“Ough, school again!” exclaimed Jimmie Lawrence, with a grunt, as he jumped off the platform of the little way-train at Monday Port one bright cold afternoon the following January. “I say, Tony,” he continued, linking his arm in that of his companion, and fishing in his pockets with his disengaged hand for his luggage checks, “this term it is school and no mistake! An unspeakable odor of gumshoe pervades the premises; Pussie Gray hurls math. lessons at your head a yard long, and the masters generally shriek exhortations at you as though you were deaf as well as dumb.” “Nonsense, Jimmo! I am right glad to get back.” And Tony drew in a deep breath of the cold pure air, and his eyes glistened as he looked out across the snow-clad landscape—the white town clinging to its hills, the frozen pond, the troubled blue waters of the bay. “I’ve never seen any snow to speak of, you know; think of the sliding down Deal Hill! Mind, old boy, we’re to pack over to Lovel’s Woods this afternoon and see to a cave.” “Gemini crickets! Deering, you’ll get enough of the Woods before the winter’s over. Me for the form-room and a heart to heart talk with my loving schoolmates.” “Be an old woman if you like,” interrupted Kit Wilson, who joined them at this moment. “Tony and I will find the cave, and you’ve got to pony up the first supply of grub.” “Oh, very well,” said Jimmie, with a grand air, as the three boys climbed into a fly. “If you will direct the coachman of this equipage to stop at the Pie-house, I will give Mrs. Wadmer a _carte blanche_ order for the proper supplies; and we’ll have a feed to-morrow afternoon. At present, I’m perished with cold.” By this time the driver had applied the whip to his poor horse, and the dilapidated fly was crawling up the cobblestones of Montgomery street. Once the top of the hill was gained, it moved along more rapidly, and soon Monday Port was left behind, the icy shores of Deal Water had been skirted, and the long hill that led up to the school was being climbed. The school “barge,” filled with a shouting, laughing crowd of small boys, was lumbering along ahead of them, and a dozen or so more cabs such as our friends had chartered dotted the white road. They passed a few of these, and noisy greetings were exchanged. “There’s a trifling pleasure in seeing the kids once more,” said Jimmie, settling back after they had passed the barge, and assuming a _blasé_ expression. “It would be rather jolly to be a prefect and boss ‘em all about.... Whoa-up! here’s the Pie-house and there’s Mother Wadmer in the doorway with a smile of welcome as broad as her pocketbook is deep. Hello, Mrs. Wadmer,” he cried, as the cab drew up before a small frame house by the roadside, on the portico of which stood a tall angular Cæsarean dame, with a calico apron drawn over her head.