el-
stained figures trotted gamely into the Quad, with elbows down and heads
up.

They hardly seemed to hear the cheers or notice the crowd, but kept
their faces anxiously towards where Cresswell--book in hand--stood at
the door of Westover's to receive them.

"Have you run right through?" he asked as they came up.

"Yes, every step," gasped Dick.

Five minutes later, the "Firm" was in bed and fast asleep.

And two days later, when the revised list of candidates eligible for
election to the "Select Sociables" was displayed on the library door, it
included the names of Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

HOW THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES STILL HANGS OVER OUR HEROES.

Dear Father,--Please come down here as soon as you can. We're in a
regular row. I'm awfully afraid fifty pounds will not quite cover it.

Please try and come by the next train as the case comes on on
Saturday, and there's not much time. We saw the magistrate yesterday,
and made a clean breast. I hope they won't transport us. He was very
jolly helping us find the scent, and gave us a stunning lunch. We ran
the big hunt right through, and are pretty sure to get our names on
the "Sociables" list. I wish you and mother could have seen the view
on the top of Welkin Beacon. The awkward thing is that Tom White may
get transported instead of us, and it would be jolly if you could come
and get him off. Coote wasn't in it, but he's backing us up. How is
Tike? I hope they wash him regularly. If I'm not transported, I
shall be home in eight weeks and three days and will take him out for
walks.

Love to mother, in which all join,--Your affectionate son, Basil.

P.S.--If you come, don't take Fegan's cab--he's a cheat. Old White
will drive you cheap. He's Tom's father. Georgie sends his love.

The reader may imagine, if he can, the consternation with which Mr and
Mrs Richardson read this loving epistle at breakfast on the Friday
morning following the great hunt.

They gazed at one another with countenances full of horror and terror,
like people suddenly brought face to face with a great calamity. At
length Mr Richardson said:--

"Where's the Bradshaw, Jane?"

"Oh, the train goes in half an hour. You have just time to catch it.
Do go quickly. My poor, poor boy!"

The father groaned; and in another five minutes he was on his way to the
station.

That morning, while school was in full sw