"Yes," said the latter rather apologetically; "the one with the light hair. He's not much to look at. The fact is, I only know him slightly. They say at home he's a nice boy." "Does he spend much of his time under tables, as a rule?" asked Ranger, recognising the lost property which had hung on to his legs at dinner- time. "If so, I'll take the other one for my fag." "He's bagged already," said Denton. "Fisher and I put our names down for him an hour ago." "Well, that's cool. If Fisher wanted a fag he might as well have taken his own minor." "Fisher major knew better," said the gentleman in question. "It might raise awkward family questions if I had him." "Wouldn't it be fairer to toss up?" suggested the captain. "Or I don't mind swopping Wally Wheatfield for him; if you really--" Ranger laughed. "No, thank you, I draw the line at Wally. I wouldn't deprive you of him for the world. I suppose I must have this youngster. Let's hear him sing first." "Yes, lamb's singing. Now, you two, one at a time. Who's first? Alphabetical order." Ashby, with an inward groan, mounted the rostrum. If anything could have been more cruel than the noise which greeted his appearance, it was the dead silence which followed it. Fellows sat round, staring him out of countenance with critical faces, and rejoicing in his embarrassment. "What's the title!" demanded some one. "I don't know any songs," said Ashby presently, "and I can't sing." "Ho, ho! we've heard that before. Come, forge ahead." "I only know the words of one that my con--somebody I know--sings, called the _Vigil_. I don't know the tune." "That doesn't matter--out with it." So Ashby, pulling himself desperately together, plunged recklessly into the following appropriate ditty; which, failing its proper tune, he manfully set at the top of his voice, and with all the energy he was capable of, to the air of the _Vicar of Bray_-- The stealthy night creeps o'er the lea, My darling, haste away with me. Beloved, come I see where I stand, With arms outstretched upon the strand. The night creeps on; my love is late, O love, my love, I wait, I wait; The soft wind sighs mid crag and pine; Haste, O my sweet; be mine, be mine! This spirited song, the last two lines of which were aught up as a chorus, fairly brought down the house; and Ashby, much to his surprise, found himself famous. He had no idea he could sing so well, or that the fellows would like the words as much as they seemed to do. Yet they cheered him and encored him, and yelled the chorus till the roof almost fell in. "Bravo," shouted every one, the captain himself included, as he descended from the table; "that's a ripping song." "That sends up the price of our fag, I fancy," said Denton to his chum. "Your young brother won't beat that." "Next man in," shouted Wheatfield, hustling forward Fisher minor. "Now, kid, lamm it on and show them what you can do." "Title! title!" cried the meeting.