cote, Coote," said the Doctor. "Answer to your
names--which is Richardson?"

"I am, please, sir."

"Heathcote?"

"I am, sir, please."

"Coote?"

"I am, if you please, sir."

"Richardson, go to desk 6; Heathcote, desk 13; Coote, desk 25."

Coote groaned inwardly. It was all up with him now, and he might just
as well throw up the sponge before he began. With a friend within call
he might yet have struggled through. But what hope was there when the
nearer of them was twelve desks away?

For two hours a solemn silence reigned in that examination hall, broken
only by the scratching of pens and the secret sighs of one and another
of the victims. The pictures on the walls, as they looked down, caught
the eye of many a wistful upturned face, and marked the devouring of
many a penholder, and the tearing of many a hair.

In vain Coote searched his nails from thumb to little finger. No
question fitted to his painfully collected answers. Edward the Fifth
was ignored, the sex of "Amnis" was not even hinted at, and "1476" never
once came to his rescue. And yet, he reminded himself over and over
again, he and Heathcote had said their Latin syntax to Mr Ashford only
the day before without a mistake.

"Cease writing," said the Doctor, as the clock struck two, "and the boys
at desks 1 to 10 come up here."

This was the signal for the cruellest of all that day's horrors. If the
written examination had slain its thousands, the _viva voce_ slew its
tens of thousands. Even Richardson stumbled; and Heathcote, when his
turn came, gave himself up for lost. The Doctor's impassive face
betrayed no emotion, and gave no token, either for joy, or hope, or
despair. He merely said "That will do" after each victim had performed;
and even when Coote, after a mighty effort, rendered "O tempora! O
mores!" as "Oh, the tempers of the Moors," he quietly said, "Thank you;
now the next boy."

At last it was all over, and they found themselves standing once more in
the great quadrangle, not very sure what had happened to them, but
feeling as if they had just undergone a surgical operation not unlike
that of flaying alive.

However, once outside the terrible portal of Templeton, their hearts
gradually thawed within them. The confectioner's shop, now crowded with
"gods," held them in awe for a season, and as long as the road was
specked with mortar-boards they held their peace, and meditated on their
shirt-studs. But when Templeto