and you'll find me
waiting for you in the hotel stables. You can pass the word to your
chums in Corker's that you aren't going to be on show after supper, and
then they won't be routing you out."

"My chums are mostly in Biffen's," said Jack. "Grim and Rogers, etc."

"Good omen," said Acton. "Leave your window so that you can easily shove
it up when you come back, and leave your school cap behind, and bring a
tweed instead. Got such an article?"

"Yes."

"How's your room lighted?"

"Oh, we have the electric. It is switched off at ten, so that the light
will not give any trouble, Acton."

"Well, bolt your door, too. It seems as though the fates were fighting
for us, eh, young 'un?"

CHAPTER XXI

LONDON AND BACK

At nine that night the two, as agreed upon, met at Dring in the hotel
stables. There had been no mishaps.

The groom was busy putting the horse into the trap, and, when Jack saw
what a really smart turn-out Acton had engaged, his fears began to
occupy less of his thoughts and the pleasures of a rattling hour's spin
a jolly lot more. Punctually to the minute Jack climbed up beside the
driver, the place of honour, and Acton swung himself up behind; the yard
doors were flung open, and the gig rattled smartly out. The hotel
proprietor had not chanted the praises of his horse in vain. On the
level road it laid itself out to go for all it was worth.

The pleasant music of the jingling harness and the scurrying of the
wheels made as jolly a tune as Jack could wish to hear. There was a
touch of frost in the air, which made the quick motion of the gig bite
shrewdly on his cheeks, and made him button up his overcoat to the chin
and settle his cap well over his ears. Acton threw out jokes, too, from
behind, which made Jack feel no end clever to listen to them, and the
driver now and then restrained his horse's "freshness" with the soothing
mellow whistle which only drivers possess. The farmhouses, hayricks, and
an occasional village, drifted past now to the right, now to the left,
and occasionally they overhauled a leisurely belated cyclist, who at
once began to take an unimportant position in the rear, his lamp growing
less and less down the stretch of long white road.

Soon the houses began to come more frequently, then came the streets
with their long avenues of yellow lights, and within the hour they were
rolling smoothly over the wooden pavements.

"Piccadilly," said Acton. "Drop us at the top