"Well, I can't make it out at all," said Ricketts. "Nor can I," said Bullinger. All this while Pembury had not spoken, but he now turned to Simon, and said, "What do _you_ think, Simon? Did you see Greenfield stealing the examination paper this time, eh?" "Oh, no, not this time," promptly replied the poet; "last term it was, you know. I didn't see him this time." "Oh, you didn't even see him with it in his pocket? Now, be very careful. Are you sure he didn't have it in his pocket a day before the exam?" "Why," said Simon, laughing at Pembury's innocence, "how could I see what was in a fellow's pocket, Pembury, you silly! I can't tell what's in your pocket." "Oh, can't you? I thought you could, upon my honour. I thought you saw the paper in Greenfield's pocket last term." "So I did. That is--" Here the wretched poet was interrupted by a general laugh, in the midst of which he modestly retired to the background, and left the Fifth to solve the riddle in hand by themselves. "Suppose," began Pembury, after a pause--"suppose, when Braddy's done playing the fool, if such a time ever comes--" Here Braddy collapsed entirely. He would sooner be sat upon by Dr Senior himself than by Pembury. "Suppose," once more began Pembury, amid dead silence--"suppose, instead of Greenfield senior being a thief and liar, I and all of you have been fools and worse for the last six months? Wouldn't that be funny, you fellows?" "Why, whatever do you mean?" demanded Tom Senior. "Why, you don't suppose I mean anything, do you?" retorted the cross-grained Tony. "What's the use of saying what you mean--" "But do you really--" began Bullinger. "I say, suppose I and you, Bullinger, and one or two others here who ought to have known better, have been making fools of ourselves, wouldn't that be funny?" There was a pause, till Simon, plucking up heart, replied, "Very funny!" The gravity even of Pembury broke down at this, and the present conference of the Fifth ended without arriving at any nearer conclusion on the question which was perplexing it. Meanwhile, Oliver and Wraysford were in their study, talking over the event of the day. "I was certain how it would be, old boy," said Wraysford, genuinely delighted. "I wonder what the Fifth will say now? Bah! it doesn't become me to say too much, though, for I was as bad as any of them myself." "No, you weren't, old boy; you never really believed it. But I say, Wray, I don't intend to take this exhibition. You must have it." "I!" exclaimed Wraysford. "Not a bit of me. You won it." "But I never meant to go in for it, and wouldn't have if it had not been for the Fifth. After all, it's only twenty pounds. Do take it, old man. I've got the Nightingale, you know." "What does that matter? I wouldn't have this for anything. The fellows tried to make me think _I_ was the real winner of the Nightingale, and I was idiot enough half to believe it. But I think I've had a lesson." "But, Wray--"