“Then you are not dead!” I gasped. “No, my dear boy.” “And this letter?” My father—as I must still call him—glanced on the paper, and pronounced it a forgery. Briggs roared with laughter. I turned to him and demanded an explanation. “Why, don’t you see, Greeny, it’s all a joke,—a midshipman’s joke!” “But”—I asked. “Don’t be a fool. You’ve got a good wife,—be satisfied.” I turned to Clara, and was satisfied. Although Mrs. Maitland never forgave me, the jolly old Governor laughed heartily over the joke, and so well used his influence that I soon became, dear reader, Admiral Breezy, K. C. B. GUY HEAVYSTONE; OR, “ENTIRE” A MUSCULAR NOVEL BY THE AUTHOR OF “SWORD AND GUN” CHAPTER I “NEREI REPANDIROSTRUM INCURVICERVICUM PECUS.” A Dingy, swashy, splashy afternoon in October; a school-yard filled with a mob of riotous boys. A lot of us standing outside. Suddenly came a dull, crashing sound from the schoolroom. At the ominous interruption I shuddered involuntarily, and called to Smithsye,— “What’s up, Smithums?” “Guy’s cleaning out the fourth form,” he replied. At the same moment George de Coverly passed me, holding his nose, from whence the bright Norman blood streamed redly. To him the plebeian Smithsye laughingly,— “Cully! how’s his nibs?” I pushed the door of the schoolroom open. There are some spectacles which a man never forgets. The burning of Troy probably seemed a large-sized conflagration to the pious Aeneas, and made an impression on him which he carried away with the feeble Anchises. In the centre of the room, lightly brandishing the piston-rod of a steam-engine, stood Guy Heavystone alone. I say alone, for the pile of small boys on the floor in the corner could hardly be called company. I will try and sketch him for the reader. Guy Heavystone was then only fifteen. His broad, deep chest, his sinewy and quivering flank, his straight pastern, showed him to be a thoroughbred. Perhaps he was a trifle heavy in the fetlock, but he held his head haughtily erect. His eyes were glittering but pitiless. There was a sternness about the lower part of his face,—the old Heavystone look,—a sternness heightened, perhaps, by the snaffle-bit which, in one of his strange freaks, he wore in his mouth to curb his occasional ferocity. His dress was well adapted to his square-set and herculean frame. A striped knit undershirt, close-fitting striped tights, and a few spangles set off his figure; a neat Glengarry cap adorned his head. On it was displayed the Heavystone crest, a cock _regardant_ on a dunghill _or_, and the motto, “Devil a better!” I thought of Horatius on the bridge, of Hector before the walls. I always make it a point to think of something classical at such times.