"I shan't give it up; Oliver said it was not to be taken." "What do you say?" yelled the small boy, almost beside himself with rage and astonishment. "It's my brother's ink, and I'm not to give it up," said Stephen, shutting the top and keeping his hand on it. It was enough! The patriarch of the Tadpoles knew his strong point was in words rather than action; but this could not be endured. At whatever risk, the dignity of his order must be maintained, and this insolent, mad new boy must be--kicked. "I'll kick you on the legs if you don't give it up," said the Tadpole, in a suppressed white heat. Stephen said nothing, but kept his hand on the pot, and awaited what was to follow. The hero stepped back a pace or two, to allow of a run worthy of the coming kick; and what might have happened no one knows. At that moment the door opened, and Pembury entered on his crutches. At sight of this Fifth Form celebrity the Tadpole cringed and cowered, and tried to sneak out of the study unobserved. But Anthony was too quick for him. Gently hooking him by the coat-collar with the end of a crutch, he brought him back. "What are you doing here?" "Nothing." "Yes, he is," shouted Stephen; "he's been trying to take, away Oliver's ink." "Silence, young gentleman, pray!" said Pembury, very grandly. Then, turning to the Tadpole, he added, "Oh, so you've been trying to bag some ink, have you?" "Well, I only wanted a little; and this--" "Silence! how much ink did you want?" "Only half a potful." "You shall have half a potful!" said Pembury. "Come here." The Tadpole obeyed, and glared triumphantly at Stephen. "Now, Master Greenfield," said Pembury, addressing Stephen; "have the kindness to hand me the ink." Stephen hesitated; he felt _sure_ Anthony was a master; and yet Oliver's directions had been explicit. "Do you hear?" thundered Anthony. "Do you hear?" squeaked the Tadpole, delighted to have the tables turned on his adversary. "Oliver said I wasn't to let it go," faltered Stephen. "Do you hear me, sir?" again demanded Anthony. "Do you hear? give it up!" again squeaked the Tadpole. Stephen sighed, and surrendered the inkpot. There was an air of authority about Pembury which he dared not defy. "Now, Master Tadpole, here's your ink; half a pot you said? Put your hands behind you, and stir if you dare!" and Pembury looked so awful as he spoke that the wretched boy was quite petrified. The Fifth Form boy then solemnly emptied half the inkpot on to the top of the young gentleman's head, who ventured neither by word nor gesture to protest.