ver shield on the back of
it. No boy in the house, so Mr. Dupre said, grudged the sixpence which
had been stopped from his pocket money to pay for the bat. Then, passing
to graver matters, Mr. Dupre spoke warmly of the tone of the house, that
indefinable quality which in the eyes of a faithful schoolmaster is more
precious than rubies. It was Mannix, prefect and member of the lower
sixth, who more than any one else deserved credit for the fact that
Edmonstone stood second to no house in the school in the matter of tone.
The listening eleven, and the other prefects who, though not members
of the victorious eleven, had been invited to the feast, cheered
vigorously. They understood what tone meant though Mr. Dupre did not
define it. They knew that it was mainly owing to the determined attitude
of Mannix that young Latimer, who collected beetles and kept tame white
mice, had been induced to wash himself properly and to use a clothes
brush on the legs of his trousers. Latimer's appearance in the old
days before Mannix took him in hand had lowered the tone of the house.
Mannix' own appearance--though Mr. Dupre did not mention this--added the
weight of example to his precepts. His taste in ties was acknowledged.
No member of the school eleven knotted a crimson sash round his waist
with more admired precision. Nor was the success of the hero confined
to the playing fields and the dormitory. Mr. Dupre noted the fact that
Mannix had added other laurels to the crown of the house's glory by
winning the head master's prize for Greek iambics.

Mr. Dupre sat down. Mannix himself, blushing but pleasurably conscious
that his honours were deserved, rose to his feet. As President of the
Literary Society and a debater of formidable quality, he was well able
to make a speech. He chose instead to sing a song. It was one, so he
informed his audience, which Mr. Dupre had composed specially for the
occasion. The tune indeed was old. Every one would recognise it at once
and join in the chorus. The words, and he, Frank Mannix, hoped they
would dwell in the memory of those who sang them, were Mr. Dupre's own.
The eleven, the prefects and Mr. Dupre himself joined with uproarious
tunefulness in a chorus which went tolerably trippingly to the air of
"Here's to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen."

"Here's to the House, Edmonstone House.
Floreat semper Edmonstone House."

Mannix trolled the words out in a clear tenor voice. One after another
o