"I'd give anything to be sure it was all false," said Pembury, "and so would a lot of the fellows. As for that fool Simon--" "Bah!" exclaimed Wraysford, fiercely, "the fellow ought to be kicked round the school." "He's getting on that way already, I fancy," said Pembury. "I was saying I'd think nothing at all about it if what he says was the only thing to go by, but--well, you saw what a state Greenfield got into about it?" "Maybe he was just in a sudden rage with the fellow for thinking of such a thing," said Wraysford. "It looked like something more than rage," said Pembury, dismally, "something a good deal more." Wraysford said nothing, but fidgeted in his chair. A long silence followed, each busy with his own thoughts and both yearning for any sign of hope. "I don't see what good it could have done him if he did take the paper. He'd have no time to cram it up yesterday. He was out with you, wasn't he, all the afternoon?" "No," said Wraysford, not looking up, "he had a headache and stayed in." Pembury gave a low whistle of dismay. "I say, Wray," said he, presently, "it really does look bad, don't you think so yourself?" "I don't know what to think," said Wraysford, with a groan; "I'm quite bewildered." "It's no use pretending not to see what's as plain as daylight," said Pembury, as he turned and hobbled away. The Fifth meanwhile had been holding a sort of court-martial on the affair. Simon was made to repeat his story once more, and stuck to it too, in spite of all the browbeating he got. "What makes you so sure of the exact time?" asked one of his inquisitors. "Oh, because, you know, I wanted to get off a letter by the post, and thought I was in time till I saw the clock opposite the Doctor's study said five minutes past." "Did Greenfield say anything to you when he saw you?" some one else asked. "Oh, yes, he asked me if I knew where the Doctor was." "Did you tell him?" "Oh, yes, I said he'd gone down to the hall or somewhere." "And did Greenfield go after him?" "Oh, no, you know, he went off the other way as quick as he could," said Simon, in a voice as though he would say, "How can you ask such an absurd question?" "Did you ask him what he wanted in the study?" "Oh, yes; but of course he didn't tell me--not likely. But I say, I suppose we're sure to win the Nightingale now, aren't we? Mind, I'm not going to tell anybody, because, of course, it's a secret." "Shut up, you miserable blockhead, unless you want to be kicked!" shouted Bullinger. "No one wants to know what you're going to do. You've done mischief enough already." "Oh, well, I didn't mean, you know," said the poet; "all I said was I met him coming--" "Shut up, do you hear? or you'll catch it!" once more exclaimed Bullinger. The wretched Simon gave up further attempts to explain himself. Still what he had said, in his blundering way, had been quite enough.