LITMIR.BIZ

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called away to the extreme right.

      The two boys’ souls die within them; they can never do it. Young Brooke thinks so too, and says kindly, “You’ll cross a lane after next field; keep down it, and you’ll hit the Dunchurch road below the Cock,” and then steams away for the run in, in which he’s sure to be first, as if he were just starting. They struggle on across the next field, the “forwards” getting fainter and fainter, and then ceasing. The whole hunt is out of ear-shot, and all hope of coming in is over.

      “Hang it all!” broke out East, as soon as he had got wind enough, pulling off his hat and mopping at his face, all spattered with dirt and lined with sweat, from which went up a thick steam into the still, cold air. “I told you how it would be. What a thick I was to come! Here we are, dead beat, and yet I know we’re close to the run in, if we knew the country.”

      “Well,” said Tom, mopping away, and gulping down his disappointment, “it can’t be helped. We did our best anyhow. Hadn’t we better find this lane, and go down it, as young Brooke told us?”

      “I suppose so—nothing else for it,” grunted East. “If ever I go out last day again.” Growl, growl, growl.

      So they tried back slowly and sorrowfully, and found the lane, and went limping down it, plashing in the cold puddly ruts, and beginning to feel how the run had taken it out of them. The evening closed in fast, and clouded over, dark, cold, and dreary.

      “I say, it must be locking-up, I should think,” remarked East, breaking the silence—“it’s so dark.”

      “What if we’re late?” said Tom.

      “No tea, and sent up to the Doctor,” answered East.

      The thought didn’t add to their cheerfulness. Presently a faint halloo was heard from an adjoining field. They answered it and stopped, hoping for some competent rustic to guide them, when over a gate some twenty yards ahead crawled the wretched Tadpole, in a state of collapse. He had lost a shoe in the brook, and had been groping after it up to his elbows in the stiff, wet clay, and a more miserable creature in the shape of boy seldom has been seen.

      The sight of him, notwithstanding, cheered them, for he was some degrees more wretched than they. They also cheered him, as he was no longer under the dread of passing his night alone in the fields. And so, in better heart, the three plashed painfully down the never-ending lane. At last it widened, just as utter darkness set in, and they came out on a turnpike road, and there paused, bewildered, for they had lost all bearings, and knew not whether to turn to the right or left.

      Luckily for them they had not to decide, for lumbering along the road, with one lamp lighted and two spavined horses in the shafts, came a heavy coach, which after a moment’s suspense they recognized as the Oxford coach, the redoubtable Pig and Whistle.

      It lumbered slowly up, and the boys, mustering their last run, caught it as it passed, and began clambering up behind, in which exploit East missed his footing and fell flat on his nose along the road. Then the others hailed the old scarecrow of a coachman, who pulled up and agreed to take them in for a shilling; so there they sat on the back seat, drubbing with their heels, and their teeth chattering with cold, and jogged into Rugby some forty minutes after locking-up.

      Five minutes afterwards three small, limping, shivering figures steal along through the Doctor’s garden, and into the house by the servants’ entrance (all the other gates have been closed long since), where the first thing they light upon in the passage is old Thomas, ambling along, candle in one hand and keys in the other.

      He stops and examines their condition with a grim smile. “Ah! East, Hall, and Brown, late for locking-up. Must go up to the Doctor’s study at once.”

      “Well but, Thomas, mayn’t we go and wash first? You can put down the time, you know.”

      “Doctor’s study d’rectly you come in—that’s the orders,” replied old Thomas, motioning towards the stairs at the end of the passage which led up into the Doctor’s house; and the boys turned ruefully down it, not cheered by the old verger’s muttered remark, “What a pickle they boys be in!” Thomas referred to their faces and habiliments, but they construed it as indicating the Doctor’s state of mind. Upon the short flight of stairs they paused to hold counsel.

      “Who’ll go in first?” inquires Tadpole.

      “You—you’re the senior,” answered East.

      “Catch me. Look at the state I’m in,” rejoined Hall, showing the arms of his jacket. “I must get behind you two.”

      “Well, but look at me,” said East, indicating the mass of clay behind which he was standing; “I’m worse than you, two to one. You might grow cabbages on my trousers.”

      “That’s all down below, and you can keep your legs behind the sofa,” said Hall.

      “Here, Brown; you’re the show-figure. You must lead.”

      “But my face is all muddy,” argued Tom.

      “Oh, we’re all in one boat for that matter; but come on; we’re only making it worse, dawdling here.”

      “Well, just give us a brush then,” said Tom. And they began trying to rub off the superfluous dirt from each other’s jackets; but it was not dry enough, and the rubbing made them worse; so in despair they pushed through the swing-door at the head of the stairs, and found themselves in the Doctor’s hall.

      “That’s the library door,” said East in a whisper, pushing Tom forwards. The sound of merry voices and laughter came from within, and his first hesitating knock was unanswered. But at the second, the Doctor’s voice said, “Come in;” and Tom turned the handle, and he, with the others behind him, sidled into the room.

      The Doctor looked up from his task; he was working away with a great chisel at the bottom of a boy’s sailing boat, the lines of which he was no doubt fashioning on the model of one of Nicias’s galleys. Round him stood three or four children; the candles burnt brightly on a large table at the farther end, covered with books and papers, and a great fire threw a ruddy glow over the rest of the room. All looked so kindly, and homely, and comfortable that the boys took heart in a moment, and Tom advanced from behind the shelter of the great sofa. The Doctor nodded to the children, who went out, casting curious and amused glances at the three young scarecrows.

      “Well, my little fellows,” began the Doctor, drawing himself up with his back to the fire, the chisel in one hand and his coat-tails in the other, and his eyes twinkling as he looked them over; “what makes you so late?”

      “Please, sir, we’ve been out big-side hare-and-hounds, and lost our way.”

      “Hah! you couldn’t keep up, I suppose?”

      “Well, sir,” said East, stepping out, and not liking that the Doctor should think lightly of his running powers, “we got round Barby all right; but then—”

      “Why, what a state you’re in, my boy!” interrupted the Doctor, as the pitiful condition of East’s garments was fully revealed to him.

      “That’s the fall I got, sir, in the road,” said East, looking down at himself; “the Old Pig came by—”

      “The what?” said the Doctor.

      “The Oxford coach, sir,” explained Hall.

      “Hah! yes, the Regulator,” said the Doctor.

      “And I tumbled on my face, trying to get up behind,” went on East.

      “You’re not hurt, I hope?” said the Doctor.

      “Oh no, sir.”

      “Well now, run upstairs, all three of you, and get clean things on, and then tell the housekeeper to give you some tea. You’re too young to try such long runs. Let Warner know I’ve seen you. Good-night.”

      “Good-night, sir.” And away scuttled the three boys in high glee.

      “What

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