purpose in entering: something much more important to him than whether a boy should be flogged or not, when he had no doubt richly deserved it, was pending just then, and he could not rest until he knew the result.
For Mark had always longed for renown of some sort, and for the last few years literary distinction had seemed the most open to him. He had sought it by more ambitious attempts, but even the laurels which the performance of a piece of his by boy-actors on a Speech-day might bring him had become desirable; and though he had written and submitted his work confidently and carelessly enough, he found himself not a little anxious and excited as the time for a decision drew near.
It was a small thing; but if it did nothing else it would procure him a modified fame in the school and the masters' room, and Mark Ashburn had never felt resigned to be a nonentity anywhere.
Little wonder, then, that Langton's extremity faded out of his mind as he hurried back to his class-room, leaving that unlucky small boy still in his captor's clutches.
The old clergyman put on the big hat again when Mark had gone, and stood up peering over the desk at his prisoner.
'Well, if you don't want to be locked up here all night, you'd better be off,' he remarked.
'To the Detention Room, sir?' faltered the boy.
'You know the way, I believe? If not, I can show you,' said the old gentleman politely.
'But really and truly,' pleaded Langton, 'I didn't do anything this time. I was shoved in.'
'Who shoved you in? Come, you know well enough; you're going to lie, I can see. Who was he?'
It is not improbable that Langton was going to lie that time – his code allowed it – but he felt checked somehow. 'Well, I only know the fellow by name,' he said at last.
'Well, and what's his name? Out with it; I'll give him a detention card instead.'
'I can't tell you that,' said the boy in a lower voice.
'And why not, ye impident fellow? You've just said you knew it. Why not?'
'Because it would be sneakish,' said Langton boldly.
'Oh, "sneakish," would it?' said old Jemmy. '"Sneakish," eh? Well, well, I'm getting old, I forget these things. Perhaps it would. I don't know what it is to insult an old man – that's fair enough, I dare say. And so you want me to let you off being whipped, eh?'
'Yes, when I've done nothing.'
'And if I let you off you'll come gallopading in here as lively as ever to-morrow, calling out "Shellfish" – no, I forgot – "Prawn's" your favourite epithet, ain't it? – calling out "Prawn" under my very nose.'
'No, I shan't,' said the boy.
'Well, I'll take your word for it, whatever that's worth,' and he tore up the compromising paper. 'Run off home to your tea, and don't bother me any more.'
Langton escaped, full of an awed joy at his wonderful escape, and old Mr. Shelford locked his desk, got out the big hook-nosed umbrella, which had contracted a strong resemblance to himself, and went too.
'That's a nice boy,' he muttered – 'wouldn't tell tales, wouldn't he? But I dare say he was taking me in all the time. He'll be able to tell the other young scamps how neatly he got over "old Jemmy." I don't think he will, though. I can still tell when a boy's lying – I've had plenty of opportunities.'
Meanwhile Mark had gone back to his class-room. One of the porters ran after him with a note, and he opened it eagerly, only to be disappointed, for it was not from the committee. It was dated from Lincoln's Inn, and came from his friend Holroyd.
'Dear Ashburn,' the note ran, 'don't forget your promise to look in here on your way home. You know it's the last time we shall walk back together, and there's a favour I want to ask of you before saying good-bye. I shall be at chambers till five, as I am putting my things together.'
'I will go round presently,' he thought. 'I must say good-bye some time to-day, and it will be a bore to turn out after dinner.'
As he stood reading the note, young Langton passed him, bag in hand, with a bright and grateful face.
'Please, sir,' he said, saluting him, 'thanks awfully for getting Mr. Shelford to let me off; he wouldn't have done it but for you.'
'Oh, ah,' said Mark, suddenly remembering his errand of mercy, 'to be sure, yes. So, he has let you off, has he? Well, I'm very glad I was of use to you, Langton. It was a hard fight, wasn't it? That's enough, get along home, and let me find you better up in your Nepos than you were yesterday.'
Beyond giving the boy his company in facing his judge for the second time, Mark, as will have been observed, had not been a very energetic advocate; but as Langton was evidently unaware of the fact, Mark himself was the last person to allude to it. Gratitude, whether earned or not, was gratitude, and always worth accepting.
'By Jove,' he thought to himself with half-ashamed amusement, 'I forgot all about the little beggar; left him to the tender mercies of old Prawn. All's well that ends well, anyhow!'
As he stood by the grille at the porter's lodge, the old Prawn himself passed slowly out, with his shoulders bent, and his old eyes staring straight before him with an absent, lack-lustre expression in them. Perhaps he was thinking that life might have been more cheerful for him if his wife Mary had lived, and he had had her and boys like that young Langton to meet him when his wearisome day was over, instead of being childless and a widower, and returning to the lonely, dingy house which he occupied as the incumbent of a musty church hard by.
Whatever he thought of, he was too engaged to notice Mark, who followed him with his eyes as he slowly worked his way up the flight of stone steps which led to the street level. 'Shall I ever come to that?' he thought. 'If I stay here all my life, I may. Ah, there's Gilbertson – he can tell me about this Speech-day business.'
Gilbertson was a fellow-master, and one of the committee for arranging the Speech-day entertainment. For the rest he was a nervously fussy little man, and met Mark with evident embarrassment.
'Well, Gilbertson,' said Mark, as unconcernedly as he could, 'settled your programme yet?'
'Er – oh yes, quite settled – quite, that is, not definitely as yet.'
'And – my little production?'
'Oh, ah, to be sure, yes, your little production. We all liked it very much – oh, exceedingly so – the Doctor especially – charmed with it, my dear Ashburn, charmed!'
'Very glad to hear it,' said Mark, with a sudden thrill; 'and – and have you decided to take it, then?'
'Well,' said Mr. Gilbertson, looking at the pavement all round him, 'you see, the fact is, the Doctor thought, and some of us thought so too, that a piece to be acted by boys should have a leetle more – eh? and not quite so much – so much of what yours has, and a few of those little natural touches, you know – but you see what I mean, don't you?'
'It would be a capital piece with half that in it,' said Mark, trying to preserve his temper, 'but I could easily alter it, you know, Gilbertson.'
'No, no,' said Gilbertson, eagerly, 'you mustn't think of it; you'd spoil it; we couldn't hear of it, and – and it won't be necessary to trouble you. Because, you see, the Doctor thought it was a little long, and not quite light enough; and not exactly the sort of thing we want, but we all admired it.'
'But it won't do? Is that what you mean?'
'Why – er – nothing definite at present. We are going to write you a letter about it. Good-bye, good-bye! Got a train to catch at Ludgate Hill.'
And he bustled away, glad to escape, for he had not counted upon having to announce a rejection in person.
Mark stood looking after him, with a slightly dazed feeling. That was over, then. He had written works which he felt persuaded had only to become known to bring him fame; but for all that it seemed that he was not considered worthy to entertain a Speech-night audience at a London public school.
Hitherto Mark's life had contained more of failure than success. From St. Peter's he had