But long before this homily was completed Isabel had slipped out of her seat and was standing by Pip's side, whispering excitedly into his ear and endeavouring to thrust the grubby envelope into his hands. "Take them," she panted. "There's thirty-five of them. Give him them _all_, _now_, and he'll let you off." Poor little Isabel! Surely under all the broad heavens there was no crime that could not be atoned for by the surrender of thirty-five laboriously acquired Special Task-Tickets! Pip smiled at her. He was a plain-looking little boy, but he possessed an extraordinarily attractive smile, and Isabel felt utterly, absolutely, and completely rewarded for her sacrifice. Meanwhile Mr. Pocklington had come to the conclusion that all this was highly irregular. "Bring me that envelope!" he commanded. Pip handed up the envelope. Mr. Pocklington opened it, and out tumbled the thirty-five Special Task-Tickets. "What is all this?" he inquired testily. "Special Task-Tickets," replied Pip. "To whom do they belong?" "Isabel." "No--they belong to Pip!" screamed that small maiden. "Won't you let him off if he gives them _all_ to you, please? I've given them to him. I--I don't mind losin' them." Isabel's voice quavered suddenly; and then, having conducted her case unflinchingly past the critical point, she dissolved, woman-like, into reactionary tears. There was a long silence now, broken only by Isabel's sobs. Pip stood still stiffly at attention, facing the grinning effigy of Julius Cæsar. Every child in the room (except Pipette) was lost in admiration of Isabel's heroic devotion, for all knew how precious was her collection of tickets to her. Miss Mary smiled genially; Miss Amelia's eyes filled with sympathetic tears. Even Mr. Pocklington was touched. Hastily he flung together in his mind a few sentences appropriate to the occasion. "Unselfishness"--"devotion to a friend"--"a lesson for all"--the rounded phrases formed themselves upon his tongue. He was ready now. "I cannot refrain--" he began. It was true enough, but he got no further; for above the formal tones of his voice, above the stifled whispering of the school, and above the now unrestrained lamentations of Isabel Dinting, rose the voice of Master Thomas Oates, in a howl in which remorse, hysteria, and apprehension were about equally mingled. "It was me!" he roared. "Booh--hoo!" His sinful but sentimental soul, already goaded to excessive discomfort by the promptings of an officious conscience, had with difficulty endured the inquisition upon the innocent Pip, and after Isabel's romantic intervention he could contain himself no longer. Confession burst spontaneously from his lips. "It was me!" he repeated, _fortissimo_, knuckling his eyes. There was a final astonished gasp from the school. "It was _I_, Thomas," corrected Mr. Pocklington, the ruling passion strong even at this crisis.