ing from
them. His school days would soon be over, and yet he felt as though he
were beginning life all over again. He had found nothing that could
stand the wear of time and chance.

But still there remained a few more weeks of Fernhurst; whatever
happened, he swore that he would finish as befitted a king. "Samson
would quit himself like Samson." There would be time enough for doubts
and introspection when it was all over, when for the last time the
familiar eight-forty swept him out of Fernhurst's life for ever. At
present it was his to leave behind him a name that would survive a
little while, "nor all glut the devouring grave." It should be
remembered of him that during his day of power he had never once given
way, had stood his ground, had never known the poignancy of the
"second-best."

Until now Gordon had never really quarrelled with anyone in his own
house. All his encounters had been with outhouse men or "the Bull": he
might have helped to make the House feel independent of the school, but
he had always aimed at the unity of the House's aim. It was a pity that
his last contest should have been with the head of his own house.

Rudd was a bad head; there could be no doubt about that. His dormitory
made him apple-pie beds, and soaked his candle in water, so that it
would not light. The day-room ragged him mercilessly. Gordon had never
minded. In comparison with Rudd's weakness his own strength shone the
more. It made him so essentially the big power in the House. But things
reached a limit shortly after half term, when Rudd tried to drag him in
to help him in his troubles, and shelter behind the rest of the
prefects.

It all arose from a most "footling" source. Rudd was taking hall, and
the usual music hall performance was in full swing. Bray had asked to
borrow some ink, and having once gained a pretext for walking about, was
dancing up and down the floor singing _What would the Seaside be without
the Ladies?_ Everyone was, of course, talking. Now a certain Stockbrew,
imagining himself a poet, immortalised the occasion with the following
stirring lyric:--

"_Ruddy-doodle went to town_
_In his little suit of brown,_
_As he could not find his purse_
_He cried aloud, 'Oh, where's my nurse?_'"

Like the famous quatrain _The Purple Cow_, this poem immediately
achieved a success totally out of proportion to its merits. It was
passed slowly down the table. Finally it reached Bray.

"Ah, Rudd,