It wanted ten minutes to nine, and the Deanery boys were pouring into the playground, ready to assemble for morning school. Percy Braithwaite stood just inside the gate talking to a little group of his chums. He was a good-looking, fair-skinned boy, with sharp, keen eyes. Somehow he was not a favourite with the majority, but as his father kept him well supplied with pocket-money, he generally had a certain following which petted and made much of him. "I had a jolly lark this morning," he was saying. "What d’you think Jimmy Hartland’s doing? You’d never guess! He’s selling papers. He brought ours round just now, and I answered the door. You’d have died to see him: he went as red as a turkey-cock. "’Hullo!’ said I—’a fresh paper-boy? You’re very late. This won’t do, you know. Tell your master if you can’t come earlier than this we shall have to make a change.’" "Did you really say that?" asked Simpson, who was sucking one of Braithwaite’s bull’s-eyes. "He would be wild. The beggar’s as proud as Lucifer." "I don’t see why he shouldn’t sell papers," said Alec Macdonald. "There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that." "Perhaps not for fellows of his class," said Braithwaite, with a superior air, "but fancy a paper-boy trying for the ’Gayton’! Why, if he got it, all the school would cut him dead. I call it a great piece of cheek." "Here he comes with the Angel," whispered Simpson, who had finished his bull’s-eye, and was hoping to get another before the bell rang. "I say, let’s have a lark!" And raising his voice, he cried, "Hevenin’ Noos! Hextry Speshul! Paper, sir?" The others burst into a roar of laughter; and Braithwaite, who thought it an excellent joke, laughed the loudest of all. The Angel, scenting mischief, laid hold of his chum’s arm, saying,— "Don’t take any notice, Jim; it’s only the ’Dandy’ and his gang." This was an unfortunate remark, as it would have been safer just then to wave a red flag before a bull than to mention Braithwaite’s name to Jim. He was hot and tired and cross, angry with himself and the world in general, and with Braithwaite in particular. The incident of the morning had upset him, and this mocking laughter was, as Dick afterwards said, "the last straw that broke the camel’s back." "Want a hextry, sir? Take the last one!" Simpson was fairly earning another bull’s-eye. Jim’s face was white with passion as he strode over to the group, in the midst of which Braithwaite stood laughing. Blinded by anger, he did not stay to ask questions, but crying, "You beastly cad!" let out straight from the shoulder. The Angel, though rather alarmed, could not resist the chance of a joke. "That’s a drop of _hextry speshul_ claret!" he sang out, as the blood spurted from Braithwaite’s nose. Instantly there arose a babel of voices. "Give him one back, Dandy!" "Off with your coat; I’ll hold it!" "Who has a spare handkerchief?"