The procession came down the corridor and stopped outside a small door. It was headed by a tall boy, as thin as a match-stick, and with a face so tiny that it seemed to be almost entirely hidden behind a pair of enormous spectacles which he wore tied round his ears with knotted elastic bands. Behind this boy came another of his own age, but less extraordinary in appearance, and behind them, in their turn, came Rouse and Terence Nicholson. The boy in spectacles rejoiced in the name of Henry Hope, and he claimed to have been the devoted admirer of Rouse and Terence longer than anybody else in the school. Certainly no other boy would have dared to go and roust the captain of Rugby football out of his sanctum merely in the hope that he would set right a small minor trouble of his own. It is true that the fact that Rouse happened to be the said captain made a certain difference. Rouse was everybody’s friend and particularly the friend of unhappy juniors. But what made the chief difference was the fact that one of the boys in trouble on this particular occasion was Henry Hope.

Henry drew his crony aside, and they stood for a moment looking at the two seniors in turn with eyes that shone with admiration, until at last Rouse spoke.

“Yes,” said he. “This is the one all right. No. 18, the list said. There can’t be any mistake.”

“Are you sure that it said No. 18?” asked Terence modestly. “Seems rather odd.”

“My good sir,” responded Rouse, “there is no doubt about it.”

He moved forward and opened the door. Terence came up alongside and they stood for a moment regarding the interior.

“Well, it isn’t a bad one,” said Terence at last.

Rouse regarded him with deep sorrow.

“You are a sunny child.”

“Sunny?”

Rouse nodded his head.

“You look on the bright side, the side that jolly well isn’t there. Myself, I cannot conceive how by any freak of fancy Henry could possibly have secured a worse hovel than this. It is the first time he’s ever had a study, and now he’s got one that they’ve forgotten about so long that it’s gone to seed. There’s moss growing on the very walls—moss, I tell you. Look at the fireplace. It’s a kind of ‘Spiders’ Retreat.’ They say there’s no study for him, and then after three days they say there is, and they give him one—this—a kennel in the attic. There’s not a stick of furniture in it. True, there’s a picture postcard on the mantelpiece depicting some phase of life in a foreign clime—a man in a red fez picking hops, I think it is. You’ll probably find it’s addressed to some fellow who’s since died of old age. And it’s the only sign that there’s ever been any life in the place at all. I do not see even a modern nail anywhere in the wall to hang your hat on. There’s probably an official ghost attached to this study. The place is absolutely mouldy. The ceiling has caved in and the walls have warped, and the fellows who’ve had studies near here at odd times during the last forty years have been in on organised raids and pinched every blessed thing.” He paused at last for breath. “And you,” he said presently, “you—always the gentleman—you—such a one with your joking ways—you open the door and look inside, and then you throw back your head and intone the following words: ‘It isn’t a bad one.’

“Well, it’s better than not having a study at all.”

“Indeed it is,” admitted Rouse. “How nice it will be to sit in here on one’s bowler hat, drinking cold tea out of a glove.”

“We’ll rake round for a table for him,” suggested Terence hopefully.

“Yes, and the only way you’ll get one at this period will be by sucking the multiplication table off the back of an exercise-book. It’s three days since term started, my dear old bean.”

Terence persisted.

“I’ve got some photographs in my bag,” said he. “We’ll put them up.”

“Put ’em up? Easier to put them up than for poor old Henry to put up with them. He’ll get pretty weary sitting in here never more than eighteen inches away from his partner as it is. Is his only relaxation to be a turning of the head to gaze upon your likeness on the walls?”

“They aren’t photographs of me.”

“Whom, then, do they portray?”

“One,” responded Terence, with every modesty, “portrays Phyllis Dare in evening dress.”

“Right,” said Rouse more kindly. “Put it up then. Have you any other delight you can stick on the wall for him?”

“Not in my pocket at this moment. But I’ll go and see Toby. He might be able to produce something. If not, perhaps he can hire a bit of furniture.”

“A piano, perchance,” said the other. “There’s plenty of room.”

“Anyway,” said Terence, “I’ll go and see him. Probably he can suggest something.”

“Very well, my child; and if you see anybody who seems to be at a loose end at all whilst you’re gone, ask him to come back and have a really comfortable sit-down with Henry and a nice cup of hot tea.”

Terence moved away obediently, and when he had gone Rouse took one final look at the study, tossed his head and then, coming to a sudden decision, bade Henry stay there with his friend and wait; then he walked rapidly away down the corridor in search of the house porter, an individual for whose resource he had considerable admiration, partly because he could put lighted matches into his mouth and clench his teeth without putting out the light.

The house porter, who had been at the school only a little over twelve months, was one of those gentlemen that are described in police court reports as “of military appearance,” which means to say that his hair was dressed in that fashion known as a cowlick, and that his moustache was waxed. On hot days, however, this wax used to melt, giving his face a somewhat mournful and untidy appearance. His name was Compton, and at the moment when Rouse burst in upon him he was sitting on a stool in his private den, his knees hunched up under his chin and his eyes fixed rigidly upon the letterpress of a paper-covered novel which he was clutching earnestly in his fists. He did not at once look up, and when eventually he sensed the presence of an intruder he seemed a trifle annoyed. Nevertheless, Rouse greeted him with a variety of graceful gestures before he eventually said his say.

“Acting upon information received,” he explained, “Mr Nicholson and I have just prised open the door of the study allotted to a little boy called Hope, with a view to inspecting its desirability as a residence; and all we have found inside is the portrait of a man in a red fez picking hops.”

He paused and coughed deprecatingly behind his hand as if loath to complain. Compton looked at him dazedly. Clearly he had not yet thoroughly extricated himself from that romantic world in which men live perpetually in evening dress and speak glibly of their college days. He rose and laid down his novel with a sigh.

“The incident has somewhat unnerved my friend Nicholson,” said Rouse apologetically, “also the boy Hope, and I was quite unable to persuade either of them to come and consult with you. I myself thought that you, if you could, would aid the lad in his dire extremity. You might even be able to tell him where he could find something to sit on—anything would do so long as it hasn’t too many rusty nails in it.” He reached out and indicated Compton’s stool suggestively. “That, for example,” said he, “would suit excellently. We have the whole evening before us, and it would be very enjoyable indeed for him to have a good sit-down after his game of football.”

Compton turned and looked first at his stool and then at Rouse.

“What is it you want, sir?” he inquired somewhat uncertainly.

“It’s a study,” said Rouse. “There’s no furniture in the place at all.”

“Study?” repeated the patient fellow. “But ain’t there a table and a couple of chairs in it? Surely——” He began to fondle his chin. “Why, every study has a table and a couple of chairs.”

“I expect this one did have a long time ago,” said Rouse, “but if so they must have died in infancy.”

“They may have been stole.”

Rouse considered this point with care.

“Of course,” said he at last, “it’s only a hole in the attic that I’m talking about. It may not be on your list of studies at all. To the naked eye it looks more like a family vault in some cheap cemetery.”

Compton produced a pipe, filled it, and struck a match; then he made his confession.

“Well, I can give you a table and a couple of chairs. As a matter o’ fac’ I’ve got some spare, and I’ve been wondering for a long time which study they belongs to. Over and over again I’ve reckoned up all the studies, on the fingers of my ’ands, and then all the tables and chairs, and they never come right. There was always a set over.”

Rouse’s face cleared instantly. He held out his hand.

“I warmly congratulate you, Compton,” said he. “Let me pilot you to the place forthwith. You had better bring some sandwiches and a bottle of beer with you, as it’s rather a distance and you might be glad of some light refreshment half way.”

He paused as they were about to leave and cast one last look round the little room.

“Compton,” said he, “would it be too much to ask whether you could lend Master Hope your little stove for the afternoon? To-morrow everything will be in full swing and he will be serving a cut from the joint with two vegetables from his own fireplace practically without cessation all day. But we must give the organisation time to settle down. We should not like you to have to hump along a sack of coal to-day, for example. But we should very much like to have a cup of tea with Hope in his sanctum, and as a matter of fact a few friends are visiting him.”

Compton cast a glance over his shoulder.

“I’ll give him a bit of coal,” said he. “If it’s a little place in the attic he’s going into he’ll want a bit of a fire in there to dry the place up and vent’late it a bit.”

“It would, I am sure, be enough,” said Rouse, “if you could only give him a bit of red carpet to warm his cold feet on.”

When at last they all met again, the expression on the face of each made an interesting study. Henry Hope was characteristically grave, and he stood with his crony watching Rouse with the eyes of a faithful dog. Terence was last to return, and he wore the expression of one who has some secret joy, whilst Rouse himself, who had been working exceedingly hard, looked hot and untidy. Nevertheless, his eyes were shining with the light of intense self-satisfaction. It was clear that he was itching to deliver himself of a few well-chosen words such as might indicate to his listeners the peculiar ingenuity of those things which he had achieved. In matters that concerned Henry Rouse was not a prefect at all; he was just an old friend. Henry Hope had more than once saved Rouse’s skin, and in spite of his great place in the school Rouse did not forget these little things. He welcomed Terence with an excited gesture, and then clapped a hand on his shoulder and peered tensely into his face.

“You’ve hardly changed at all,” said he. “The same old crooked eyes, the same solitary tooth projecting over your underlip, the same old passion socks! It seems scarcely any time since you went a-way-ee, and yet... what do you notice in me? A suspicion of grey in the hair?”

“A suspicion of egg on the mouth, if anything.”

Rouse was a trifle taken aback.

“What’s the matter anyway?” asked Terence.

“You’ve been gone such a deuce of a long time. That’s the matter. And never so much as a line to your own folk to let them know how you were getting on. Even now you’ve brought nothing.”

“Yes, I have brought along a friend.”

“A friend?” repeated the other scornfully. “What’s he going to sit on, pray?” He waited a moment, then reached out and tapped Terence upon the chest. “You see in me,” he opined, “one whose ingenuity is unsurpassed throughout the length and breadth of four continents, and it is very fortunate indeed for you that your friend Rouse is such a highbrow. Whilst you have been away I have set the whole thing right. Compton and I have just this moment completed the work. What was a short time ago a kind of expanded egg-box is now a comfortably furnished apartment. True, Henry will have to crawl in on his hands and knees to avoid braining himself on the ceiling, but what of that? It merely prevents surprise visits from beaks. And the main idea is to secure comfort when once he’s in. This I have done. Henry Hope did not appeal in vain. Compton has provided him with a complete suite of furniture—to wit, half a brace of table and a brace of chairs. The walls are now placarded with photographs of people found drowned—cuttings from old Daily Mirrors. We have propped up the ceiling with a baulk of timber and we have kindled a fire. We have put the fellow in the red fez who was picking hops right out of his misery, and we have drained off some of the pools of water that you noticed on the floor and put pieces of sacking in their place. As soon as he likes he can move in.” He paused as if for congratulation.

“There’s one thing I’d like to say,” observed his friend, “only one thing, and I think you ought to be told at once.”

“Well?”

“That place,” said Terence severely, “is not his study at all.”

Rouse peered at him like a man who has received a severe punch below the belt.

“You were so insistent about it that I imagined for once you knew what you were talking about. But no. Whenever you do anything which at first sight seems clever there’s always a catch in it somewhere. As a matter of fact, Henry’s study is No. 8, and it’s on the first floor. It’s the one Masham and Loates had last term, and it’s as cosy as any place in the house.”

“Here,” said Rouse, passing a hand through his hair. “Look here, what do you mean? That list said No. 18, and No. 17, which is along there, is the last number. Isn’t this the only place like a study that’s anywhere near it?”

“The list,” retorted Terence firmly, “said No. 8. It was you that told Henry it was No. 18.”

There was a silence.

At last Rouse made a passionate gesture.

“You mean to say, then,” said he, “that all my foresight and resource, all my ingenuity, all my travail, are without value of any kind? Do all my plans leave you cold? Are you suggesting that all the timber that I have scouted out should now merely be sold to defray expenses?”

He stopped and eyed the others wrathfully.

“You meant well,” confessed Terence—“you always do—but if I were you I should say no more about it. Compton may be rather annoyed when he finds all his trouble was due to a howling bloomer.”

He beckoned gravely, turned, and began to move down the corridor followed by his train.

At last Rouse spoke.

“Tell me,” said he, “who is your friend—the friend you so very kindly brought? I should like to kick somebody, and it might as well be him.”

“It’s the kid called Carr,” said Terence over his shoulder. “He seems rather a decent kid, so I told him to come along and be introduced to Henry and eat some cake in his new study. He waits within.”

“Waits within?” repeated Rouse. “If he takes my advice he’ll wait without. It’ll get him used to the idea that he’ll have to go without.”

“As a matter of fact he’s minding the kettle.”

“Kettle, indeed? Is there going to be a dish of tea then?”

“Yes, of course there is. I’ve been getting it ready.”

“You’ve fixed up a sort of christening breakfast, have you?”

He nodded his head thoughtfully. It occurred to him that in his quiet way Terence generally did fix up things.

He grunted.

“H’m,” said he. “Most ingenious of you. I’m sure Henry Hope is indeed lucky in his friends.”

Terence smiled modestly and opened the door of No. 8, whereupon Rouse walked in and looked round with a contemptuous sniff.

“This,” said he, “looks like a prison cell. It’ll make Henry feel absolutely homesick.”

“Homesick?”

“Certainly. That little den upstairs was a veritable home from home.”

“Why, dash it all, man, you said it was——”

“Never mind what I said,” retorted Rouse. “I’d grown to love that place.”

Terence burst out laughing.

At last Rouse smiled.

“Well, well, I suppose he may as well abide here as abide there. The great thing was to ensure that Henry was not being wronged in any way. Everything is now to the good, thanks to myself. Hullo, Carr, how are you? Hold out your fist, and that tall, well-set-up young fellow with the opera-glasses stuck on his face will slap a piece of cake into it. That is Henry Hope. Shake him heartily by the hand. He is one of the phenomena of Harley. People come miles to see what he carries behind those spectacles of his. You will grow to love Henry.... Who are you going to fag for?”

The little boy looked up.

“I don’t know yet,” said he. “There was some mix-up over the studies and things.”

“I can tell you,” put in Terence. “I saw the list half-an-hour ago. You’re going to fag for Coles.”

At first the effect that this news had upon Bobbie Carr passed unnoticed. The others were too busy dissecting cake to wonder why he made no answer at all. But at last Terence looked up and saw that he was sitting stiffly on his chair and staring at him.

“Is that right?” said he at last, and his voice sounded very small.

“That’s right,” said Terence. “Yes. Do you know Coles?”

For a moment he did not answer. Wild thoughts were scurrying across his mind. He was suddenly very afraid. He did not want them to know that he knew Coles at all, and yet——

“Rather bad luck,” said Rouse, talking with his mouth full. “Coles isn’t a man I’d care to fag for.”

“Anyway,” said Terence, turning and speaking under his breath, “it’ll show what he’s made of. We’ll see how he tackles it. If we find Coles is giving him too thick a time we’ll get him swopped with somebody else.”

“Yes,” said Rouse, “and also hit Coles sharply in the eye, a practice I delight in.”

He turned.

A knock had come upon the door, and it was swinging with stately dignity upon its hinges. In turn each boy rose to his feet and looked towards it suspiciously. Slowly, and at last, Toby Nicholson appeared upon the threshold. He looked round the assembled company with an air of relief. Next he saw Bobbie Carr, and wondered why he was sitting so oddly still and looking so scared. Then his wandering eyes discovered Rouse and settled upon him gravely. Lastly he moved forward.

“Have you seen the new Head? He hasn’t been in here, has he?”

Terence shook his head, but Rouse took a pace forward and slapped his thigh several times with the palm of his hand.

“Now that you remind me of it, sir,” said he delightedly, “I certainly have seen him—and in this house.” He turned to Terence. “In the stress of events,” said he, “I quite forgot to tell you. It was whilst I was carrying the table upstairs for Henry, and my only regret now is that I was not at the time balancing it upon my chin. What happened was this: Compton was following behind with his chairs, and to cheer him upon his way we were singing a sort of part-song together. In reality he was mumbling a ditty and I was singing seconds in a loud clear voice that was fairly making the rafters ring. I had the table in front of my face and naturally I couldn’t see where I was going, but just as I got to the landing the door of Mr Morley’s room opened and a man came out like a shot from a gun—just as if somebody’s boot was behind him. Intent upon my task I went blithely on, and I hit that man immediately in the waistcoat good and hard with the leg of the table. If he was coming to tell me about my singing it must have hurt his sense of pride very considerably, also his sense of pain.” Rouse paused. “I thought—you see,” he explained, “I couldn’t see him properly—and I thought—it was the man who comes to wind up the clocks. So I didn’t apologise. He could see where he was going and I couldn’t. I thought, ‘Let him apologise. It’s up to him to speak first. Why didn’t he look where he was going?’ As a matter of fact he was leaning weakly against the wall, with one hand against his waistcoat and the other against his forehead, watching me stagger by. I took absolutely no notice at all. In point of fact I went by whistling. When I had gone right past Compton slipped up beside me and said: ‘I say, sir, that man you ’it—that man was the new Headmaster. ’E’s lookin’ still, sir.’ I turned round to see. It was quite true. His eyes were like balls of fire.”

Terence smiled thoughtfully.

“He must have felt rather annoyed.”

“If I hit him as hard as I think I did,” said Rouse, “he must have felt like a deceased relative.”

Toby moved forward, then he sat down wretchedly on the edge of the table.

“Look here, shipmate,” said he, “do you mean to say that he found you singing a part-song with the house porter, and that thereupon you hit him in the ribs with the leg of a table?”

“The honest truth,” admitted Rouse cheerfully, and passed a moistened finger solemnly across his throat. “I must have looked like a sweep too... hair all tousled... thick, rich soil all over my hands.... I’d been digging about in Compton’s store, you see, raking out furniture and things for our Henry’s study.”

Toby looked at him forlornly.

“Well, the new Headmaster,” said he, “came over here entirely to see how you lived when nobody was looking, and if that’s how he found things you’ve just about put the lid on it.”

Rouse looked pained.

“Why, sir?”

“Because,” said Toby, coming up beside him and speaking quietly, “he’s decided you’re not a suitable chap to be captain of Rugby football.”

The words had the instantaneous effect that Toby knew they would have. Rouse the clown became abruptly a grown man. He tightened in every muscle until at last he seemed rigid. Then he looked Toby in the eyes with quick sincerity.

“What do you mean, sir?” he said. “What does he——”

Toby laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“I met him outside just now,” said he. “I knew something was wrong. He was white with rage. He could hardly speak. But he says you’re to have the push—that’s all.”

There was absolute silence. With lovable tact, Henry Hope had taken the two boys with him out of the room as soon as he saw that Toby had something private to say. Terence stood against the mantelpiece and stared first at one and then at the other, and Rouse just stood before Toby and looked and looked and looked till he could see nothing at all but a foolish house of cards that had only come into being in the morning, and that now, at the end of the day, lay in a tumbled litter before his eyes.