Glover and Taylor, who had both been working a little harder and cribbing a great deal more thoroughly, were each convinced that they had beaten the other. Five to four against either of them was freely quoted. Glover was sure that Taylor would be bottom and that he would therefore win the prize allotted to the lucky drawer of the bottom man. Taylor was no less confident that Glover would occupy that ignoble position. Mr. Strange glanced round the room before beginning to read out the Order, and remarked drily, ‘I am flattered, but a little surprised, at the sudden interest which some of you seem to be taking in the Form Order. This is such a contrast to your usual attitude of bland indifference that I really wonder whether you’ve been betting on it. The only objection to this theory is that I don’t suppose for a moment that any of you consider your school work of sufficient importance to risk a spare sixpence on it.’ Mr. Strange, it will be seen, was a cynic. Only cynics understand boys. The Form Order was a surprise and a shock to a good many people. Cork gave a resigned snort when Tomkins was read out second, but Cork’s disappointment was mild compared to the fury of Glover and Taylor, who, thanks to their sudden zeal, had risen ten places and were bracketed fifteenth. Never was promotion less welcome. ‘This is most gratifying,’ said Mr. Strange—‘most gratifying. Our stalwarts, our Arcades Ambo, have at last shown what they are capable of. I always suspected, my dear Glover, that it was energy rather than brains that you lacked; and you, Taylor, have, I feel sure, done yourself an injustice in the past by your pathetic insistence on your small intellectual endowment. This improvement must be maintained. I shall be very angry with you if you sink back to bottom again.’ Glover and Taylor began to devise some effective punishment for Villers. Villers and his rotten sweepstakes! Good Heavens, just think of it! They had been bamboozled out of a prize, and they had set themselves an impossible standard of hard work for the future. The Form Order contained yet another sensation. ‘Sweep’ Villers had sunk from twelfth to twenty-fifth. Curiously enough, when his name was read out bottom of the form a smile of relief seemed to cross his face. Mr. Strange caught this smile. It did not improve matters. ‘Don’t sit there smiling,’ he said. ‘It’s no use trying to carry off this disgraceful exhibition with an affectation of jaunty indifference. You don’t deceive me, I assure you.’ None the less, he was deceived. For Villers’ smile was a smile of genuine and unaffected joy. You see, he had drawn himself in the sweepstake, and, as he had managed to come out bottom, he had won twelve shillings. _THE VOICE OF THE GUNS._ BY F. J. SALMON.