The summer term proved exceptionally fine, and Haviland and other collectors revelled in the bright and glowing weather. If at times illicit, the long breezy rambles over field and down were fraught with all that was healthful and wholesome, in the splendid air, the beautiful surroundings of the fairest of English landscapes, the hardening of the young frame into the most perfect training, the excitement of a certain amount of ever present risk, and the absorbing pursuit of a favourite hobby. And then the cool plunge into the swimming pool at the close of the long summer's day. There was plenty of cricket too, and some exceptionally good matches in which Saint Kirwin's kept up its name quite well. "Can't think why you don't go in for cricket, Haviland," observed Laughton, in the prefects room one whole holiday as he was getting ready for one of the matches aforesaid, and in which he figured in the school eleven as a bowler of no mean repute. "You ought to, you know. It's due to your position." "No, thanks, Laughton. You don't catch me wasting a splendid day like this shying a ball at three silly sticks." "Well, you could go in for batting. From what little I've seen you do in that line, with a little practice you'd make a very fair bat indeed." "Oh, yes. Get bowled first ball, and spend the rest of the day fielding out. I'd as soon be doing an impos." And the speaker finished some arrangement of cotton wool and cardboard boxes, and stowing the same into his side pockets tightened the strap wherewith he was girded, and nodding to Laughton started off there and then upon his favourite pursuit--but alone. After him from the third form room windows gazed a pair of wistful eyes. Mpukuza, otherwise Anthony, had conceived a hero-worship for the other, nearly akin to that felt by some of the old indunas of his race for their king. To accompany Haviland on one of these rambles had become for him something to live for. He would have "broken his gates" and cheerfully welcomed the inevitable swishing thereby incurred, rather than forego one such, and of late the occasions on which Haviland had been graciously pleased to command his attendance had been growing more and more rare--partly due to the unwritten code which was against a prefect fraternising much with a junior unless the latter were about his own age and size. So he gazed wistfully after his hero, and in the expressive idiom of his race "his heart was sore." "Hallo, Cetchy! Not gated, are you? Come out bird-nesting." The voice was that of Smithson minor. Since their little scrimmage in the dormitory the two had become very friendly, and had been out together several times. "All right." "Thought you were gated when I saw Haviland go out alone," went on Smithson as they started. "Hallo! There's Clay! Quick. We'll dodge him. I've got an impos to do for him. I'm not gated, but if he saw me he might want to know why I'm not doing it."