"At home?" demanded the official, redder in the face than ever. "You seem to be pretty much at home." Then, apparently struck by my appearance, he pulled himself up and honoured me with a long stare in which all the assembled boys joined. "Who is it?" "One of the porters from the station, I should say, from the looks of him," suggested a boy. "Whoever it is, don't you ring that visitors' bell--do you hear?" said the man-servant. "If you want anything, go round to the side door and don't interfere with the young gentlemen." "But I'm a new boy," said I. "I'm--I'm an exhibitioner;" at which there was a great roar of laughter, which even my self-satisfaction could hardly construe into jubilation. I began to have a horrible suspicion that I had committed some great _faux pas_ by ringing the visitors' bell, and blushed consciously, to the increased amusement of my fellow "Sharpers." "Can I see Mr Sharpe?" I inquired, thinking it best to take the bull by the horns. "Can't you wait?" said the servant. "Do you suppose the master has nothing to do but run out and see--wild Indians?" Here followed another laugh at my expense. "He'll see you quite soon enough." Here a shove from behind precipitated me into the bosom of the speaker, who returned me with thanks, and before I could apologise, into the hands of the sender. Thence I found myself passed on by a side impetus to a knot of juveniles, who, not requiring my presence, passed me on to a senior standing by, who shot me back to a friend, who sent me forward among the boxes into the arms of the matron, who indignantly hustled me up the passage, where finally I pulled up short in the grasp of a gentleman who at that moment emerged from the green baize door. In the confusion I had lost both my hat and my presence of mind. I was far too confused to observe who the new-comer was, and far too indignant to care. All that I called to my mind as I reeled into his clutches was Tempest's directions about kicking back, which accordingly I proceeded to do, with all the vigour of which my new tan boots were capable. Mr Sharpe suffered this assault meekly for a second or two, then he held me out stiffly at arm's length, like a puppy in a fit, and demanded,-- "What do you mean, sir, by behaving like this?" I was bound to admit that it was a natural inquiry from a person whose shins had been considerably barked by my new boots. I felt as if I owed Mr Sharpe an apology. "Please," said I, "I didn't mean to do it. The boys shoved me, and I didn't know where I was going, really, sir." Mr Sharpe seemed inclined to believe me. He was a florid-looking, spectacled young man, with sandy whiskers, and a grip--oh that grip!-- that could have lifted me easily over the Lion Gate. "Boys," said he, "let us have none of this nonsense, or I must set a house theme. Is Mrs Smiley here?" Mrs Smiley, looking anything but the "moral" of her name, appeared in due course.