lt matter to discover at once the whereabouts of the
fellow he wanted. He accosted one or two of the new-comers, but by the
time the bell rang for afternoon school he had only succeeded in
ascertaining the fact that his cousin must be somewhere about, from
having seen the name "J. Fenleigh" ticked off on the bedroom list.
Holms was full of a project for hiring a bicycle during the summer
months, and, what with listening to the unfolding of this plan, and
struggling with the work in hand, Valentine soon forgot the existence
of his undiscovered relative.

Towards the end of the first hour Mr. Copland, the form-master, folded
up a piece of paper on which he had been writing, and handing it across
the desk, said,--

"Fenleigh, take this in to Mr. Rowlands, and bring back an answer."

Valentine made his way to the head-quarters of the Upper Fourth. The
classroom was rather quieter than the one he had left, Mr. Rowlands
being somewhat of a martinet.

"All right," said the latter, who was copying a list of questions on
the blackboard; "put your note on my table, and I'll attend to you in a
moment."

The messenger did as he was told, and stood looking round the room,
exchanging nods and winks with one or two members of the upper division
with whom he was on friendly terms.

On a form at the back of the room sat three boys who were hardly ever
seen apart, and who had apparently formed an alliance for the purpose
of idling their time, and mutually assisting one another in getting
into scrapes. Their names were Garston, Rosher, and Teal; and seated
at the same desk was a boy with whom they seemed to have already struck
up an acquaintance, though Valentine did not remember having seen his
face before. Even in the Upper Fourth there was a subdued shuffle,
showing that work was going rather hard on this first day; and the
young gentlemen whose names have just been mentioned were evidently not
throwing themselves heart and soul into the subject which was supposed
to be occupying their undivided attention.

Mr. Rowlands finished a line, made a full stop with a sharp rap of his
chalk, and then turned round sniffing.

"Dear me!" he said, "there's a strong smell of something burning."

"Perhaps it's Jackson's cricket cap," murmured a small boy. Jackson's
hair, be it said, was of a fiery red, and hence the suggestion that his
head-gear might be smouldering in his pocket.

"What's that?" demanded Mr. Rowlands, and the joker