without me.

And then, what a race! A bare mile it was, through the thick fringes of
woods most of the way--as soon, that is, as we were out of the village.
Along the wall of the Deer Park we ran, where we kept instinctively to
the far side of the road. We of the highest class were far in front--I
mean those of us who kept the pace. The Fifth had had a minute or two
start of us, so they were ahead at first, but we barged through their
pack without mercy, scattering them in all directions.

There at last was the gate before us. We had reached it first. Five of
us there were, Sam Gordon, Ivie Craig, Harry Stoddart, Andrew Clark and
myself--yes, there was another--that forward Gerty Greensleeves, who had
kilted her rough grey-green dress and run with the best, all to prove
her boast that, but for the clothes she had to wear, she was as good a
runner as the best boy there. Indeed, if the truth must be told, she
could outrun all but me.

The tall spikes, the massive brass padlock, green with weathering, in
which it was doubtful if any key would turn, the ancient "Notice to
Trespassers," massacred by the stones of home-returning
schoolboys--these were all that any of us could see at first. The
barrier of the deer-park wall was high and unclimbable. The massy iron
of the gates looked as if it had not been stirred for centuries.

But a tense interest held us all spellbound. We could see nothing but
some stray glimpses of an ivy-clad wall. A weathercock, that had once
been gilded, stood out black against the evening sky. The Grey Lady in
the rustling silk, through whom you could see the rain drops splash on
the gravel stones, was by no means on view. No green demons leaped these
sullen ten-foot barricades, and no forwandered sea-serpent threw oozy
wimples on the green-sward or hissed at us between the rusty bars.

It was, at first, decidedly disappointing. We ordered each other to stop
breathing so loudly, after our burst of running. We listened, but there
was not even the sough of wind through the trees--nothing but the
beating of our own hearts.

What had we come out to see? Apparently nothing. The school considered
itself decidedly "sold," and as usual prepared to take vengeance, first
upon Jo Kettle and then, as that youth still persisted in a discreet
absence of body, on myself.

"You spoke to Sandy Webb, the guard," said Gertrude-of-the-Sleeves,
scowling upon me; "what did he say?"

Before I could answer Boyd Con