ritable old inn it was. It was one of those lovely old
wayside hostels along the main road to the west, which, with the
decline of coaching days, found its way into the market, and had
fallen to the hammer for the education of youth. Exactly how the
adaptation had been accomplished I never quite understood. The
building formed the end of a long avenue of trees and was approached
through high gates from the main road. It was flanked on the east side
by other houses, which fitted in somewhat inharmoniously, but served
as school-rooms, dining-hall, chapel, racquets and fives courts,
studies, and other dwelling-houses. The whole was entirely enclosed so
that no one could pass in or out, after the gates were shut, without
ringing up the porter from his lodge, and having one's name taken as
being out after hours. At least it was supposed that no one could,
though we boys soon found that there were more ways than one leading
to Rome.

The separate dwelling-houses were named A, B, and C. I was detailed
to C House, the old inn itself. Each house was again divided into
three, with its own house master, and its own special colour and
badges. Our three were at the time "Sharps," "Upcutts," and "Bakers."
Our particular one occupied the second floor, and was reached by great
oak staircases, which, if you were smart, you could ascend at about
six steps at a time. This was often a singular desideratum, because
until you reached the fifth form, according to law you ascended by the
less direct back stairway.

Our colours were white and maroon, and our sign a bishop's
mitre--which effigy I still find scribbled all over the few book
relics which I have retained, and which emblem, when borne
subsequently on my velvet football cap, proved to be the nearest I
ever was to approach to that dignified insignia.

My benefactor, on the night of my arrival, having done more for me
than a new boy could expect of an old one, was whirled off in the
stream of his returning chums long before I had found my resting-place
for the night. The dormitory to which I at last found myself assigned
contained no less than twenty-five beds, and seemed to me a veritable
wilderness. If the coaches which used to stop here could have ascended
the stairs, it might have accommodated several. What useful purpose it
could have served in those far-off days I never succeeded in deciding.
The room most nearly like it which I can recall is the old dining-hall
of a great man