If the object of the promoters of the Philosophical Conversation Club had been cheap advertisement, they must have been amply gratified. Hercules never performed any labour equal to mine that afternoon. The masters handed me up their copies gravely and reproachfully; but the Low Heathens generally made sport of my misery. Scarcely one in ten would part with his rare broadside, and those who did made it manifest that they had the contents by heart. The unfortunate "misprint" of my Christian name, moreover, was the occasion for much ribald comment. When, finally, I reached the quarters of my own particular comrades, I received more kicks than papers. They were unkind enough to say I had mulled the whole thing, and to promise me untold penalties when they got me in the privacy of the faggery. At last, when the pudding was almost vanishing, I sat down to my hard- earned meal. But it mattered little, for I could have eaten nothing. Be that as it may, the Philosophical Conversation Club was able to boast that afternoon that it had attracted the attention and interest of every member of the school, from the headmaster down to the junior fag. And few school clubs can boast as much as that! CHAPTER TWELVE. A COMMITTEE OF WAYS AND MEANS. "Where are you going?" demanded the faggery next afternoon, as I tried to desert them after afternoon chapel. "To take up your lines to England?" I should have preferred that they had not asked me the question, but having asked it I felt bound to answer. "No; I'm going to tea at a fellow's." "Who? The washerwoman's?" "No; to Redwood's." I tried to pronounce the name with the unconcern of a man who is in daily communion with heroes, but I fear I betrayed my emotion. At least, their laughter made me think so. I was instantly greeted with all sorts of mock salutations and obeisances, and, whether I liked it or not, rushed off to the faggery to be tidied up. It was in vain I struggled, and explained that Redwood was waiting for me. They would not be put off. "You must wash your face for the credit of the Ph.C.C," said Langrish. "And put on a clean shirt for the credit of your wash--" Here by a frantic effort I broke loose and made off, followed by the pack in full cry, with shouts of-- "Stop thief!" "Welsher?" "Clear the course!" "Hurry up for tea there!" and other exclamations of a similar nature. It was not certainly a very dignified way of accepting a friend's invitation; still, it would have been worse had I remained in their clutches. As it was, I only just made the schoolhouse door before Warminster and Coxhead were up to me, and presented myself to my host painfully out of breath and red in the face. "Been having a trot over?" said he, with a nod. "Yes, a little," I gasped. "I'm ready; come along."