disinherited,
was both rogue and fool.

So he carried off the now valueless document, which would not eat or
drink, he reckoned, and might be put to some purpose some day.

Mr Burke returned home and wrote to his sister, and to Stephen
Philipson, telling them what he had done. He did not write about it to
Reginald Kavanagh, not thinking it necessary to take from him any
inducement to exert himself, for though he was a good-enough lad in most
respects, he certainly was not studious. He was also accused by his
schoolfellows of what they called "putting on a good deal of swagger," a
weakness not likely to be improved by the knowledge of his godfather's
kind intentions towards him.

So that altogether Mr Richard Burke was, perhaps, judicious.

CHAPTER THREE.

FROM GAY TO GRAVE.

Tea was a comfortable meal at Harton in the winter half of the year,
when the boys had fires in their rooms, at least, for social fellows who
clubbed together. Not but what it is cosy to linger over the meal with
a book in your hand, or propped up, as you sit alone at the corner of
the table, half turned to the hearth.

But Forsyth, Strachan, and Kavanagh liked to mess together, and
Strachan's room being the largest of the three, they selected that to
have their breakfast and tea in. All their cups, saucers, and so on,
were kept in a cupboard in that room, but toasting or such other light
cookery as their fags performed for them was done in their respective
apartments, for the avoidance of overcrowding and dispute amongst the
operators. Also, when bloaters, sprats, or sausages were in question,
it was well not to feed in the room in which the smell of preparation
was most powerful.

Though the half was drawing to its close, the evening board was
bountifully spread; for Forsyth's birthday had come off two days before,
and brought with it a token from home--a wicker token which the Lord
Mayor himself would not have despised. There was a ham, succulent and
tender; a tongue, fresh, not tinned, boiled, not stewed, of most
eloquent silence; a packet of sausages, a jar of marmalade, and, most
delicious of all, some potted shrimps. Harry knew, but did not tell,
that every one of those shrimps had been stripped of its shell by the
hands of Trix, who plumed herself, with unquestionable justice, upon her
shrimp-potting. Unfathomable is the depth of female devotion; fancy any
one being able to skin a shrimp, prawn, or walnut, and not eat