He had heard almost all of the conversation in the room above him, and he was overwhelmed by the course of events. He felt much as a general must who receives the report of a spy informing him that the enemy have augmented forces with which he cannot hope to cope. Finch felt that he could not endure the situation another minute. It had seemed that he must shriek out more than once as Mr. Roylston had so calmly, with such deadly determination, built up his case against Deering. Finch felt his hero and himself the victims of an ignoble conspiracy. The boy had grown of late so accustomed to deceit, that for the time being he absolutely forgot how contemptible his own action had been and how it would appear to others, to Tony. He was an Ishmael, and felt himself justified in raising his hands against every one because all hands seemed raised against him. And his poor warped mind knew of no weapons except deceit, trickery, eavesdropping, with which to cope against the authority and success which were his enemies. But now he was thinking of but one thing—the position he so eagerly coveted for Tony was threatened, and, thanks to the efforts of his inveterate enemy, was apt to be given to another. After pausing for a moment or so in the clump of bushes, in which to gather together his shivering body, he slipped off, entered the Old School by a basement door, made a detour through the locker-rooms, and emerged again in the north quadrangle. He dashed across the campus and up the stairs of Standerland to the door of Number Five study, and knocked boldly, almost without knowing what he was going to say to Tony. Deering and Jimmie were within, with two or three other boys. Finch gave a frightened glance about, but for once he overcame his self-consciousness enough to whisper at Deering, “Come over to my room, will you? I want to see you particularly for a few minutes.” Tony went to the door. “What is it?” he began. “Please come over,” Finch continued. “I have something important to tell you.” Once in his own little room, Jake turned a white excited face to Tony, his shyness was gone, absorbed now by his passion of rage and anxiety. “Well, what the deuce is up?” asked Tony, smiling a little at his _protégé’s_ agitation. “A lot. There’s just been a faculty meeting. I have heard all about it—it doesn’t matter how—but all about it! and the Doctor put you up for Head Prefect—and said all manner of fine things about you—all the masters were there and they were all going to vote for you—when Roylston—curse him!—got up and told about _The Spectacle_, and read them that copy of it he stole from me, and when he got through he said he’d give up his job here if you were made Head Prefect—and there was a lot of gas—and the Doctor broke up the meeting—and said he’d talk it over with Roylston. And then he went off. And I don’t know what’s going to happen.”