“Well, I don’t much care. At any rate I’ll chance it.” And off the boys ran to the racquet-court, Eric intending to occupy the last quarter of an hour before school-time in learning his lesson. Russell and he stood the other two, and they were very well matched. They had finished two splendid games, and each side had been victorious in turn, when Duncan, in the highest spirits, shouted, “Now, Russell, for the conqueror.” “Get some one else in my place,” said Russell; “I don’t know my Rep., and must cut and learn it.” “O bother the Rep.,” said Montagu; “somebody’s sure to write it out in school, and old Gordon’ll never see.” “You forget, Montagu, I never condescend to that.” “O ay, I forgot. Well, after all, you’re quite right; I only wish I was as good.” “What a capital fellow he is,” continued Montagu, leaning on his racquet and looking after him, as Russell left the court; “but I say, Williams, you’re not going too, are you?” “I think I must, I don’t know half my lesson.” “O no! don’t go; there’s Llewellyn; he’ll take Russell’s place, and we _must_ have the conquering game.” Again Eric yielded; and when the clock struck he ran into school, hot, vexed with himself, and certain to break down, just as Russell strolled in, whispering, “I’ve had lots of time to get up the Horace, and know it pat.” Still he clung to the little thistledown of hope that he should have plenty of time to cram it before the form were called up. But another temptation awaited him. No sooner was he seated than Graham whispered, “Williams, it’s your turn to write out the Horace; I did last time, you know.” Poor Eric. He was reaping the fruits of his desire to keep up popularity, by never denying his complicity in the general cheating. Everybody seemed to assume now that _he_ at any rate didn’t think much of it, and he had never claimed his real right up to that time of asserting his innocence. But this was a step further than he had ever gone before. He drew back-- “My _turn_, what do you mean?” “Why, you know as well as I do that we all write it out by turns.” “Do you mean to say that Owen or Russell ever wrote it out?” “Of course not; you wouldn’t expect the saints to be guilty of such a thing, would you?” “I’d rather not, Graham,” he said, getting very red. “Well, that _is_ cowardly,” answered Graham, angrily; “then I suppose I must do it myself.” “Here, I’ll do it,” said Eric suddenly; “shy us the paper.” His conscience smote him bitterly. In his silly dread of giving offence, he was doing what he heartily despised, and he felt most uncomfortable. “There,” he said, pushing the paper from him in a pet; “I’ve written it, and I’ll have nothing more to do with it.”