"Why, Wilson didn't play, and you caught Cotton," said Dick, astonished. "But we locked the dervishes in the punt-house--we thought there was only Todd inside." "Oh, you did, you little beggars, did you?" said Worcester, considering the doleful and grief-stricken Biffenites. "Well, here's a shilling for each of you if you keep it dark. I'm deucedly glad the dervishes didn't play. I'd rather lose a dozen housers than feel the niggers were indispensable. Now, cut; and next time you bottle 'em up, see they don't get out." "Golly!" said Rogers, as the two left Worcester to his tea. "I suppose the sun's affected Worcester's brain." Whilst the dervishes were explaining matters to Worcester the other prisoner was elbowing his way into the crowd around the Fifth Form notice-board, whereon were pinned the final lists. Jim Cotton was planted squarely before the board, eyeing the contents with huge delight, and when he caught sight of the struggling Gus he haled him vigorously forward. "Here you are, Gus! By Jove, Toddy, you've done it this time, you old Perry fizzler!" Gus eyed the list with delighted eyes. This is what he saw: "First--Todd, A.V.R.--history medal, and chemistry prize." Need I say anything more of either Todd or Cotton? Todd entered the Sixth when the summer holidays were over, and Phil Bourne writes me often and tells me what a big gun Todd is in the schools. Jim Cotton was entered upon the roll-call of some celebrated "crammer" near the Crystal Palace. If crammers' hearts _could_ be broken, Jim, I should say, will accomplish the feat. But if ever James Cotton _does_ get into the Army he will never disgrace his regiment. CHAPTER XXX THE END OF THE FEUD Thoroughly satisfied with himself and all the world, Acton had on the last Saturday of the term--the election for the captaincy was to be held that night--left the cricket field to the enthusiasts, and turned his feet towards the old Lodestone Farm, the road he knew so well. He wanted to be alone with his happy thoughts. He was more than satisfied with himself, and, as he walked along, he mowed down with his ash-plant thistles and nettles in sheer joyfulness of heart. His long feud with Bourne would come to a joyful end that night. Mivart's election was certain, and Mivart's election would pay for all--for the loss of the "footer" cap, and for that terrible half-hour after Bourne had knocked him out, when he felt himself almost going mad from hatred, rage, disgust, and defeat. He had engineered his schemes beautifully; his revenge would be as perfect. The loss of the captaincy would be a bitter, bitter pill for Bourne to swallow.