“The arrogance of those upper-desk fellows!” ejaculated Brittle. “The stops are not put in yet, and they haven’t the gumption to allow for them. You’ll see what it is when it shall be written out properly, Huntley. It might be sent to the British Museum as a model of good English, there to be framed and glazed. I’ll do it to-night.” “It’s no business of yours, Mr. Brittle, that you should interfere to take an active part in it,” resumed Gerald Yorke. “No business of mine! That’s good! When I’m thinking of going in for the seniorship myself another time!” “It’s the business of the whole batch of us, if you come to that!” roared Bywater, trying to accomplish the difficult feat of standing on his head on the open mullioned window-frame, thereby running the danger of coming to grief amongst the gravestones and grass of the College burial-yard. “If Pye does not get called to order now, he may lapse into the habit of passing over hard-working fellows with brains, to exalt some good-for-nothing cake with none, because he happens to have a Dutchman for his mother. That _would_ wash, that would!” “You, Bywater! do you mean that for me?” hotly demanded Gerald Yorke. “As if I did!” laughed Bywater. “As if I meant it for any cake in particular! Unless the cap happens to fit ‘em. _I_ don’t say it does.” “The thing is this,” struck in Hurst: “who will sign the paper? It’s of no use for Brittle, or any other fellow, to be at the bother of writing it out, if nobody can be got to sign it.” “What do you mean? The school’s ready to sign it.” “Are the seniors?” With the seniors there was a hitch. Gaunt put himself practically out of the affair; Gerald Yorke would not sign it; and Channing could not. Huntley alone remained.