have celebrated the second Monday in October by assembling
outside the Abbey at midnight, and ushering in a day of marketing and
revelry by a procession through the town, beating tin cans and blowing
upon posthorns. With the exception of this ritual, the day had become
merely an ordinary fair. But there was no sleeping on that Sunday night,
and for the whole week tantalising sounds of shrieking merry-go-rounds,
of whistling tramcars and thundering switchbacks were borne across the
night to disturb those who were trying to work in hall. It used to be
the custom for the bloods to creep out at night and take part in the
revels; but when the new Chief had come, four years before, he put a
firm hand upon such abuses, and had even threatened to expel anyone he
found in the act, a threat which he had carried out promptly by
expelling the best half-back in the school a fortnight before the
Dulbridge match; so that now only a few daring spirits stole out in the
small hours of the night on the hazardous expedition. Those courageous
souls were the objects of the deepest veneration among the smaller boys,
who would whisper quietly of their doings in the upper dormitories when
darkness lent a general security to the secrets that were being
revealed.

This term about three days before Pack Monday, Gordon, Mansell, Carter
and a few others were engaged in their favourite hobby of shipping
Rudd's study. One chair had already gone the way of all old wood, and
the table was in danger of following it, when Rudd suddenly burst out:

"Oh, you think yourselves damned fine fellows, six of you against one!"

A roar of laughter went up. It was the traditional complaint of all
weaklings in school stories, and was singularly of the preparator