A loosening of the grip, a turn, and his feet were blundering down the steep, trellised gangway. He halted on the quay, while the ship was being warped out. They were too far apart for words, his father high up above him, leaning over the deck rail. Now the boat was away, the last rope drawn aboard; the stern propellers thrashed the waters into a white foam, the gulls cried, wheeled and followed. John pulled out his handkerchief and waved it, though he felt soon he might have to put it to another use. There was a responding flutter, and then distance grew between them, distance across which John's heart was stretching until it well nigh broke; a grey spot on the horizon, and it was all over. He walked along the quay, the rain began to drizzle down. It turned cold and he shivered as he walked back to the station. England seemed a lonely place to live in. CHAPTER II I A busy year, a year filled with little successes, trials and triumphs, and John, taller and a little quieter, perhaps too quiet for a healthy lad of eighteen. He had achieved his object by winning the Mansell Exhibition, not of great value, it was true, but £50 would help and the real value of success lay in the fact that his father would know he had worked since they had parted. In June, Vernley and he had gone to Cambridge for the King's College entrance examination. It had not troubled either of them greatly, although Vernley, with an unshaken belief in his own stupidity, swore he had been ploughed. Their glimpse of Cambridge filled them with dreams of a golden age. They stayed on for a couple of days after the examination and made visits and excursions. Vernley's cousin was at Trinity and had a large bare room, reached by a winding staircase that looked on to the Backs, with a vista of bridges and elm-tree walks. The day after their return to Sedley, Mr. Fletcher sent for John. It was late in the evening when young Jones came to his study with the summons, and John was just finishing a game of chess with Marsh. Vernley sat in the window trying to read "Henry Esmond" in the sunset light. The Triumvirate, as they were called, had recently moved into this large room in the corner of the quadrangle. It was regarded as the lap of luxury by the small boys who saw with envious eyes its easy chairs, the cretonne curtains and the piano which Marsh had imported. "Shan't be long," said John going out. What could Fletcher want him for? Perhaps a house matter--he was a prefect now. He tapped at the green baize door, pushed it open, then crossed the small hall of the Fletcher household, and knocked again at the study door. Mr. Fletcher bade him enter.