Mr. Galloway withdrew to his private room, and for a few minutes silence supervened--nothing was to be heard but the scratching of pens. But Roland Yorke, who had a great antipathy to steady work, and as great a love for his own tongue, soon began again. “I say, Channing, what an awful blow the dropping of that expected money must be for you fellows! I’m blest if I didn’t dream of it last night! If it spoilt my rest, what must it have done by yours!” “Why! how could you have heard of it last night?” exclaimed Arthur, in surprise. “I don’t think a soul came to our house to hear the news, except Mr. Yorke: and you were not likely to see him. He left late. It is in every one’s mouth this morning.” “I had it from Hamish. He came to the party at the Knivetts’. Didn’t Hamish get taken in!” laughed Roland. “He understood it was quite a ladies’ affair, and loomed in, dressed up to the nines, and there he found only a bachelor gathering of Dick’s. Hamish was disappointed, I think; he fancied he was going to meet Ellen Huntley; and glum enough he looked--” “He had only just heard of the loss,” interrupted Arthur. “Enough to make him look glum.” “Rubbish! It wasn’t that. He announced at once that the money was gone for good and all, and laughed over it, and said there were worse disasters at sea. Knivett said he never saw a fellow carry ill news off with so high a hand. Had he been proclaiming the accession of a fortune, instead of the loss of one, he could not have been more carelessly cheerful. Channing, what on earth shall you do about your articles?” A question that caused the greatest pain, especially when put by Roland Yorke; and Arthur’s sensitive face flushed. “You’ll have to stop as a paid clerk for interminable years! Jenkins, you’ll have him for your bosom companion, if you look sharp and make friends,” cried Roland, laughing loudly. “No, sir, I don’t think Mr. Arthur Channing is likely to become a paid clerk,” said Jenkins. “Not likely to become a paid clerk! why, he _is_ one. If he is not one, I’d like to know who is. Channing, you know you are nothing else.” “I may be something else in time,” quietly replied Arthur, who knew how to control his rebellious spirit. “I say, what a rum go it is about that surplice!” exclaimed Roland Yorke, dashing into another topic. “It’s not exactly the mischief itself that’s rum, but the master seem to be making so much stir and mystery over it! And then the hint at the seniors! They must mean Huntley.” “I don’t know who they _mean_,” said Arthur, “but I am sure Huntley never did it. He is too open, too honourable--” “And do you pretend to say that Tom Channing and my brother Ger are not honourable?” fiercely interrupted Roland Yorke. “There you go, Yorke; jumping to conclusions! It is not to be credited that any one of the seniors did it: still less, if they had done it, that they would not acknowledge it. They are all boys of truth and honour, so far as I believe. Huntley, I am sure, is.”