Jack and I undertook the important business of roasting the duck. We first carefully plucked it and buried the feathers, and then tied a string to one of its legs, and took turns at spinning it round before the fire, with such satisfactory results that in about an hour and a half it was pronounced ready for eating, one side being by that time burnt quite black. To Willy and Howard was entrusted the task of roasting the potatoes, which they accomplished much to their own satisfaction, though a critical observer might have objected that they burned to cinders a good many more than they cooked. Saunders, for his part, engaged to manufacture a wonderful cake of bread crumbs, slices of raw potato, and salt butter, which compound, I may here remark, was unanimously pronounced to be an utter failure. Everything being thus ready, it was agreed to take the viands up to one of the bedrooms, and spend the rest of the afternoon there, in the enjoyment of them. This was done, and we were preparing to abandon ourselves to festivity, when a heavy tread was heard in the passage, and Jack exclaimed in a loud whisper—“Look out! Here’s the Doctor, or Porbury.” In a moment a counterpane was flung over the tempting array of tarts and so forth, spread out on one of the beds. Saunders hastily sat down on the dish containing the potatoes, thereby mashing them for us very well, as Jack afterwards remarked. The roast duck was not so easily disposed of, but Jack’s presence of mind did not forsake him. He hastily squeezed it into the pocket of his greatcoat, which he had just put on, as there was no fire in the bedroom. Scarcely was all this done, than the door opened, and in walked Mr. Porbury, the only one of the assistant masters who had remained for the Christmas holidays. How lucky it wasn’t the Doctor! we thought Porbury was a heavy, slow fellow, with spectacles, whom we boys rather looked down upon, I am sorry to say, because it was so easy to “humbug him.” “What are you doing here?” asked Mr. Porbury. “Nothing, sir,” said Saunders, who was in agony lest he should have to rise and reveal the potatoes. This seemed to satisfy Mr. Porbury, and he was going out again, when he suddenly stopped, and began to snuff about him suspiciously. “H’m. Dear me! Isn’t there a very curious smell in this room, boys?” “Smell, sir?” said Jack, innocently, though all the while guiltily conscious of the roast duck in his pocket. “Yes; a smell of burning, I think. Surely there is something on fire. Dear me, I hope not.” “Perhaps it is in some of the other rooms, sir,” suggested Jack, hoping that he would go to look, and thus give us an opportunity of getting rid of the unlucky duck. “Perhaps it is,” said Mr. Porbury. “Will you come round with me to the other rooms, and we will see.”