The college bell was beginning to ring out as they entered the schoolroom. Standing in the senior’s place, and calling over the roll, was Tom Channing, the acting senior for a few brief hours. Since Gaunt’s departure, the previous day, Tom Channing had been head of the school; it lay in the custom of the school for him so to be. Would his place be confirmed? or would he lose it? Tom looked flurried with suspense. It was not so much being appointed senior that he thought of, as the disgrace, the humiliation that would be his portion, were he deposed from it. He knew that he deserved the position; that it was his by right; he stood first on the rolls, and he had done nothing whatever to forfeit it. He was the school’s best scholar; and--if he was not always a perfect model for conduct--there was this much to be said in his favour, that none of them could boast of being better. The opinion of the school had been veering round for the last few days in favour of Tom. I do not mean that he, personally, was in better odour with it--not at all, the snow-ball, touching Arthur, had gathered strength in rolling--but in favour of his chances of the seniorship. Not a breath of intimation had the head-master given; except that, one day, in complaining to Gaunt of the neglect of a point of discipline in the school, which point was entirely under the control of the senior boy, he had turned to Tom, and said, “Remember, Channing, it must be observed for the future.” Tom’s heart leaped within him as he heard it, and the boys looked inquiringly at the master. But the master’s head was then buried in the deep drawer of his desk, hunting for a lost paper. Unless he had spoken it in forgetfulness--which was not improbable--there could be no doubt that he looked upon Tom as Gaunt’s successor. The school so interpreted it, and chose to become, amongst themselves, sullenly rebellious. As to Tom, who was nearly as sanguine in temperament as Hamish, his hopes and his spirits went up to fever heat.-- One of the last to tear through the street, splashing his jacket, and splashing his surplice, was Harry Huntley. He, like all the rest, took care to be in time that morning. There would have been no necessity for his racing, however, had he not lingered at home, talking. He was running down from his room, whither he had gone again after breakfast, to give the finishing brush to his hair (I can tell you that some of those college gentlemen were dandies), when Mr. Huntley’s voice was heard, calling him into the breakfast-room. “Harry,” said he, “I don’t think that I need enjoin you not to suffer your manner to show triumph towards Tom Channing, should you be promoted over him to-day.” “I shan’t be, papa. Channing will have the seniorship.” “How do you know that?” “Oh, from something Pye let drop. We look upon it that Channing is as good as senior.”