d no other cry than
this, "For goodness' sake, don't tell any one!"

That evening, so jubilant all over Willoughby, was one of the most
wretched Riddell ever spent.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

AN EXPLOSION OF "SKYROCKETS."

Parson, Bosher, King, and the other Parrett's juniors were in bad
spirits. It was not so much the Rockshire match that was preying on the
brotherhood, grievous as that blow had been. Nor were they at the
present suffering under any particular infliction, or smarting under any
special sense of injustice. Their healths and digestions were all
tolerably good, and the mutual friendship in which they had been wont to
rejoice showed no signs of immediate dissolution.

The fact was, they didn't know exactly what was the matter with
themselves. They could not pretend that it was remorse for the little
amount of work they had done during the term, for they stoutly denied
that they had done little. On the contrary, they insisted that they
were being crammed to a shameful extent.

Nor was their conscience reproaching them for their past transgressions.
Of course, they could not help admitting that they had occasionally got
into rows lately, but, as every one knew, it was never _their_ fault.
It had always been owing to some accident or piece of bad luck, and it
was quite enough to get punished for it, without being expected to
reproach themselves for it.

No. When they came to think of it they didn't see that they had
anything to reproach themselves with. On the whole, they were more to
be pitied than blamed. They invariably meant well, but they never got
any credit for their good intentions, while they were everlastingly
getting into trouble on account of their ill-luck!

The fact of the matter was, these virtuous young gentlemen were
suffering from that most painful of maladies--dulness.

They had nothing to do--that is, they had nothing to do but work and
play cricket. The latter was all very well, but even cricket, when it
means three practices a day presided over by a strict senior, gets to be
a little wearisome.

As for the work--they groaned as they thought of it. It hadn't been so
bad at the beginning of the term, when Bosher's crib to the Caesar and
Wakefield's key to Colenso's arithmetic had lent them their genial aid.
But ever since Mr Parrett, in the vindictiveness of his heart, had
suddenly started Eutropius in the place of Caesar, and Todhunter in the
place of Colenso, life ha