uple of years ago."

"Never mind," said Cresswell, "Mansfield has got his eyes open, and I
fancy he'll be down in that quarter when he's captain. Old Ponty won't
do it. He's worse than ever. Won't even come to practice, till he's
finished 'Pickwick,' he says."

And the two friends strolled off rather despondently.

In due time Heathcote was allowed to divest himself of his armour, and
accompany his senior indoors.

"You didn't make a bad stand, youngster," said Pledge, as they walked
across the field, "especially at the end. Have you done much cricket?"

"Not much," said Heathcote, blushing at the compliment.

"You should stick to it. You'll get plenty of chance this term."

"And yet," said Heathcote to himself, "this is the fellow everybody
tells me is a beast to be fought shy of, and not trusted for a minute."
He was almost tempted to interrogate Pledge point-blank on what it all
meant; but his shyness prevented him.

Nothing occurred during the day to solve the mystery. There was
comparatively little to be done in the way of fagging; and what little
there was, was amply compensated for by the help Pledge gave him in his
Latin composition in the evening.

Later on, while Pledge was away somewhere, Heathcote was putting the
books away on to the shelves, and generally tidying up the study, when
the door partly opened, and a small round missive was tossed on to the
floor of the room.

Heathcote regarded the intruder in a startled way, as if it had been
some infernal machine; but presently took courage to advance and take
the missive in his hand. It was a small round cardboard box, about the
size of a tennis ball, which, much to his surprise, bore his own name,
printed in pen and ink, on the outside. He opened it nervously, and
found a note inside, also addressed to himself, which ran thus:--

"Heathcote.--This is from a friend. You are in peril. Don't believe
anything Pledge tells you. Suspect everything he does. He will try
to make a blackguard of you. You had much better break with him,
refuse to fag for him and take the consequences, than become his
friend. Be warned in time.--Junius."

This extraordinary epistle, all printed in an unrecognisable hand, set
Heathcote's heart beating and his colour coming and going in a manner
quite new to him. Who was this "Junius," and what was this conspiracy
to terrify him? "Suspect everything he does." A pretty piece of
advice, certainly, to