ent courses at the ocean mouth, signal one another
"good luck," so Gordon from the depth of his heart wished "the Bull"
farewell and Godspeed.

At last the form lists were read out. A titter rewarded Gordon's
position of _facile ultimus_. The cups were distributed. Gordon went up
for the batting cups, his own individual one, and the challenge one that
went to the House. Foster went up for the Senior cricket; it was a
veritable School House triumph. The Chief made his usual good-bye
speech, kindly, hopeful, encouraging. The head of the school shouted
"Three cheers for the masters!"--the gates swept open, the cloisters
were filled with hurrying feet.

The last hours passed all too swiftly. In a far corner of the gallery
Gordon sat with Morgan, listening to his last school concert. Opposite
the choir in their white shirts, and brushed-back hair, sang the school
songs inseparable from the end of the school year. There was the summer
song, the "Godspeed to those that go," the poignant _Valete_:

"_We shall watch you here in our peaceful cloister_,
_Faring onward, some to renown, to fortune_,
_Some to failure--none if your hearts are loyal--_
_None to dishonour._"

To Gordon every word brought back with it a flood of memories. He could
see himself, the small boy, reading those verses for the first time
before he went to Fernhurst, ignorant of what lay before him. How soon
he had changed his fresh innocency! How soon his bright gold had grown
dim! Then he saw himself this time last year, listening to those words
with an unbounded confidence, certain that he at least would never
achieve failure. Visions in the twilight! And what was the dawn to
bring?

The Latin _Carmen_ began. The school stood on their seats and howled it
out. Then came _Auld Lang Syne_. They clasped hands, swaying in chorus.
The echoes of _God Save the King_ shook the timbered ceiling, someone
was shouting "Three cheers for the visitors!"; the school surged towards
the door; Gordon found his feet on the small stone stairway. He looked
back once at the warm lights; the honour-boards that would never bear
his name; the choir still in their places; the visitors putting on their
coats and wraps. Then the stream moved on; the picture faded out; and
from the courts came the noise of motors crunching on the gravel.

As Gordon walked into the cool air he ran into Ferrers.

"Good-bye, sir."

"You are off, are you? Well, good luc