kers propped up horizontal.

"And if you don't mind, down they come, and your breakfast goes outside
instead of in," said Mercer.

Milk and water and bread and butter, but they were good and plentiful,
and though I was disappointed at first, and began thinking of the hot
coffee at home, I made a better breakfast than I had expected; and in
due course, after a walk round the big building, of which I could see
nothing for the chilly fog, the bell rang again, and I had to hurry back
into the schoolroom, taking a seat pointed out for me by Mercer, with
the result related in the last chapter.

"Here, come along!" cried my new friend: "What a game! You are a good
chap. I wish a new boy would come every day. Hooray! old Rebble's off.
Bet sixpence he goes down to the river bottom-fishing. He never
catches anything. Goes and sits in his spectacles, blinking at his
float, and the roach come and give it a bob and are off again long
before he strikes. Hi yi yi yi!" he shouted; "here we are again!" and,
jumping on to the form and from there to the desk, he bent down, took
lightly hold of the sides, threw up his heels, and stood on his head.

"Here, look at old Mercer!" cried a boy.

"Bravo, Senna T!" cried another.

A dictionary flew across the room, struck the amateur acrobat in the
back, and fell on the floor, but not much more quickly than my new
friend went over backwards, the blow having made him overbalance so that
his feet came with a crash on the desk, the ink flew out of two little
leaden wells, and the performer rolled off on to the form, and then to
the floor, with a crash.

"Here!" he cried, springing up. "Who did that? Give me that book. Oh,
I know!" he cried, snatching the little fat dictionary, and turning over
the leaves quickly. "`Eely-hezer Burr.' Thanky, I wanted some paper.
I'm all over ink. What a jolly mess!"

As he spoke, he tore out three or four leaves, and began to wipe the ink
off his jacket.

"I say, Burr," cried the big boy who had read about Penelope, "Mercer's
tearing up your dictionary."

"You mind your own business!" cried Mercer, tearing out some more
leaves, and then throwing the book at the tale-teller just as the tall,
thin boy, who bore the same name as I, came striding up with his face
flushed and fists doubled, to plant three or four vigorous blows in
Mercer's chest and back.

"How dare you tear my book?" he cried. "Here, you, fat Dicksee, bring
it here."

"Thought