“Well, I guess, Pinch my boy, it don’t need a prophet to answer that question,” Teddy responded. “Very likely it was the mild and gentle Ebenezer Gumshoe Roylston. You’re right, I guess. But let me tell you,” he added, as he pulled Finch aside, “Tony’s the last person in the world who would thank you for discussing his affairs in a crowd.” Finch suddenly realized the truth of this remark, hung his head, and sidled away. But this outbreak on Tony’s behalf had excited him. It brought back all the old hopes and fears, the old pangs of disappointment and chagrin, and renewed his rage against Mr. Roylston. Not long after the conversation which has just been reported, the mid-year examinations were held. Finch, who still had difficulty with his Latin, had studied particularly hard, and had practically crammed by heart the translation of several difficult passages from Cicero’s _Orations_ upon which the Sixth Form were to be examined. As soon as he entered the examination room, over which Mr. Roylston was presiding, and had looked over his paper, noting that two of the passages he had so poled up were on it, he quickly wrote them out on a separate piece of paper, intending to write them into his examination book at his leisure; then he bent laboriously to his task of working out the paper. Mr. Roylston, an argus-eyed examiner, eventually observed from his desk that Finch was copying something into his examination book from a detached slip of paper. He strolled leisurely and softly about the room and advanced down the aisle where Finch was sitting from behind. As he reached the boy, he glanced down over his shoulder, and saw what he was doing. He suspected, not without reason, that Finch was not strictly honest in his work, and the present circumstance, it must be confessed, had all the appearance of cheating. Without warning he reached over Finch’s shoulder, and took the examination book and the sheet of paper on which the translated passages of Cicero were written from the hands of the astonished and frightened boy. “You may leave the room,” he said, “and report to me in my study to-night at eight o’clock.” Finch looked up at him wildly. “What’s the matter? What are you doing that for?” he exclaimed excitedly. “You understand perfectly well,” the master replied sharply. “You are excused from this examination. Leave the room! Do you understand me?” “No—!” began Finch, flushing crimson. “Go!” repeated Mr. Roylston, pointing to the door, heedless of the excited attention of the boys around. The color fled from Finch’s face as swiftly as it had come. He rose, threw down his pencil, and dashed out of the room. Mr. Roylston folded the papers, and then composed the schoolroom with a glance.