By the time he and Wraysford went in the evening to read over what had been sent in, the poem on the Guinea-pigs was complete. They found Pembury busy over a huge sheet of paper, the size of his table. "What on earth have you got there?" cried Wraysford. "The _Dominican_, to be sure," said Anthony, gravely. "Nonsense! you are not going to get it out in that shape?" "I am, though. Look here, you fellows," said Anthony, "I'll show you the dodge of the thing. The different articles will either be copied or pasted into this big sheet. You see each of these columns is just the width of a sheet of school paper. Well, here's a margin all round--do you twig?--so that when the whole thing's made up it'll be ready for framing." "Framing!" exclaimed Greenfield and his friend. "To be sure. I'm getting a big frame, with glass, made for it, with the title of the paper in big letters painted on the wood. So the way we shall publish it will be to hang it outside our class-room, and then every one can come and read it who likes--much better than passing it round to one fellow at a time." "Upon my word, Tony, it's a capital notion," exclaimed Wraysford, clapping the lame boy on the back; "it does you credit, my boy." "Don't mention it," said Tony; "and don't whack me like that again, or I'll refuse to insert your `Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.'" "But, I say," said Greenfield, "are you sure they'll allow it to hang out there? It may get knocked about." "I dare say we may have a row with the monitors about it; but we must square them somehow. We shall have to keep a fag posted beside it, though, to protect it." "And to say `Move on!' like the policemen," added Wraysford. "Well, it's evident you don't want any help, Tony, so I'll go." "Good-bye; don't ask me to your study for supper, please." "I'm awfully sorry, I promised Bullinger. I know he has a dozen sausages in his cupboard. Come along there. Are you coming, Greenfield?" And the worthy friends separated for a season. Meanwhile, Stephen had made his _debut_ in the Fourth Junior. He was put to sit at the bottom desk of the class, which happened to be next to the desk owned by Master Bramble, the inky-headed blanket-snatcher. This young gentleman, bearing in mind his double humiliation, seemed by no means gratified to find who his new neighbour was. "Horrid young blub-baby!" was his affectionate greeting, "I don't want you next to me." "I can't help it," said Stephen. "I was put here." "Oh, yes, because you're such an ignorant young sneak; that's why." "I suppose that's why you were at the bottom before I came--oh!" The last exclamation was uttered aloud, being evoked by a dig from the amiable Master Bramble's inky pen into Stephen's leg. "Who was that?" said Mr Rastle, looking up from his desk. "Now then," whispered Bramble, "sneak away--tell tales, and get me into a row--I'll pay you!" Stephen, feeling himself called upon, stood up. "It was me," he said.