will show.

CHAPTER TWO.

FOUR HOURS IN A FAG'S LIFE.

Willoughby wore its ordinary work-a-day look on the morning following
the eventful May races. And yet any one who had seen the old school
just then would have admitted that a more picturesque place could hardly
have been found. It was one of those lovely early summer days when
everything looks beautiful, and when only schoolboys can have the heart
to lie in bed. The fresh scent of the sea came up with the morning air
across the cliff-bound uplands; and far away, from headland to headland
of Craydle Bay, the waters glowed and sparkled in the sunlight. Inland,
too, along by the river, the woods were musical with newly-awakened
birds, and the downs waved softly with early hay. And towering above
all, amid its stately elms, and clad from end to end with ivy, stood the
old school itself, glowing in morning brightness, as it had stood for
two centuries past, and as those who know and love it hope it may yet
stand for centuries to come.

But though any one else could hardly have failed to be impressed with
the loveliness of such a morning in such a spot, on Master Frederick
Parson, head monitor's fag of Parrett's House, as he kicked the
bedclothes pensively off his person, and looked at the watch under his
pillow, the beauties of nature were completely lost. Parson was in a
bad frame of mind that morning. Everything seemed against him. He'd
been beaten in the junior hundred yards yesterday, so had Telson. Just
their luck. They'd run in every race for the last two years, and never
won so much as a shilling penknife yet. More than that; just because he
had walked across the quadrangle to see Telson home after supper last
night (Telson belonged to the SchoolHouse) he had been caught by a
monitor and given eight French verbs to write out for being out-of-
doors, after lock-up. What harm, Parson would like to know, was there
in seeing a friend across the quad? Coates, the monitor, probably had
no friend--he didn't deserve to have one--or he wouldn't have been down
on Parson for a thing like that.

Then, further than that, he (Parson) had not looked at his Caesar, and
Warton had promised to report him to the doctor next time he showed up
without preparation. Bother Warton! bother the doctor! bother Caesar!
what did they all want to conspire together for against a wretched
junior's peace? He'd have to cram up the Caesar from Telson's crib
somehow, only t