"Please, Haviland, can't we do your impos for you--or at any rate some of it?" "D'you think Old Nick's such an ass as all that? Why, he'd spot the fraud a mile off! Besides, remember what he said about breach of trust and all that. He'd better keep that for chapel next Sunday," he added sneeringly. "Look here, you youngsters, you'll be well swished to-morrow, a round dozen at least, and you'd better toss for second innings, because then Nick'll be getting tired--but anyway you're not gated and I am. Will you go and take a nest for me?" "Rather. Where is it?" chorussed both boys eagerly. "Smallest of the two tree patches, foot of Sidebury Down. Sparrow-hawk's--in an ivy-hung ash. It's quite an easy climb. You can't miss it, and there should be two eggs left in it. I collared two a couple of days back, and put in stones. You won't get pickled for it any more either, because it isn't on preserved ground. You'll have to run all the way though." They promised, and were off like a shot, and it is only fair to say that they brought back the spoil, and duly and loyally handed it over to its legitimate claimant. Left to himself, Haviland set to work with an effort. After a hundred of the lines he flung his pen down angrily. "Hang it, I hate this beastly place," he muttered to himself. "I don't care how soon I leave." This was not strictly true. He liked the school and its life, in reality more than he was aware of himself. He was always glad to get back to it, for his home life was unattractive. He was the son of an extremely conscientious but very overworked and very underpaid parson, the vicar of a large and shabby-genteel suburban parish, and the fresh, healthy, beautiful surroundings of Saint Kirwin's all unconsciously had their effect upon his impressionable young mind, after the glaring dustiness, or rain-sodden mud according to the season of the year--of the said suburb. He was a good-looking lad of seventeen, well-grown for his age, and seeming older, yet thus early somewhat soured, by reason of the already felt narrowing effects of poverty, and an utter lack of anything definite in the way of prospects; for he had no more idea of what his future walk in life was to be than the man in the moon. And so he sat, that lovely cloudless half-holiday afternoon, grinding out his treadmill-like imposition, angrily, rebelliously, his one and only thought to get that over as soon as possible. CHAPTER THREE. THE BULLY. Haviland's gloomy prediction proved in so far correct, in that when, after nearly a weary week of toil during his spare moments, he handed in his imposition, his insatiable taskmaster insisted on his re-writing two hundred of the lines. Then with lightened heart he found himself free to resume his all-engrossing and gloriously healthy pursuit.