“Some time last year,” continued Mr. Roylston,—“in March, to be more exact,—I had some difficulty with Deering and Wilson, who were then chums, though I believe that Wilson has since formed other associations. They broke a gating that I had imposed upon them, and when the matter was referred to the Head Master,—unwisely, I thought, as I trust I may be pardoned for saying,—their disobedience was not punished. From that time on I do not think that I am mistaken in saying that I marked a bravado in their attitude toward me that was just short of impertinence. I did not relax my vigilance, so there were no more overt acts of disobedience. However, they had what I suppose they considered their revenge. One day in first study I confiscated from the boy Finch a composition entitled ‘The Spectacle.’ Upon examination it proved to be a somewhat coarse imitation of Addison’s Spectator.” Mr. Roylston drew a copy of Tony’s unfortunate composition from his pocket. “The particular number that fell into my hands was entitled ‘Soft-toed Samuel.’ With your permission, sir, I should like to read it to the faculty.” “Certainly,” assented Doctor Forester, “if you think best. If you prefer——” “I do prefer, sir.” “Very good—read it, by all means.” Mr. Roylston slowly unfolded the paper, adjusted his spectacles, and read to his colleagues Tony’s effusion. He read it well, did full justice to the sarcasm, the animus that had been in the writer’s mind at the moment of composition. Some of the men, conscious of the invasion it made upon magisterial dignity, were plainly in sympathy with Roylston’s indignation; others found difficulty in concealing their enjoyment of its wit, and a little perhaps, in hiding their satisfaction in seeing a colleague, none too popular with themselves, held up to ridicule. As Mr. Roylston concluded, he folded the paper and handed it to the Head Master. “That, sir,” he said, “is a copy of the original which was in Anthony Deering’s handwriting, and the authorship of which he acknowledged.” Doctor Forester took the poor _Spectacle_ into his hands and glanced at it. “This is, of course, very distressing; very unfortunate; a _most_ unfortunate occurrence.” Morris spoke up quickly. “May I ask, Mr. Roylston, if Deering did not apologize for this thing and show genuine regret?” “For its discovery, yes,” answered Mr. Roylston dryly, as he met Morris’s keen glance with a stare of scarcely concealed dislike. “No, not for the discovery; for the thing itself, I mean,” said Morris. “He apologized, of course. There was nothing else he could do as the evidence was perfect. As for contrition, you, perhaps, are a better judge of that than I.”