So ended, in a victory unparalleled in its glorious annals, the May Day races of 19— at Willoughby; and there was not a fellow in the school, whether athlete or not, whose bosom did not glow with pride at the result. That the school would not disgrace herself everyone had been perfectly certain, for was not Willoughby one of the crack athletic schools of the country, boasting of an endless succession of fine runners, and rowers, and cricketers? But to score thus off a picked London athlete, beating him in two events, and in one of them doubly beating him, was a triumph only a very few had dared to anticipate, and even they were considerably astonished to find their prophecy come true.

Perhaps the person least excited by the entire day’s events was the hero of the day himself. Wyndham, the old captain, as he now was — for this was his last appearance at the old school — was not the sort of fellow to get his head turned by anything if he could help it. He hated scenes of any sort, and therefore took a specially long time over his bath, which his fag had prepared for him with the most lavish care. Boys waylaid his door and the schoolhouse gate for a full hour ready to cheer him when he came out; but he knew better than to gratify them and finally they went off and lionised Bloomfield instead, who bore his laurels with rather less indifference.

The old captain, however, could not wholly elude the honours destined for him. Dinner in the big hall that afternoon was crowded to overflowing. And when at its close the doctor stood up and, in accordance with immemorial custom, proposed the health of the old captain, who, he said, was not only head classic, but facile princeps in all the manly sports for which Willoughby was famed, you would have thought the old roof was coming down with the applause. Poor Wyndham would fain have shirked his duty, had he been allowed to do it. But Willoughby would as soon have given up a week of the summer holiday as have gone without the captain’s speech.

As he rose to his feet deafening cries of “Well run, sir; well run!” drowned any effort he could have made at speaking; and he had to stand till, by dint of sheer threats of violence, the monitors had reduced the company to order. Then he said, cheers interrupting him at every third word, “I’m much obliged to the doctor for speaking so kindly about me. You fellows know the old school will get on very well after I’ve gone. (No! no!) Willoughby always does get on, and any one who says, ‘No! no!’ ought to know better.”

The applause at this point was overpowering; and the few guilty ones tried hard, by joining in it, to cover their shame.

“I’ve had a jolly time here, and am proud of being a Willoughby captain. I shouldn’t be a bit proud if I didn’t think it was the finest school going. And the reason it’s the finest school is because the fellows think first of the school and next of themselves. As long as they do that Willoughby will be what she is now. Thank you, doctor, and you, fellows.”

These were the last words of the old captain. He left Willoughby next day, and few of the boys knew what they had lost till he had gone.

How he was missed, and how these parting words of his came often to ring in the ears of the old school during the months that were to follow, this story will show.

Willoughby wore its ordinary work-a-day look on the morning following the eventful May races. And yet any one who had seen the old school just then would have admitted that a more picturesque place could hardly have been found. It was one of those lovely early summer days when everything looks beautiful, and when only schoolboys can have the heart to lie in bed. The fresh scent of the sea came up with the morning air across the cliff-bound uplands; and far away, from headland to headland of Craydle Bay, the waters glowed and sparkled in the sunlight. Inland, too, along by the river, the woods were musical with newly-awakened birds, and the downs waved softly with early hay. And towering above all, amid its stately elms, and clad from end to end with ivy, stood the old school itself, glowing in morning brightness, as it had stood for two centuries past, and as those who know and love it hope it may yet stand for centuries to come.

But though any one else could hardly have failed to be impressed with the loveliness of such a morning in such a spot, on Master Frederick Parson, head monitor’s fag of Parrett’s House, as he kicked the bedclothes pensively off his person, and looked at the watch under his pillow, the beauties of nature were completely lost. Parson was in a bad frame of mind that morning. Everything seemed against him. He’d been beaten in the junior hundred yards yesterday, so had Telson. Just their luck. They’d run in every race for the last two years, and never won so much as a shilling penknife yet. More than that; just because he had walked across the quadrangle to see Telson home after supper last night (Telson belonged to the SchoolHouse) he had been caught by a monitor and given eight French verbs to write out for being out-of-doors, after lock-up. What harm, Parson would like to know, was there in seeing a friend across the quad? Coates, the monitor, probably had no friend — he didn’t deserve to have one — or he wouldn’t have been down on Parson for a thing like that.

Then, further than that, he (Parson) had not looked at his Caesar, and Warton had promised to report him to the doctor next time he showed up without preparation. Bother Warton! bother the doctor! bother Caesar! what did they all want to conspire together for against a wretched junior’s peace? He’d have to cram up the Caesar from Telson’s crib somehow, only the nuisance was Bloomfield had fixed on this particular morning for a turn on the river with Game, and Parson would of course have to steer for them. Just his luck again! He didn’t mind steering for Bloomfield, of course, and if he must fag he’d as soon fag for him as anybody, especially now that he would be captain of the eleven and of the boats; but how, Parson wanted to know, was he to do his Caesar and his French verbs, and steer Bloomfield and Game up the river at one and the same time? He couldn’t take the books in the boat.

Well, he supposed he’d have to get reported; and probably “Paddy” would give it him on the hands. He was always getting it on the hands, far oftener than Telson, who was Riddell’s fag, and never had to go and steer boats up the river. In fact, Riddell, he knew, looked over Telson’s lessons for him — catch Bloomfield doing as much for Parson!

All these considerations tended greatly to impair the temper of Master Parson this beautiful morning. But the worst grievance of all was that he had to get up that moment and call Bloomfield, or else he’d get a licking. That would be worse any day than getting it on the hands from the doctor.

So he kicked off the clothes surlily, and put one foot out of bed. But the other was a long time following. For Parson was fagged. He’d dreamt all night of that wretched hundred yards, and wasn’t a bit refreshed; and if he had been refreshed, he’d got those eight French verbs and the Caesar on his mind, and he could have done them comfortably in bed. But—

A sudden glance at the watch in his hand cut short all further meditation. Parson is out of his bed and into his flannels in the twinkling of an eye, and scuttling down the passage to his senior’s room as if the avenger of blood was at his heels.

Bloomfield, if truth must be told, is as disinclined to get up as his fag has been; and Parson has almost to use personal violence before he can create an impression on his lord and master.

“What’s the time?” demands the senior.

“Six — that is, a second or two past,” replies Parson.

“Why didn’t you call me punctually?” asks Bloomfield, digging his nose comfortably into the pillow. “What do you mean by a second or two?”