“Then allow me to decline it for my son,” replied Mr. Huntley. “He will not need it; and therefore should not stand in the light of any other boy. I deemed it well, sir, to state this at once.” “Thank you,” warmly responded the head-master. He knew that it was an unselfish, not to say generous, act. Mr. Huntley approached Tom Channing. He took his hand; he shook it heartily, with every mark of affection and respect. “You must not allow this exaltation of Harry to lessen the friendship you and he entertain for each other,” he said, in tones that reached every pair of ears present--and not one but was turned up to listen. “You are more deserving of the place than he, and I am deeply sorry for the circumstances which have caused him to supplant you. Never mind, Tom; bear on bravely, lad, and you’ll outlive vexation. Continue to be worthy of your noble father; continue to be my son’s friend; there is no boy living whom I would so soon he took pattern by, as by you.” The hot tears rushed into Tom’s eyes, and his lip quivered. But that he remembered where he was, he might have lost his self-control. “Thank you, sir,” he answered, in a low tone. “Whew!” whistled Tod Yorke, as they were going out. “A fine friend he is! A thief’s brother.” “A thief’s brother! A thief’s brother!” was the echo. “But he’s not our senior. Ha! ha! that would have been a good joke! He’s not our senior!” And down the steps they clattered, and went splashing home, as they had come, they and their surplices, through the wet streets and the rain. CHAPTER XXXIX. -- THE GHOST. The moon was high in the heavens. Lighting up the tower of the cathedral, illuminating its pinnacles, glittering through the elm trees, bringing forth into view even the dark old ivy on the prebendal houses. A fair night--all too fair for the game that was going to be played in it. When the Helstonleigh College boys resolved upon what they were pleased to term a “lark”--and, to do them justice, they regarded this, their prospective night’s work, in no graver light--they carried it out artistically, with a completeness, a skill, worthy of a better cause. Several days had they been hatching this, laying their plans, arranging the details; it would be their own bungling fault if it miscarried. But the college boys were not bunglers. Stripped of its details, the bare plot was to exhibit a “ghost” in the cloisters, and to get Charley Channing to pass through them. The seniors knew nothing of the project. Huntley--it was the day following his promotion--would have stopped it at once, careless as he was. Tom Channing would have stopped it. Gerald Yorke might or might not; but Tod had taken care not to tell Gerald. And Griffin, who was burning to exercise in any way his newly acquired power, would certainly have stopped it. They had been too wise to allow it to come to the knowledge of the seniors. The most difficult part of the business had been old Ketch; but that was managed.