had on the subject, no matter with whom, ended in
some such ejaculation, till Heathcote got quite used to it, and even
ceased to be disturbed by it.

Indeed, he was half disappointed, after all the warning and sympathy he
had received, to find no call made upon his virtue, and no opportunity
of making a noble stand against the wiles of the "spider." He would
rather have enjoyed a mild passage of arms in defence of his
uprightness; and it was a little like a "sell" to find Pledge turn out,
after all, so uninterestingly like everybody else.

Dick duly took an opportunity of consulting Cresswell on his friend's
behalf.

"I say, Cresswell," said he, one morning, as the senior and his fag
walked back from the "Tub."

"Who was Forbes?"

"Never mind," said Cresswell, shortly.

This was a rebuff, certainly; but Dick stuck to his purpose.

"Heathcote asked me," he said. "He's Pledge's fag, and everybody says
to him he'll come to grief like Forbes; and he doesn't know what they
mean."

"You gave your chum my message, did you?" said Cresswell.

"Oh, yes; and, do you know, the other evening he had a letter thrown
into him, he doesn't know where from, saying the same thing?"

Cresswell whistled, and stared at his fag.

"Was it signed 'Junius,' and done up in a ball?" he asked, excitedly.

"Yes. Did _you_ send it?"

"And was it in printed letters, so that nobody could tell the writing?"

"Yes. Do you know about it, I say?"

"No," said Cresswell; "no more does anybody. Your chum's had a letter
from the ghost!"

"The what?"

"The Templeton ghost, my boy."

"I don't believe in ghosts," said Dick.

"That's all right. No more do I. But those who do, say its a bad sign
to get a letter from ours. Forbes got one early last term."

"Do you really mean--?" began Dick.

"I mean," said Cresswell, interrupting him, and evidently not enjoying
the topic, "I mean that nobody knows who writes the letters, or why.
It's been a mystery ever since I came here, three years ago. It happens
sometimes twice or thrice a term; and other times perhaps only once in
six months."

"What had Heathcote better do?" asked Dick, feeling anything but
reassured.

"Do! He'd better read the letter. There's no use going and flourishing
it all round the school."

With this small grain of advice Dick betook himself to his friend, and
succeeded in making him more than ever uncomfortable and perplexed. Nor
was his perplexity made les