Haviland's Chum. Mitford Bertram

has been given, except Anthony, who will do one hundred only because he’s a new boy. Now get into your clothes sharp and go straight back and begin, and if you’re not in the big schoolroom by the time I am, I’ll double it.”

      There was a wholesome straightforwardness about Mr Sefton’s methods that admitted of no argument, and it was a very crestfallen group that overtook and hurried past that disciplinarian as he made his way along the field-path, swinging his stick, his head thrown back, and his soft felt hat very much on the back of it. And on the outskirts of the group at a respectful distance came Anthony, keen-eyed and quick to dodge more than one vengeful smack on the head which had been aimed at him – for these fairplay-loving young Britons must wreak their resentment on something – and dire and deep were the sinister promises thrown at the African boy, to be fulfilled when time and opportunity should serve.

      Chapter Four.

      Concerning an Adventure

      Mr Sefton did not immediately repair to the big schoolroom. When he did, however, the half-dozen delinquents were at work on their imposition. He strolled round apparently aimlessly, then peered into the fifth form room, where sat Haviland, writing his.

      Haviland was not at first aware of the master’s presence. An ugly frown was on his face, for he was in fact beginning the extra two hundred lines of which we have made mention. It was a half-holiday, and a lovely afternoon, and but for this he would have been out and away over field and down. He felt that he had been treated unfairly, and it was with no amiable expression of countenance that he looked up, and with something of a start became aware of the master’s presence.

      “Sit still, Haviland,” said the latter kindly, strolling over to the desks. “Have you nearly done your imposition?”

      “I’ve done it quite, sir, but you can always reckon on having to do a third of it over again when it’s for the Doctor,” he added with intense bitterness.

      “Look here, you mustn’t talk like that,” rejoined Mr Sefton briskly, but there was a kindliness underlying his sharp tones which the other’s ear was quick to perceive. They were great friends these two, and many an informal chat had they had together. It involved no favouritism either. Let Haviland break any rule, accidentally or not, within Mr Sefton’s jurisdiction, and the imposition entailed was not one line shorter than that set to anybody else under like circumstances, as he had reason to know by experience. Yet that made no difference in his regard for this particular master.

      “Well, it’s hard luck all the same, sir,” he now replied. “However, this time I’ve got off cheap with only a couple of hundred over again. But it has done me out of this afternoon.”

      Mr Sefton had hoisted himself on to one of the long desks and sat swinging his legs and his stick.

      “What d’you think?” he said. “I’ve caught half a dozen fellows bathing just now. The new boy Anthony was among ’em. And he’d nearly drowned Jarnley – the beggar! What d’you think of that?”

      “What, sir? Nearly drowned him?”

      “I should think so,” pursued the master, chuckling with glee. “Jarnley lay there gasping like a newly caught fish. It seems he’d been trying to duck Cetchy, and Cetchy ducked him instead. Nearly drowned him too. Ha – ha!”

      Haviland roared too.

      “That chap’ll be able to take care of himself, I believe, sir,” he said. “I need hardly have smacked Jarnley’s head for bullying him the other day.”

      “I know you did,” said the other dryly, causing Haviland to stop short with a half grin, as he reflected how precious little went on in the school that Sefton didn’t know.

      “Well, he’s got four hundred lines to get through now,” went on the latter. “I let Cetchy off with a hundred.”

      “I expect the other fellows made him go with them, sir,” said Haviland. “And he’s hardly been here a week yet.”

      “If I let him off them, the other fellows’ll take it out of him,” said Mr Sefton, who understood the drift of this remark.

      “They’ll do that anyhow, sir. But I’ve a notion they’ll tire of it before long.”

      So Anthony was called and made to give his version of the incident, which he did in such manner as to convulse both master and prefect – and, to his great delight, the imposition was remitted altogether.

      “He’s no end of an amusing chap that, sir,” said Haviland when the African boy had gone out. “He has all sorts of yarns about Zululand – can remember about the war too. He’s in my dormitory, you know, sir, and he yarns away by the hour – ”

      The speaker broke off short and somewhat confusedly – as a certain comical twinkle in Mr Sefton’s eyes reminded him how guilelessly he was giving himself away: for talking in the dormitories after a certain time, and that rather brief, was strictly forbidden. Mr Sefton, secretly enjoying his confusion, coughed dryly, but made no remark. After all, he was not Haviland’s dormitory master.

      “What a big fellow you’re getting, Haviland!” he said presently. “I suppose you’ll be leaving us soon?”

      “I hope not, sir, at least not for another couple of terms. Then I expect I’ll have to.”

      “You’re not eager to, then?” eyeing him curiously.

      “Not in the least.”

      “H’m! What are they going to make of you when you do leave?”

      The young fellow’s face clouded.

      “Goodness only knows, sir. I suppose I’ll have to go out and split rails in the bush, or something about as inviting, or as paying.”

      “Well, I don’t know that you’ll be doing such a bad thing in that, Haviland,” rejoined Mr Sefton, “if by ‘splitting rails’ you mean launching out into some form of colonial life. But whatever it is you’ve got to throw yourself into it heart and soul, but I should think you’d do that from what I’ve seen of you here. At any rate, life and its chances are all in front of you instead of half behind you, and you’ve got to determine not to make a mess of it, as so many fellows do. Well, I didn’t come in here to preach you a sermon, so get along with your lines and start clear again.” And the kind-hearted disciplinarian swung himself off the desk and departed, and with him nearly all the rankling bitterness which had been corroding Haviland’s mind. The latter scribbled away with a will, and at length threw down his pen with an ejaculation of relief.

      Even then he could not go out until the lines had been shown up. The next best thing was to look out, and so he climbed up to sit in the open window. The fair English landscape stretched away green and golden in the afternoon sunlight. The shrill screech of swifts wheeling overhead mingled with the twittering of the many sparrows which rendered the creepers clinging to the wall of the school buildings untidy with their nests. Then the clear song of larks soaring above mead and fallow, and farther afield the glad note of the cuckoo from some adjoining copse. Boys were passing by twos and threes, and now and then a master going for his afternoon stroll. Haviland, gazing out from his perch in the window, found himself thinking over Mr Sefton’s words. He supposed he should soon be leaving all this, but didn’t want to. He liked the school: he liked the masters, except the Head perhaps, who seemed for no reason at all to have a “down” on him. He liked the freedom allowed by the rules outside school hours, and thoroughly appreciated his own post of authority, and the substantial privileges it carried with it. A voice from outside hailed him.

      “Hi – Haviland! Done your impos yet?”

      “Yes.”

      “Come with me after call-over. I’ve got a good thing. Owl’s nest. Must have two to get at it.”

      The speaker was one Corbould major, a most enthusiastic egg-hunter, and, though not a prefect, a great friend of Haviland’s by reason of being a brother sportsman.

      “Can’t. I’m gated. Won’t be able to take the lines up to Nick till to-morrow.”

      “Why