The
Biffenite captain, Dick Worcester, did not altogether relish their
proficiency. "It's just my luck to have my eleven filled up with
niggers," he observed to Acton in half-humourous disgust; but Biffenites
pinned their faith on Worcester, the dervishes, and Acton, and, to the
huge delight of Grim, Rogers, Wilson, Thurston, and other enthusiastic
junior Biffenites, the resurrected house survived the first two rounds.

The third round they were to meet Taylor's lot, a good house, and the
hopes of Grim and Co. were tinged with considerable doubt.

On the particular afternoon when this important match was to be played,
Todd had strolled off to the Lodestone stream, laden with all the
necessary tackle for the slaying of a few innocent perch. The year's
final lists of the forms were due also in the evening on the various
notice-boards.

Gus had redeemed his promise made at the beginning of the term, and had
worked hard for a prominent position on the list, and his attempt to
capture the history medal had been, he thought, fairly satisfactory. He
would soon know his fate, however, in both directions. Meanwhile, to
allay his anxiety as to the results, he had unpatriotically given the
cricket-fields a wide berth, and thus deprived Taylor's of the privilege
of his cheer in the house match. He and Cotton had an invitation to dine
with Taylor that evening, so, after telling Jim his programme for the
afternoon, he had trudged down the lane which Jack Bourne knew so well.

The afternoon was hot: the one-o'clock sun made Gus think that perhaps
there was more cruelty than usual in luring the fishes out of the cool
waters of the Lodestone; but, nevertheless, he philosophically baited
his hook, and cast forth. The sport was not exciting, and by-and-by Gus
found himself wondering, not why the fish were so shy, but whence came
the faint, delicate perfume of cigars, which undoubtedly reached his
nostrils? The Lodestone Farm was a quarter of a mile away, and obviously
the scent could not travel thus far, and since Gus was alone on the
banks of the stream, running sluggishly towards the moat, the constant
whiffs of cigars reaching him seemed somewhat mysterious. Gus looked
again carefully, but could see no one, and yet there was undoubtedly
some one smoking very near him.

"Well, it _is_ odd," said Gus, for the nth time sniffing the "tainted
breeze." Curiosity piqued the fisher to trace the mystery. He
reconnoitred carefully, and pres