I really had made good progress all round. Not in Latin only, but in Greek grammar, arithmetic, and English, and was naturally inclined to feel a little cocky of the result. "Don't crow, Jones," she said; "you've a lot to do yet." But I did not altogether agree with her, and was inclined to indulge myself a little of an evening when I was supposed to be preparing my work. In an evil day I fell across an old book-shop, and found two books, which helped to undo me. One was a rollicking story of a pirate who swept the Western Main, and captured treasure, and seized youths and maidens, and ran blockades, and was finally brought to book in a sportsmanlike manner by a jolly young English middy, amid scenes of terrific slaughter amidships. That was one purchase. The other was even more disturbing. It was a "crib" to the arithmetic I was doing, with all the sums beautifully worked out and the answers given. So--I must make the confession--I astonished Miss Steele greatly for a while by my extraordinary proficiency in arithmetic, and during the same time spent my evenings in imagination on the high seas, flying aloft the black flag, and shooting across the bows of Her Majesty's ships wherever I sighted them. This career of duplicity could not be expected to last long. One afternoon Miss Steele brought matters to a crisis by calling upon me to work a sum on the spot which was not in the book. I failed egregiously. "That's singular," said she; "it's far simpler than those you brought with you to-day. How long did it take you to do them?" I looked hard at Miss Steele, and she looked hard at me. The pirate game was up at last. "About two minutes each," said I. "_Two_ minutes?" "Yes--as fast as I could copy them out of the crib. I'm sorry, Miss Steele." She shut up her book abruptly. "I didn't expect it of you, Jones," said she; "you've been making a fool of me. I've lost confidence in you; now you can go." "Oh, I say. Miss Steele, I'm so awfully--" "Be quiet, sir, and go!" said she, more fiercely than I had ever known her. I took up my cap and went. She was in no humour to listen to explanations, but it was clear I had done for myself now. After what had happened she was not likely to give me another chance. I did not care to tell my mother how matters stood this time. It would be difficult to put my case in a favourable light, and I was quite sure my mother could not help me out of my difficulty. I solemnly burned my crib that night in the parlour fire, after every one was in bed. It took ages to consume, and nearly set the chimney on fire in the operation. But when that was done I was as far off a solution of my difficulty as ever. I hardly slept a wink, and in the morning my mother added to my discomfort by remarking on my looks. "You're working too hard, dear boy," said she. "I must ask Miss Steele to give you a little holiday, or you'll be quite knocked up." "Please don't," said I. "I'm all right."