Unintentionally Harry Moncrief had made deeper the chasm between the one-time friends. It was quite evident to Stanley, from Harry's description of what he had witnessed, that there was an understanding between Paul and Wyndham, otherwise they would never have shaken hands with each other. The fact that Paul could take the hand of one who had thrashed him set the blood tingling in Stanley's veins. That showed plainly enough that Paul was on friendly terms with his enemy—with an enemy of the school. What was to be done?

Stanley got up and paced the room. The softer feelings that had been working in his breast vanished.

"I will never speak to Paul Percival again—never!" he said fiercely. "Perhaps the whole of that business at the sand-pit was a trap of his into which I was fool enough to fall. How else could they have shaken hands together?"

It seemed to him, thus blinded by suspicion against his friend, that it could only have one meaning—they were gloating over his defeat.

Meanwhile, Harry Moncrief had no sooner descended the stairs leading from the dormitories than he came sharply into contact with Plunger, who was hurrying along the corridor as though he were rushing full speed up a cricket pitch to prevent himself from being run out.

"Hallo, Harry, just the fellow I was looking for!" he exclaimed.

"Are you, Freddy? Then I wish you'd look for me with your eyes instead of your elbows," answered Harry, rubbing his ribs, which were aching from the blow they had just received from the boniest part of Plunger's elbows. "What is it?"

"You know that twaddle in the Gargoyle Record about the poet being stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger'?"

"Yes," laughed Harry, as he recalled Plunger's confusion when the paragraph was read aloud in the common room.

"What are you grinning at? You don't mean to say you saw anything funny in it?"

"Oh, no; but you're bound to laugh when the other fellows laugh, you know. It's like the measles—catching. I'm all right now. Go on. You were saying——"

"I believe that paragraph was sent in to the editor—Dick Jessel, you know—by Baldry."

"Oh! What makes you think that?"

"He's been worrying about rhymes ever since that paragraph was read out—that's why. You see, he sent in the paragraph so that he might have another shot at me with the answer. Baldry's a deep 'un."

"But why should he send in paragraphs to the Record against you?"

"Well, I make fun of his name, so he's trying to score off me in return. But he can't do it, for 'Plunger's' no sort of rhyme to 'hunger.' And there's another thing I've got to tell you in confidence, Harry. I believe that cartoon of me on the Forum window was Baldry's work."

"Oh!" answered Harry drily. "What makes you think that?"

"Baldry once said that if the glue business failed"—Plunger's father was a glue and size merchant in a large way of business—"I could always pick up my living as an artist's model."

"How?"

"Well, he had the cheek to tell me I had a funny sort of face. And Baldry's smart with the pencil, you know; so, putting this and that together, I believe Master Baldry not only sent in that paragraph to the Record, but put my face on the Forum window."

"Very wrong of him, Freddy," said Harry sympathetically. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Well, I've got a lovely old basket, once the property of a dear and highly-respected friend of yours, Mrs. Trounce, and this basket is filled with a lovely collection of feathers. Along with these feathers will be mixed a little glutinous substance, as the chemistry master calls it, which I brought last term from the pater's works. This basket will be fixed directly over the Forum door, by means of a string, the end of which will be held by some one hidden in a tree at the back of the Forum. That some one in the tree will be you. Are you listening?"

"Ra-ther. That some one in the tree will be me. Go on."

"My dearly beloved and much respected chum, Sammy Baldry, will receive a message calling him to the Forum at half-past six. Someone will be at the side of the Forum, so as to know the exact moment Baldry appears on the scene. Directly he nears the door that some one will whistle. That will be a signal to you up in the tree. Baldhead will open the door. Then you'll pull the string. Over will go the basket, and down will come the pretty feathers over Baldhead. In the information Baldry was good enough to supply to the Gargoyle Record, affectionate inquiries were made, you remember, after the Missing Link, last seen in all his native beauty in the Forum. What price for Baldry, eh? When he gets these feathers on him he'll be a puzzle. No one will be able to tell which kingdom he belongs to—animal, vegetable, or mineral."

And Plunger chuckled so that it seemed as though he would never be able to stop himself. Just to keep him company, Harry chuckled too.

"Splendid little joke, isn't it, Harry?"

"Splendid."

"I told you what fun you'd have when you got to Garside. Better than Gaffer Quelch's, eh? Things were awfully slow there, weren't they, Harry?"

"Awfully."

But, so far as fun was concerned, Harry couldn't see that he had had very much of it, except at his own expense. Plunger had, in fact, made him his butt, and now he wished to score off Baldry through his instrumentality.

"I didn't quite understand you, Freddy," said Harry presently, as Plunger went on chuckling. "Who do you say was to be up in the tree at the back of the Forum and pull the string?"

"You, Harry. I'm giving you the post of honour, because you deserve it. Baldry has poked fun at you a lot. Now it's your turn, old fellow."

"It's very kind of you, Freddy—it really is. I don't know how to be grateful enough. I'm to be in the tree, you say: but where will you be?"

"Oh, I'll do the whistling."

"The whistling?"

"Yes, to let you know up in the tree when Baldry comes along. Then, directly Baldry opens the door, you pull the string, and—there you are. Baldry in full plumage. It's all clear enough, isn't it?"

"All clear enough;—but——"

"But what? You're not going to cry off, are you?"

"I'm not going to cry off; but suppose we change places."

"How do you mean?"

"You go up the tree and do the pulling, and let me do the whistling."

"Why, it'll be ever so much more fun to pull the string. I want to give you the best position, you see."

"I know you do, Freddy. I know your good nature; but I'm not going to let you make the sacrifice. I'll do the whistling."

"Very well, if you wish it. I don't mind which I do," said Plunger, in a lofty tone. "Only don't make a mess of it."

"Oh, my part's so simple, I can't make a mess of it. Mind you don't make a mess of yours, Freddy."

Now Harry decided, immediately on quitting Plunger, that he would acquaint Baldry with the joke that Plunger intended to play upon him. It was he who had drawn that cartoon in the Forum that had stirred Plunger to wrath, and Harry came to the conclusion that it was not right that Baldry should suffer for him. Besides, as Plunger had so often scored over him, he thought it only right that he should begin to equalize matters. So he hunted up Baldry, and informed him of Plunger's kind intentions towards him.

"Oh," said Baldry, when Harry had ended, "that's Plunger's little game, is it? I thought he was getting a bit cross, but I didn't think he meant showing his teeth. The beauty of it is, I hadn't anything to do with that portrait of him on the Forum window. I know no more about it than you do."

"Than I do!" echoed Harry, smiling to himself.

"He made a better guess when he told you that I inspired those paragraphs in the Record. I just gave a hint to Jowett. Jowett passed it on to Jessel, and Jessel put in the smart bits that touched Plunger on the raw. Plunger's all right when he's going for other people, but he doesn't like it when others go for him."

Harry quite sympathized with this view of things.

"There's my name," went on Baldry. "I can't help my name. I didn't christen myself, and was never asked whether I liked it or not. That's the worst of names. You never are consulted. It's all done for you by your ancestors, and your godfathers and godmothers—and people of that sort. I don't know why it should be, but it is; and there you are—fixed up for life with a name, unless you happen to be a girl, and get married, then you drop it for another, but it may be ever so much worse than the one you've got. Now, what I say is this—Baldry isn't such a bad name, as names go, is it, Moncrief?"

"Better than Plunger, any day," remarked Harry, in his most sympathetic manner.

"Better than Plunger, as you say, Moncrief. Where Plunger's ancestors picked up a name like that, goodness only knows. It must have come out of the Ark. And yet he's always calling me 'Baldhead,' 'Bladder of Lard,' 'The Lost Hair,' and telling me to go in for hair-restorer, Tatcho, and making feeble jokes of that sort. But I think I went one better when I got that paragraph in the Record, eh?"

"Yes, Baldry you scored there; but what we've got to think about is, how to prevent Plunger from scoring back. Some one will have to go to the Forum in answer to his invitation, when it comes. It won't matter who, because Plunger won't be able to see; he'll be up in the tree, waiting for my whistle. So who's to be the victim?"

Baldry became thoughtful. He ran through the list of his acquaintances whom he thought most deserving of the honour that Plunger proposed to bestow on him. He thought of one or two in his form who might have been available for his purpose, but it was just possible that they were in the confidence of Plunger. So he turned from his own form to the Fifth—"the bounders of the Fifth."

"I've got it," he suddenly exclaimed. "Percival!"

"Percival!" echoed Harry.

"Yes; that's the ticket; the very thing—Percival. If it comes off all right, it'll be a big hit. We shall be covered with glory, and he'll be covered with feathers—ha, ha! It couldn't be better. Do you see how it fits in? A nice little present of feathers for the fellow who showed the white feather at the sand-pit. Isn't it splendid, Moncrief?"

Harry was silent. Percival had been far from his thoughts. He never imagined that Baldry would suggest Percival. For the moment his mind went back to that night when Paul came to Redmead. Once again he could hear the low, earnest tones of his father—"Many thanks for the great service you have done, Paul. You have not only done a great service for me and my brother, but for your country."

"Well, Moncrief; why don't you answer?" came the voice of Baldry. "It's the finest idea that has come to me for a long time. Feathers for the fellow who showed the white feather."

At the words, the image of his father faded from Harry's mind. He could no longer hear the echo of his words. He only saw his cousin's bleeding face as he rose vanquished from the sand-pit; and, side by side with that picture, he saw Percival walking and talking, and shaking hands with "the wretched Beetle—Wyndham," as he had seen him walking and talking and shaking hands with him that afternoon.

"A fine idea—splendid!" he cried. "Nothing could be better. Let Percival be the victim."