CHAPTER VII.
STRIFE IN THE UPPER FOURTH
"'You are exceedingly ugly,' said the wild ducks." – The Ugly Duckling.
School was a great change after Brenlands. The rooms seemed barer, the desks more inky, and the bread and butter a good eighth of an inch thicker than they had been at the close of the previous term; but by the end of the first week our two friends had settled to work, and things were going on much the same as usual.
Considerable alterations had been made in the composition of the Upper Fourth. Most of the occupants of the front row of benches had got their remove, while a number of boys from the lower division, of whom Valentine was one, had come up to join Mr. Rowlands' class. The Long Dormitory was also changed, and Jack now found himself in Number Eight, sleeping in a bed next to that of his cousin.
Being thus so much thrown together, both in and out of school, it was only natural that the friendship which they had formed in the holidays should be still more firmly established. Only one thing acted as a drag upon it, and that was the fact of Jack's still finding a strong counter-attraction in the society of Garston, Rosher, and Teal.
The quartette began the term badly by being largely responsible for a disturbance which occurred in the dining-hall, when a clockwork frog was suddenly discovered disporting itself in Pilson's teacup; and it is probable that Jack would have continued to distinguish himself as a black sheep, in company with his three unruly classmates, had it not been for an unforeseen occurrence which caused him to make a change in his choice of friends.
As not unfrequently happens, the few original members of the Upper Fourth who had not been called upon to "come up higher" still clung to their old position at the bottom of the class, while the front benches were filled by their more industrious schoolfellows who had earned promotion. This state of affairs was not altogether pleasing to some of the old hands. In Garston's opinion, the ideal Form was one which would have no top, and where everybody would be bottom; and when the first week's "order" was read out, he remarked, concerning those new-comers who had won the posts of honour, that it was "like their blessed cheek," and that some of them wanted a licking. Teal was entirely at one with his chum in this opinion, and showed his approval of the latter's sentiments by laying violent hands upon the person of Hollis, the head boy, making a playful pretence of wringing his neck, and then kicking his bundle of books down a flight of stairs. Hollis, a weakly, short-sighted youth, threatened to complain to Mr. Rowlands; which course of action, as may be supposed, did not tend to increase his popularity with his new classmates.
The very next morning the dogs of war broke loose. The boys were construing the portion of Virgil which had been set them overnight. Garston, who came last, had floundered about for a few moments among the closing lines, giving vent to a few incoherent sputterings, and every one was impatiently awaiting the first tinkle of the bell.
"Yes, Garston," said Mr. Rowlands, "that's certainly up to your usual form – quite a brilliant display; I'll give you naught. Let me see: I set the lesson to the end of the page, and told you to go further if you could; has any one done any more?"
"I have, sir," said Hollis; "shall I go on?"
The master nodded, Hollis proceeded, and Valentine, who stood second, also followed in turn with a continuation of the translation. He had only got through a couple of lines when the bell rang, and the class was dismissed. Hardly had the door closed behind them, when Rosher and Teal charged along the passage and seized hold of Valentine and Hollis. The other boys crowded round in a circle.
"Look here, my good chap," said Teal, "in future you'll have to drop that; d'you hear?"
"Drop what?"
"Why, doing more work than what's set."
"But why shouldn't I?" said Hollis. "There's no harm in it; he didn't give us any marks."
"You young fool! don't you see that if you do more than what's set, he'll think we can all do the same, and make the lessons longer."
"Of course he will!" added several voices.
"Just you mind what you're up to," continued Teal, "or you'll get what you won't like."
"Pass on there! What are you waiting for?" cried Mr. Rowlands, appearing in the doorway of his classroom, and the gathering dispersed.
The following morning, as fate would have it, nearly the same thing happened again, only this time during the hour devoted to algebra.
"Has any one had time to do any of the next set of examples?" asked Mr. Rowlands. "If so, let him hold up his hand."
Only two boys held up their hands – Hollis and Valentine. There were murmurs of discontent at the back of the room, and several fists were shaken ominously.
Jack had not troubled to side with either party – it mattered very little to him whether the lessons were long or short, as he only did as much as he felt inclined – but, if anything, his sympathies lay with his less industrious comrades, who, he considered, had very good ground for feeling aggrieved with Hollis and his cousin.
"Look here, Val," he said, when they met at the close of morning school, "what d'you want to go and work so beastly hard for?"
"I don't."
"No, perhaps you don't, because you're clever; but you're always doing more than you're obliged to, and the other chaps don't like it, because they say it'll make Rowlands set longer pieces."
"Oh, that's all rubbish! It's simply because they're waxy with us for getting above them in class. I don't see why I should take my orders from Rosher and Teal, and only do what they like; and I don't intend to either."
"All right, my boy," answered Jack, carelessly. "Do what you like, only look out for squalls."
The latter piece of advice was not at all unnecessary; for soon after this, as the giver was strolling across the gravel playground, he heard his name called, and looking round saw his cousin hurrying after him with a scrap of paper in his hand.
"Look," he said; "I found this in my desk just now, and there was one just like it in Hollis's."
Jack took the paper. It was an anonymous note, printed in capitals to disguise the handwriting; and it ran as follows: —
"This is to give you fair warning, that if you will persist in doing more work than what is set, you'll get a thrashing. The rest of the class don't intend to get more work on your account, and so have decided not to put up with your nonsense any longer."
"It was Rosher or one of those chaps wrote it," said Jack. "You'd better look out; any one of them could give you a licking."
"They'd have to try first," answered Valentine, hotly.
His cousin laughed; the reply rather tickled his fancy.
Those concerned had not long to wait before matters came to a head. That same afternoon Mr. Rowlands set a history lesson for the following day. "Take the reign of Elizabeth," he said. "By-the-bye, there's a genealogical tree at the end of the chapter; get that up if you can."
The examination next morning was a written one, and the last question on the board was, "Show, by means of a genealogical tree, the connection between the Tudors and the Stuarts."
"Please, sir," said Garston, "you told us we needn't do that."
"I said you were to get it up if you had time," returned the master. "Haven't any of you done it?"
"Yes, sir," came from the front desk.
"Very well; let those who have learned it write it down."
"Val, my boy," said Jack, in his happy-go-lucky style, as they met in the dormitory to change for football, "you just keep your eyes open; you're going to get licked."
Valentine replied with a snort of defiance, and the subject was dropped. Tea was over, and in the short respite between the end of the meal and the commencement of "prep.," Jack was strolling down one of the passages, when his attention was attracted by a certain small boy who stood beneath a gas-jet scanning the contents of a small book, and occasionally scribbling something on a half-sheet of exercise-book paper. Suddenly the youngster flung down the book in a rage, and kicked it across the passage, whereupon Jack promptly cried, "No goal!"
"Hallo, little Garston!" he continued, "what's up with you?"
"Why, I've got to write out the translation of some of this Caesar for old Thorpe, and I can't make head or tail of the blessed stuff. I say, Fenleigh, you might do a bit for me!"
Jack was a good-natured young vagabond. "Where is it?" he said, picking up the book. "All right! here goes."
Garston Minor slapped his piece of paper up against the wall, and wrote at his friend's dictation. The translation was not very accurate, but coming from the lips of a fellow in the Upper Fourth it was accepted without question by the juvenile, and in ten minutes the rough copy of the imposition was finished.
"Thanks awfully!" said the youngster, as he stuffed the book and paper back into his pocket. "Look here, Fenleigh; as you've done me a good turn, I'll let you into a secret, only you must promise not to let my brother know who told you. He and Teal and Rosher are going to give your cousin a licking."
"How d'you know?"
"I heard them talking about it. They said, 'We'll lick Valentine Fenleigh. If we touched Hollis, he'd sneak; but it'll frighten him if we thrash the other chap.'"
"When are they going to do it?"
"Now – some time; they said soon after tea."
"Where?" cried Jack.
"I can't tell you; they didn't say. That's all I know."
Jack exploded with wrath. He had talked calmly enough to Valentine about his getting licked, and was inclined to think he deserved it; but now that it had come to the point, he found that the idea of his cousin being thrashed was not at all to his liking. Even at that very moment the outrage might be taking place. The victim was not equal to any one of his three assailants, and stood much less chance of escaping from their combined attack.
Fenleigh J. rushed off down the passage on a wild-goose chase after his chum, but nowhere was the latter to be found. As a last resource, he ran into the schoolroom. Valentine's seat was empty, but a boy sat reading at the next desk but one.
"Have you seen my cousin?"
"Yes, he was here a minute ago."
"Where's he gone?"
"Bother you! – let's see – oh, I know; some one came in to say Darlton wanted him in the little music-room."
"Darlton never gives lessons after tea. Phew! I see what's up!"
The boy looked up from his reading with a grunt of astonishment as his questioner turned sharply on his heel and dashed out of the room. Jack had his faults, but he was loyal-hearted enough to remember those who had at any time proved themselves to be his friends, and not to leave them in the lurch when an opportunity offered for rendering them some assistance. He was a strong boy, but the back desk trio were also good-sized fellows for their age. Had it, however, been the whole of the Sixth Form who were licking Valentine, Jack in his present state of mind would have charged in among them and attempted a rescue.
"It's clear enough," he muttered to himself, as he turned off down a short, narrow passage; "that message was a trap to catch him alone. But wait a minute, and I'll surprise the beggars."
He paused outside a door, and hearing voices within tried the handle. It was locked.
"Hallo! who's there? You can't come in."
Jack was too wary to make any reply. He glanced round rapidly, endeavouring to concoct some plan for gaining an entrance. Stooping down, he discovered that the key was turned so that it remained exactly in the centre of the keyhole, anything pushed against it would send it out on the other side. "I believe that bathroom key fits this door," he muttered, and tiptoed a little further along the passage. In another moment he was back again, and thrusting the key suddenly into the lock he turned it, and forced open the door.
The room was a small chamber set apart for music practice, the only furniture it contained being a piano, a chair, some fiddle-cases, and music-stands, while on the mantelpiece, in the place of a clock, was a metronome that had something wrong with the works. Jack, however, had no eye for these details; his attention was centred in a group of boys who were struggling under the single gas-jet, which was flaring away in a manner which showed it had evidently been turned up in a hurry.
"Here, leave that chap alone!" he exclaimed, plunging into the centre of the scrimmage. "Let him alone, I say!"
"Hallo! it's Fenleigh J.," cried Garston. "You've just come in time to help us to teach this cousin of yours a lesson on the subject of not overworking himself."
"Leave him alone!" repeated Jack angrily, giving Rosher a push which sent him staggering back into the fireplace, where he knocked over the metronome, which fell with a crash on the fender.
"Don't be a fool, Fenleigh," cried Teal. "We're going to teach this chap a lesson. If you don't want to help, you can clear out."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," returned the other. "You let him alone."
Both parties were too much in earnest to waste their breath in talking, and the next moment Garston and Rosher sprang on the intruder and endeavoured to force him out of the room. Valentine, being unable to free himself from the muscular grasp of Teal, could render no assistance; but his cousin, whose blood was fairly up, struggled furiously with his two assailants. Round the room they went, like a circular storm, wrecking everything they came in contact with; music-stands went over with an appalling clatter, while the back of the solitary chair gave way with a crash as the three combatants fell against it. Suddenly a sharp voice sounded down the passage, —
"Now then, there! What's all that noise about?"
Teal released his hold of Valentine, and springing to the gas-jet turned out the light.
"Cave!" he whispered: "it's old Thorpe!"
It was impossible to continue the struggle in the darkness, and the tumult ceased.
"He's gone into Copland's classroom," continued Teal. "Quick! let's hook it before he comes back!"
A rush was made for the door.
"All right, Fenleigh; don't you think you're going to be friends with us any more."
"I've no wish to be," answered Jack. "If you want to finish this out any time, I shall be quite ready for you!"
"It was jolly good of you to stick up for me like that," said Valentine, as the two cousins hurried off towards the schoolroom.
"I should have been a mean cad if I hadn't," returned the other, laughing. "You don't think I've forgotten that affair of the magpie's nest, do you? I don't care a straw for any of those fellows, and it they want to fight, I'll take them on any day; but they'll have to lick me first before they talk about thrashing you."
In course of time the dispute between the two extremes of the Upper Fourth died a natural death. Mr. Rowlands did not increase the length of the "prep." lessons, and peace was restored. Garston and his two companions, however, did not forgive Jack for his interference with their plans. Regarding him, perhaps, as rather a hard nut to crack, they made no attempt to renew the combat, but evidently decided to cut him off from any future enjoyment of their society or friendship.
Jack, on his part, did not seem to take this loss very much to heart; it only induced him to become more chummy with Valentine, and, judging from the comparatively few times that his name was down for punishment, this change of associates seemed to be decidedly to his advantage. As the autumn advanced, and wet days became more frequent, the two boys took to doing fretwork in their spare time; and having purchased a rather large and complicated design for a kind of bracket bookcase, they conceived the happy notion of making it as a Christmas present for Queen Mab, and so worked away together, taking an immense amount of interest in their task.
Before the term ended a rather curious incident happened, insignificant in itself, but worthy of being recorded as bearing on more important events to be dwelt on at a later period in our story.
It wanted about three weeks to the holidays, and Jack and Valentine were returning from the ironmonger's, where they had been purchasing some sandpaper wherewith to put the finishing touches to their work.
"I wish it was midsummer instead of Christmas," the former was saying. "I don't want to go home. I'd much rather go to stay with Aunt Mab at Brenlands."
Valentine was about to reply, when both boys were surprised by a shabby-looking man suddenly crossing from the other side of the street and taking up his stand directly in their path. The stranger wore a battered brown hat, no necktie, and a suit of clothes which he might have stolen from some scarecrow.
"'Afternoon, young gents!" he said.
"Good afternoon," answered Jack shortly, stepping out into the road.
The stranger turned and walked at their side.
"You may not remember me, gents, but I'm Ned Hanks."
"I don't care who you are," answered Valentine; "I don't know you."
"Oh, but I know you, sir; it's Mr. Fenleigh I'm a-talking to. I thought, perhaps, you might like to stand me a drink."
"I say, just be off," cried Jack sharply, "here's old Westford coming."
The man fell back, and a moment later the two boys raised their caps to the headmaster. Mr. Westford acknowledged their salutation with a cold stare, which clearly showed that he had seen their late companion, and was wondering what business two of his pupils had to be talking with such a vagabond.
"I wonder who that fellow was!" said Jack.
"Oh, some tramp. I never saw him before."
"But he knew your name."
"Well, these beggars are up to all kinds of dodges," answered Valentine. "If we'd waited long enough, I daresay he'd have told me the names of all the family!"
CHAPTER VIII.
A BANQUET AT "DUSTER'S."
"It must have been the fault of the black goblin who lived in the snuff-box." – The Brave Tin Soldier.
At Easter, Jack and Valentine got their remove into the Fifth, and there became acquainted with a young gentleman who rejoiced in the name of Tinkleby.
Tinkleby was a comical-looking fellow of medium height; he wore nippers, and had a perpetual smirk on his lips.
"Hallo, you two Fenleighs!" he said, coming up to them on the second morning of the term; "I suppose you'll join our society."
"What society?" asked Jack.
"The Fifth Form Literary Society."
"What's it for?" asked Valentine. "We're neither of us very literary."
"Well, to tell you the truth, the society isn't either. It's kept up for the sake of having a feed at the end of every summer term."
"What?" cried Jack, laughing.
"If you'll listen a moment," said Tinkleby glibly, "I'll explain the whole matter in two words.
"The fellows in the Fifth used to run a manuscript magazine. Aston was the first editor, and he called it the 'Portfolio,' because it was bound up in the case of an old blotter that he bagged out of the reading-room. The chaps who contributed papers called themselves the Fifth Form Literary Society, and elected a secretary, treasurer, and president. Aston was so pleased with one of the numbers that he sent it to The Melchester Herald to be reviewed; but after waiting about six months for a notice to appear, he went down to the office, and the editor said that the manuscript was lost, and that Aston ought to have enclosed stamps if he wanted it returned. Godson, one of the prefects, said he saw a bit at Snell's the fish-shop, where they were using it to wrap up screws of shrimps; but that was all rot, and he only said it because the fellows in the Sixth were jealous. Well, then, it was suggested that the magazine should be printed, and the members subscribed towards bringing out the first number; but after they'd raked in all the money they could get, they found there wasn't enough for the purpose, so they decided to spend what they'd got in having a feed at 'Duster's,' and it was agreed it should be an annual affair.
"When I was made president I brought out two numbers of the 'Portfolio,' but in the second I wrote rather a smart thing on old Ward, and called it 'The Career of a Class Master.' It was really so good I thought he'd enjoy reading it, and so I got another fellow to show it him; but he didn't properly appreciate it, and cut up rough. He said he would overlook the personal allusions, but he really couldn't allow any fellow in his form to be so backward in spelling, and therefore I must borrow a spelling-book from one of the kids, and learn two pages a day until I improved. He used to hear me before we began first lessons. It was rather rough on the president of a literary society, making him stand up every morning and reel off two pages of 'Butter's Spelling-Book.' And that squashed the 'Portfolio;' fellows wouldn't send in any more papers, for fear they should be hauled up in the same manner.
"But they went on subscribing for the feed," continued Tinkleby, brightening up. "We didn't let that fall through. It comes off on the breaking-up day, after the old boys' match. The Sixth are always invited in to have supper with the swells; but I know a lot or them would much rather be with us having a blow-out at 'Duster's.' Well, that's the meaning of our literary society; the subscription is only two-pence a week, so you'd better join."
The two cousins promised they would do so. Every Monday morning, in the classroom, Tinkleby passed round an old missionary box, crying, "Now then! pay up, you beggars. No broken glass or brace buttons!" It was always a race to get the collection over by the time Mr. Ward entered the room; but the sprightly Tinkleby, who seemed to have undertaken the combined duties of president, secretary, and treasurer, hurried through it somehow; and each week the box grew heavier, and the hearts of the contributors lighter as they looked forward to the time when they should sit down to the long-expected banquet.
The term passed very pleasantly for Jack and Valentine; and what between cricket, bathing, and the prospect of spending the coming holiday at Brenlands, they had good reason for feeling contented and happy. Only one thing happened to disturb their peace of mind, and that an incident of rather a curious nature.
They were strolling back to the school one afternoon, and had got within twenty yards of the main entrance, when some one hurrying along behind them touched Jack on the shoulder, and looking round they found themselves once more confronted by the same shabby-looking man who had accosted them on a previous occasion.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Fenleigh," he began. "I'm Ned Hanks; you'll remember, sir. Maybe you've got a copper or two you can spare a poor fellow who's out of work."
"I've got no money to give away to beggars," said Jack; "and I tell you once more we don't know you."
"That's rather ungrateful, I calls it," answered the man. "I did you two gents a good turn last year, and got precious little for it. I might have made more out of the other party."
By this time they had reached the school-gates.
"Look here," broke in Valentine, "don't you bother us any more, or we'll put a policeman on your track. I don't understand a word of what you've been saying, and – "
"Stop, stop, Fenleigh!" interrupted a deep voice. "What's the meaning of this, pray?"
The two boys looked up and found they were standing in the presence of the headmaster.
"What's the meaning of this?" he repeated. "Who is this man you're talking to?"
There was a moment's silence, during which the seedy stranger slunk away, and disappeared round the corner.
"I ask who is this man you are speaking to?"
"I don't know, sir," answered Valentine.
"Nonsense!" retorted Mr. Westford sharply. "I saw you two boys holding a conversation with him once before. You must know who he is; answer my question immediately."
"He told us his name was Hanks," said Jack; "but we don't know him. He came up and spoke to us of his own accord."
"And, pray, what did he want to speak to you about?"
"I don't know, sir," answered Valentine – "that is – he wanted to beg some money."
"I don't understand your answer, Fenleigh," replied Mr. Westford. "I fear you are not telling me the truth – or, at all events, you are trying to keep something back which ought to come to my knowledge. There must be some reason for my having twice found you in conversation with that disreputable-looking fellow. Both of you will not go outside the school premises for a fortnight without special permission."
Jack stormed and raved, and threatened what he would do if they should encounter the tramp again; but of the two, Valentine felt the punishment far more acutely than his cousin. He was not accustomed to rows; and for a boy with his naturally high sense of honour, the mere thought that the headmaster suspected him of telling a falsehood was ten times worse than the fact of being "gated."
The term ran on, and at length the last day arrived; a day of perfect happiness, with no more work, and a letter by the first post from Queen Mab, saying that the pony-carriage would meet the train as usual at Hornalby station. The prize-giving, with the Mayor of Melchester in the chair, and Augustus Powler, Esq., M.P., and other grandees, upon the platform, was a very serious and formal business; the Past and Present match, in which Preston, the coming man in bowling, took seven wickets, and dear old Clayton, a bygone captain, lifted a ball over the roof of the pavilion, was certainly more interesting; but, at all events, in the opinion of all those concerned, the chief event of the day was the annual supper of the Fifth Form Literary Society.
"Come along," cried Tinkleby, as the cheers which greeted a win for the Present were gradually dying away – "come along. I told Duster to have the grub ready at half-past five sharp, and it's a quarter to six."
"Shan't we get into a row for cutting tea?" asked Jack.
"No fear," answered the other. "Old Ward knows where we're going; and it's all right as long as we get back before lock-up."
The confectioner's shop patronized by the Melchester boys was situated in a quiet street some five minutes' walk from the school-gates. Why the proprietor's name should have been changed from Downing to "Duster" it would be difficult to say; but as long as his customers came furnished with ready money and good appetites, the probability is that the former would have been quite content to serve them under any nickname which they chose to invent.
At the back of "Duster's" establishment was a little square parlour, where boys repaired to eat ices and drink alarming quantities of Duster's famous home-made ginger-beer – a high explosive, which always sent the cork out with a bang, and to drink two bottles of which straight off would have been a risky business for any boy to attempt without first testing the staying power of his waistcoat-buttons, and putting several bags of sand in his jacket-pockets. In this parlour it was that the literary society assembled for their banquet; as many as could find room squeezing themselves on to the two short forms on either side of the table, and the remainder camping out wherever they could find room on the chairs, window-ledge, and a small sofa. At the close of a summer day the place was decidedly hot and stuffy, and the first thing everybody did was to pull off their coats and blazers and appear in their shirt-sleeves.
Tinkleby, as president, took the post of honour at the head of the table, and hammering the festive board with his fist, called on "Duster" to "bring in the grub and something to drink." To describe the banquet itself would need an abler pen than mine. The sausages were browned to perfection, the ices were pinker than a maiden's cheek, and the ginger-beer was stronger and more filling at the price than it had ever been before, and made those who drank it gasp for breath and feel as though they had swallowed a cyclone. James, surnamed "Guzzling Jimmy," distinguished himself by finishing up with ices, and then beginning all over again with cold ham and pickles; but at length, when even he had finished, there was a general hammering of the table, and a call for "speeches."
"Well, fire away," said the president. "Who's going to start?"
"I will," cried a boy named Dorris. "Gentlemen, I beg to propose a toast – success to the Fifth Form Literary Society, and with it I couple the name of our worthy president, Mr. Tinkleby; may he live long and be happy!"
This sentiment, though not very original, was received with great enthusiasm, the company showing their approval of it by administering to themselves fresh doses of "Duster's" liquid explosive.
The president, rising slowly to his feet, sticking his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and expanding that portion of his body which contained his supper, in imitation of the movements of Augustus Powler, Esq., M.P., cleared his throat, and began in pompous tones: "Mr. Mayor, ladies and gentlemen, I cannot well express to you the delight with which I stand here to fulfil the pleasing duties which you have so kindly called upon me to perform. When I look round on the bright, young faces before me – "
The speaker paused to dodge a shower of crusts, corks, and other missiles; the owners of the "bright, young faces" evidently resented this personal allusion.
"Shut up, Tinky!" cried several voices. "Talk sense, can't you?"
The president smiled, and readjusted his nippers.
"I was about to remark," he continued in his natural tone, and with his accustomed fluency of speech, "I was about to remark that I thank you very much for having drunk my health. You were good enough to couple my name with that of our society. Gentlemen, I am convinced that the Fifth Form Literary Society has a great future before it. (Laughter.) I look forward to the time when we shall not grub here at 'Duster's,' but dine together in premises of our own. Our friend Mr. James has a nice little plot of ground in a soap-box, where he now grows mustard-and-cress, but which I have no doubt he would let to us on reasonable terms for building purposes. But, perhaps, I am looking a little too far ahead. As regards our immediate future, I intend making a determined effort to publish another number of the 'Portfolio.' (Cheers.) Mr. Ward has intimated his willingness to contribute a large number of Latin lines written by members of his class; while Mr. Sam Jones, the boot-cleaner, has offered to place his talented brush at our disposal, and produce a grand New-Year's Illustrated Supplement, entitled, 'Christmas in the Coal-Hole.' Gentlemen, I fear I am trespassing on your time and good nature. Mr. James, I see, is anxious to drink another toast. Once more I thank you for having drunk my health, and would now call upon you to drink that of Mr. Preston, who distinguished himself this afternoon by taking no less than seven of the old boys' wickets."