id the house-master, bluntly, "the secretary's
taste is not to be depended on."

"I don't think Cotton meant anything----" began Philips.

"Well, perhaps not," said the Rev. E. Taylor, doubtfully; "but, in any
case, will you take down the present list, and draw up a fresh one--if
you think one at all necessary--with only the names of subscribers upon
it? A house list should not have been used at all. Please tell Cotton I
said so, and I hope he will see the fairness of it."

Philips took down the offending list, and told Cotton the house-master's
opinions. Jim Cotton had not very quick feelings, but contempt can
pierce the shell of a tortoise, and as Philips innocently retailed the
message, the secretary of the Penfold Tablet Fund knew there was one man
who held him a cad.

CHAPTER XXIII

BOURNE _v._ ACTON

Jack had gone to London with his patron on Thursday. On Saturday morning
Acton went to Aldershot, carrying with him the hopes and good wishes of
the whole of St. Amory's, and at night the school band had met him at
the station. They (the band) struggled bravely--it was very windy--with
"See, the Conquering Hero comes!" in front of the returned hero, who was
"chaired" by frenzied Biffenites. The expected had happened. Acton had
annihilated Rossal, Shrewsbury, and Harrow, and in the final had met the
redoubtable Jarvis, from "Henry's holy shade." The delightful news
circulated round St. Amory's that Acton had "made mincemeat" of Jarvis.
He had not, but after a close battle had scrambled home first; he had
won, and that was the main thing.

As Acton walked into chapel on Sunday morning with Worcester, Corker got
scant attention to his sermon; the fags to a man were thinking of
Acton's terrible left. The gladiator lived in an atmosphere of incense
for a whole day.

As Phil Bourne was finishing breakfast on Monday morning his fag
brought him his letters, and, after reading his usual one from home, he
turned his attention to another one, whose envelope was dirty, and whose
writing was laboriously and painfully bad amateur work.

"Rotherhithe," said Phil, looking at the post-mark. "Who are my friends
from that beauty spot?"

I give the letter in all its fascinating simplicity.

"Rotherhithe, Sunday.

"Dear Sir,
"I was sory as how I did not see you on thursday night when you
came with Acting to Covent garden to do a small hedging in the
linkinsheer handicap. I think sinc