form master,
whom we will call Jones, walking the other way. It so happened he
possessed a voice which he knew was much like that of another master,
so simply sprinting a little he called out, "Night, night, Jones," and
got by without discovery.

Our chapel in those days was not a thing of beauty; but since then it
has been rebuilt (out of our stomachs, the boys used to say) and is a
model work of art. Attendance at chapel was compulsory, and no "cuts"
were allowed. Moreover, once late, you were given lines, besides
losing your chapel half-holiday. So the extraordinary zeal exhibited
to be marked off as present should not be attributed to religious
fervour. The chapel was entered from quad by two iron gates, with the
same lofty railings which guarded the entrance on each side. The bell
tolled for five minutes, then was silent one minute, and then a single
toll was given, called "stroke." At that instant the two masters who
stood by the pillars guarding each gate, jumped across, closing the
gates if they could, and every one outside was late. Those inside the
open walk--the length of the chapel that led to the doors at the far
end--then continued to march in.

During prayers each form master sat opposite his form, all of which
faced the central aisle, and marked off those present. Almost every
morning half-dressed boys, with shirts open and collars unbuttoned,
boots unlaced, and jumping into coats and waistcoats as they dashed
along, could be seen rushing towards the gate during the ominous
minute of silence. There was always time to get straight before the
mass of boys inside had emptied into chapel; and I never remember a
gate master stopping a boy before "stroke" for insufficiency of
coverings. Many were the subterfuges employed to get excused, and
naturally some form masters were themselves less regular than others,
though you never could absolutely count on any particular one being
absent. Twice in my time gates were rushed--that is, when "stroke"
went such crowds of flying boys were just at the gate that the masters
were unable to stop the onslaught, and were themselves brushed aside
or knocked down under the seething mass of panic-stricken would-be
worshippers. On one of these occasions we were forgiven--"stroke" was
ten seconds early; on the other a half-holiday was stopped, as one of
the masters had been injured. To trip one's self up, and get a bloody
nose, and possibly a face scratched on the gravel, and the