s a man who walks into
a cave where a bear possibly resides.

His companions meanwhile occupied themselves with examining the gateway
and trying to appear as if architectural curiosity and nothing else had
been the object of their passing visit to Templeton.

In a few minutes Coote reappeared with a long face.

"Well? is it right?"

"No; it's a dust-bin."

The great clock above them began to boom out ten.

"We must find out somehow," said Richardson. "We'd better ask at this
door."

And, to the alarm of his companions, he boldly tapped on a door under
the gate.

A man in uniform opened it.

"Well, young gentlemen, what's your pleasure?"

"Please can you tell us where the porter's lodge is?" said Richardson,
in his most persuasive tone.

"I can. I'm the porter, and this is the lodge. What do you want?"

"Please we're Mr Ashford's boys, come for the examination. Here's a
note from Mr Ashford for Dr Winter."

The porter took the note, and bade the panic-stricken trio follow him
across the quadrangle.

What a walk that was! Across that noble square, with its two great elm-
trees laden with noisy rooks; with its wide-fenced lawn and sun-dial;
with its cloisters and red brick houses; with its sculptures and Latin
mottoes.

And even all these were as nothing to the few boys who loitered about in
its enclosure--some pacing arm-in-arm, some hurrying with books under
their arms, some diverting themselves more or less noisily, some
shouting or whistling or singing--all at home in the place; and all
unlike the three trembling victims who trotted in the wake of the porter
towards the dreadful hall of examination.

At the door, Richardson felt a frantic clutch on his arm.

"Oh! I say, Dick," gasped Coote, holding out a shaking ringer, with a
legend on its nail, "whatever is this the date for--1476? I put it
down, and-- Oh! I say, can't you remember?"

But Richardson, though he scorned to show it, was too agitated even to
suggest an event to fit the disconsolate date, and poor Coote had to
totter up the stairs, hopelessly convinced that he had nothing at his
fingers' ends after all.

They found themselves walking up a long, high-ceilinged room, with desks
all round and a few very appalling oil portraits ranged along the walls,
to a table where sat a small, handsome gentleman in cap and gown.

He took Mr Ashford's letter, and the boys knew they stood in the
presence of Dr Winter.

"Richardson, Heath