“I thank you, sir, for the honour you have conferred upon me, but I have no right to it, either by claim or merit. I feel that it is but usurping the place of Channing. Can’t you give it to him, please sir, instead of to me?” The speech, begun formally and grandly enough for a royal president at a public dinner, and ending in its schoolboy fashion, drew a smile from more than one present. “No,” was all the answer vouchsafed by Mr. Pye, but it was spoken with unmistakable emphasis, and he pointed his finger authoritatively to the place already vacated by Tom Channing. Huntley bowed, and took it; and the next thing seen by the boys was Mr. Galloway altering the roll. He transposed the names of Channing and Huntley. The boys, bowing to the clergy, filed out, and proceeded to the schoolroom, the masters following them. Tom Channing was very silent. Huntley was silent. Yorke, feeling mad with everyone, was silent. In short, the whole school was silent. Channing delivered the keys of the school to Huntley; and Mr. Pye, with his own hands, took out the roll and made the alteration in the names. For, the roll belonging to the chapter-house was not, as you may have thought, the every-day roll of the schoolroom. “Take care what you are about, Huntley,” said the master. “A careless senior never finds favour with me.” “Very well, sir,” replied Huntley. But he was perfectly conscious, as he spoke, that his chief fault, as senior, would be that of carelessness. And Gaunt, who was standing by, and knew it also, telegraphed a significant look to Huntley. The other masters went up to Huntley, shook hands, and congratulated him, for that was the custom of the school; indeed, it was for that purpose only that the masters had gone into the schoolroom, where they had, that day, no business. Gaunt followed suit next, in shaking hands and congratulating, and the school afterwards; Gerald Yorke doing his part with a bad grace. “Thank you all,” said Harry Huntley. “But it ought to have been Tom Channing.” Poor Tom’s feelings, during all this, may be imagined. The king’s scholars were slinging their surplices on their arms to depart, for they had full holiday for the remainder of the day, when they were surprised by the entrance of Mr. Huntley. He went straight up to the head-master, nodding pleasantly to the boys, right and left. “Well, and who is your important senior?” he gaily demanded of the master. “Henry Huntley.” Mr. Huntley drew in his lips. “For another’s sake I am sorry to hear it. But I can only express my hope that he will do his duty.” “I have just been telling him so,” observed the master. “What brings me here, is this, sir,” continued Mr. Huntley to the master. “Knowing there was a doubt, as to which of the three senior boys would be chosen, I wished, should it prove to be my son, to speak a word about the Oxford exhibition, which, I believe, generally accompanies the seniorship. It falls due next Easter.” “Yes,” said Mr. Pye.